To Marry Mcallister. Кэрол Мортимер

name is Brice,’ he told her smoothly.

      ‘I prefer Mr McAllister,’ she said tautly. What she really preferred was to keep this man very much at a distance!

      He gave an unperturbed shrug. ‘Whatever. Could you stand over by the fireplace?’ he bit out curtly, once again frowning down at his sketch-pad.

      Almost as if that very personal conversation had never taken place, Sabina fumed inwardly as she moved to stand beside the unlit fireplace.

      ‘Yes,’ Brice breathed his satisfaction with the pose. ‘The clothes are all wrong, of course—not that you don’t look lovely in them,’ he added as she raised her brows. ‘They just aren’t right for the way I want to paint you.’

      ‘And what way is that?’ Sabina rasped impatiently.

      He didn’t answer her, frowning across the room at her in between making rapid strokes with his pencil on the pad in front of him.

      Sabina remained standing exactly as she was, recognising that transfixed look from some of her photographic sessions; a master was at work, and for the moment she, as a person, did not exist.

      Which was fine with her. She was here under protest, and the last thing she wanted was any more personal conversations with Brice McAllister while she was here. Especially of the kind they had just had.

      ‘Will there have to be much of this?’ she finally felt compelled to ask him an hour later. The fireplace was really rather nice, but after looking at it for the last hour she definitely knew it didn’t hold much scope for the imagination!

      Brice looked up at her frowningly, his thoughts obviously still engrossed in his sketching. ‘Much of what?’

      ‘These sittings—or, in this case, standings,’ she added wryly. ‘Will I need to do many of them?’

      He put the sketch-pad down on the table beside him, flexing stiff shoulder muscles as he did so.

      He really was a very handsome man, Sabina acknowledged grudgingly. Those dark, brooding good looks were almost Byronic, that over-long dark hair giving him a rakishly gypsy appearance. Although Sabina was sure the romantic Byron had never quite had that totally assessing male look in his eyes. Deep green eyes that even now were trying to look past her façade of politeness to the inner Sabina!

      ‘Why?’ he finally drawled softly.

      She shrugged. ‘As I’ve already explained, I’m—’

      ‘Rather busy,’ he finished derisively. ‘Yes, you have explained that. Several times, as I recall,’ he added mockingly before picking up his cup and drinking the now cold tea in one swallow. ‘The question is, why are you so busy?’ He looked at her with narrowed eyes. ‘As I understand it, you’ve been one of the top models in the world—if not the top model in the world,’ he allowed mockingly, ‘for the last five years. Why do you need to keep working at the pace that you do?’

      Because work stopped her from thinking, from remembering, meant she was too tired at night to do anything more than fall into bed and go to sleep!

      But none of those thoughts betrayed themselves in the calmness of her expression. ‘So that I remain one of the top models in the world,’ she replied dryly.

      Brice pursed his mouth. ‘And is that important to you?’

      Her cheeks became flushed at the mockery in his tone. ‘Is it important to you to be one of the world’s most sought-after artists?’ she returned caustically, deeply resenting the slight condescension towards her career that she sensed in his tone.

      Okay, so it didn’t need great intelligence to initially become a model, just the right look, and a certain amount of luck, but it certainly took more than those things to remain one. She worked hard at what she did, never gave less than her best, and she deeply resented his implication that it should be otherwise. She had always regarded herself as something of an artist too, in her own way.

      ‘Touché,’ he allowed dryly. ‘I just can’t imagine doing what you do, day in and day out.’ He shrugged.

      Sabina narrowed cornflower-blue eyes on him. ‘Are you meaning to be insulting, Mr McAllister, or does it just come naturally?’ she said slowly.

      He grinned unabashedly. ‘A little of both, probably.’

      She shook her head, incredulous at his arrogance. ‘You just don’t care, do you?’ she murmured slowly.

      He looked puzzled. ‘About what?’

      ‘About anything,’ she realised in wonder.

      How she wished she still had that tolerantly amused outlook to life, that she could laugh at herself as well as other people. But she knew that she didn’t. That she never would have again, thanks to—

      No, she wouldn’t think of that. Couldn’t think of that.

      ‘I think it’s time I was going,’ she decided abruptly, glancing pointedly at the gold watch on her wrist. An engagement present from Richard. That, and his diamond engagement ring, were the only two pieces of jewellery she ever wore.

      Brice McAllister was watching her consideringly, head tilted slightly to one side, green gaze narrowed speculatively. ‘Why?’ he finally challenged.

      It was a challenge Sabina easily picked up on. And chose to ignore. ‘Because I have somewhere else to go,’ she told him determinedly.

      ‘Home to Richard?’ he taunted softly, standing up slowly, his sheer size totally dominating the room.

      Sabina took a step back, suddenly finding the room oppressively small. She also found herself backed up against the unlit fireplace.

      Brice walked slowly towards her, his narrowed gaze not leaving her face. He stopped about a foot away, that gaze searching now as he continued to look at her.

      For the second time since she had met him Sabina found she couldn’t breathe.

      This close to, she could feel the male warmth of him, could smell the slight tang of the aftershave he wore, could see every pore and hair on the darkness of his skin. But it was none of those things that constricted her breathing. She knew it was his sheer physical closeness that did that.

      She swallowed convulsively. ‘I really do have to go,’ she told him breathlessly.

      Brice looked at her steadily. ‘So what’s stopping you?’ he prompted huskily.

      Her legs, for one thing. They refused to move. In fact, she felt so weak at the knees they were only just succeeding in supporting her. She felt like a mesmerised rabbit caught on the road in the glare of car headlights, incapable of movement, even in the face of such obvious danger.

      And Brice McAllister, as she had half guessed on their very first meeting, been even more convinced of it at their second, was exactly that—dangerous!

      She moistened suddenly dry lips. ‘If you would just move out of my way…?’

      He stepped slightly to one side. ‘Be my guest,’ he invited softly.

      Sabina forced her legs to move, quickly, determinedly, crossing to the door, putting as much distance between herself and Brice McAllister as was possible in the confines of the studio.

      ‘I’ll call you.’

      Sabina turned sharply as he spoke, her trembling hand already on the door-handle. ‘Excuse me?’

      Brice raised dark brows, his mouth twisted in mocking amusement. ‘I said, I’ll call you. For your next sitting,’ he explained derisively as she still looked totally blank.

      Get a grip, Sabina, she ordered herself sternly. What had really happened just now—Brice McAllister had stood what she considered was too close to her? So what? And yet she knew that wasn’t really all that had happened, that there had been a frisson of awareness between the two of them that she wished weren’t there…