Introduction To Romance (10 Books). Кэрол Мортимер

Bryn could discern in every leanly muscled inch of him.

      The sort of strength that she had no doubts was capable of crushing every bone in her own much smaller hand, if he chose to exert it.

      Bryn gave an inward jolt as she realised he was studying her just as closely through narrowed lids, those melted chocolate-brown eyes appearing to see everything and miss nothing.

      Would he recognise her as Sabryna Harper? Somehow she doubted it, given the fact that the gauche Sabryna, despite Gabriel having kissed her once, would have made very little impact on the life of a man like Gabriel D’Angelo, and there would have been so many other women in his life—and his bed!—during the past five years.

      Besides which, her name was different, and she looked dramatically different: she was twenty pounds lighter, her hair was now cut short with blonde highlights, her face thinner, more angled, and she wore contact lenses rather than dark-framed glasses.

      But was it possible—could Gabriel D’Angelo have recognised her, despite those changes?

      Bryn moved one sweat-dampened hand surreptitiously against the thigh of her trousers before raising it with the intention of brushing it as briefly as possible against his much larger hand. A move Gabriel D’Angelo instantly circumvented as those long, lean fingers closed firmly about, and retained hold, of Bryn’s—instantly renewing and deepening that jolt of electricity, the sexual awareness, as it throbbed from his hand into hers, moving the length of her arm before settling in the fullness of her breasts, causing her nipples to tingle and harden beneath her blouse.

      A jolt that Gabriel D’Angelo also felt, if the tightening of his fingers about hers and the increased narrowing of those captivating eyes, was any indication.

      ‘We meet at last, Miss Jones,’ Gabriel murmured as he deliberately continued to hold the slenderness of her hand firmly within his own.

      Bryn blinked, her expression suddenly wary, those dove-grey eyes even more beautiful now that they weren’t hidden behind glasses. ‘I—I’m not sure what you mean.’

      Gabriel wasn’t completely sure what he meant either!

      Rafe’s advice, when the two brothers had met for dinner before he flew back to New York five days ago, had been that the easiest and best way for Gabriel to avoid any further unpleasantness with the Harper family was to simply tell Eric Sanders to take Bryn Jones off the list of possible candidates for the upcoming New Artists Exhibition.

      And on a professional level Gabriel understood exactly why his brother had given him that advice; given the circumstances of his past history with her late father William Harper, it was sound, even necessary, advice.

      Except...

      Gabriel had a history with Bryn too. Brief, admittedly, just a stolen kiss when he had driven her home from visiting Archangel one evening, but he had hoped for more at the time, had thought of Bryn often the past five years, had wondered, speculated, what would have become of the two of them if not for the scandal that had ripped them apart.

      Gabriel wasn’t in the least proud of the part he had played in the events of five years ago. Not William Harper’s conviction and incarceration for fraud, his death in prison just months later or the way in which his wife and teenage daughter had been hounded and harassed during the whole ordeal.

      Against his brother’s advice Gabriel had tried to see Sabryna, both during the trial and after her father was sent to prison, but she had turned him away every time, refusing to answer the door to him and changing her number so he couldn’t call her either. Gabriel had decided to step back, to give her time, before approaching her again. And then William Harper had died in prison, putting an end to any hopes Gabriel might have had for himself and Sabryna ever having a relationship.

      He had also taken an objective look, a purely professional look, over the past few days at the paintings Bryn Jones had submitted to the competition. They were really good—her still-life paintings so delicately executed it was almost possible for him to smell the rose petals falling gently down from the vase. To want to reach out and touch the ethereal beauty in a woman’s eyes as she looked down at the baby she held in her arms.

      Gabriel could see genuine talent in every brush stroke, the sort of rare artistic talent that would one day make Bryn Jones’ paintings highly collectable, as both objects of beauty as well as a sound investment. Because of this Gabriel didn’t feel he could eliminate her as a candidate for the New Artists Exhibition just to save himself from the discomfort of facing her and having her hate every breath of air he took.

      He did, however, have every intention of keeping the question of Bryn Jones’ own motivation for entering the competition in the forefront of any of his future dealings with her.

      Gabriel released her hand abruptly before moving to retake his seat behind the desk, very aware that his earlier arousal had returned with a vengeance the moment he had touched the silky softness of Bryn’s hand. ‘I was referring to the fact that you’re the seventh, and last, candidate to have been interviewed in the past two days.’ The only candidate that Gabriel was interviewing personally, but she didn’t need to know that.

      Her cheeks slowly paled. ‘The seventh candidate?’

      He gave a dismissive shrug. ‘It’s always best to have a reserve, don’t you think?’

      She was a reserve?

      Bryn had been so desperate she had swallowed her pride, her dislike of all things D’Angelo, to enter their damned competition, only to be told she was a reserve?

      Bryn had thought—believed—that being asked to come in to Archangel for another interview meant that she had been chosen as one of the final six artists for the Archangel New Artists Exhibition. And now Gabriel D’Angelo was telling her she was a reserve! Like an actor who was expected to learn all the lines and then stand in the wings of the theatre every night, in the full knowledge they might never have the chance to appear on the stage!

      Had she been recognised after all? And if she had, was this Gabriel D’Angelo’s idea of amusing himself, of extracting further retribution for the scandal her father had brought upon the Archangel Gallery, and the three brothers who owned it, five years ago?

      ‘Are you quite well, Miss Jones?’ A frown now creased Gabriel’s brow as he stood up once again and moved round the desk. ‘You’ve gone very pale....’

      No, Bryn wasn’t ‘well’. In fact she was feeling far from well! So much so that she didn’t even attempt to back away as Gabriel moved far too close to her. She had swallowed her pride, risked everything, the whole persona and life she had made for herself these past five years, by even bringing herself to the attention of the D’Angelo brothers, only to now be told she wasn’t good enough!

      ‘I— Is it possible I could have a glass of water?’ She raised a slightly shaking hand up to the dampness of her brow.

      ‘Of course.’ Gabriel was still frowning darkly as he strode across to the bar.

      She was a reserve.

      How disappointing was that?

      How humiliating was that?

      Damn it, she had been living in a state of nervous tension since entering the competition and this was the thanks she got at the end of all that anxiety, all that swallowed pride: to be made the reserve artist for the Exhibition!

      ‘I’ve changed my mind about the water,’ she snapped tautly as she straightened. ‘Do you have any whisky in there?’

      Gabriel turned slowly, eyes narrowing as he saw that colour had returned to Bryn Jones’ cheeks, her eyes taking on a similar angry glow. A glow he easily recognised as being the same one he had felt directed at him across the courtroom. Why was Bryn suddenly so angry? They had been in the middle of a conversation about—

      Ah. Gabriel had stated she was the seventh candidate being interviewed in a six-candidate competition.

      Gabriel strolled back with the glass of whisky she had asked for. ‘I