A D'Angelo Like No Other. Carole Mortimer

as he made no effort to lift the baby from her arms but instead looked at her incredulously, down the long length of his aristocratic nose, with those black-on-black eyes.

      Michael found himself having to look a long way down. Goodness, this woman was small, only an inch or two over five feet tall compared to his own six feet three inches. She had a coltish slenderness that was saved from appearing boyish by full and thrusting breasts tipped by delicate nipples, breasts that were completely bare beneath the purple T-shirt, if Michael wasn’t mistaken. And he was pretty sure that he wasn’t.

      Those full breasts, along with the confident glint in those violet-coloured eyes surrounded by thick sooty lashes, were enough to tell Michael that she was indeed a woman rather than a girl, and possibly aged in her early to mid-twenties.

      She was also, he acknowledged grudgingly, extremely beautiful, her face dominated by those incredible violet-coloured eyes, a short pert nose, and full and sensuous lips, while her skin was as pale and delicate as the finest porcelain. Dark shadows beneath the violet eyes gave her an appearance of fragility.

      A fragility that was somewhat nullified by the stubborn set of the woman’s full lips above an equally determined and thrusting chin.

      Michael dragged his gaze away from that arrestingly beautiful face to instead stare down in horror at the pink-dress-clad baby this young woman held out in front of him; horror, because he had absolutely no experience with holding young babies. How could he have, when he had never been this close to a small baby since being one himself?

      He recoiled back from the now-drooling infant. ‘I don’t think—’

      ‘I’ve found that it’s best not to think too much around Sophie and Sam, especially now they’re teething,’ he was assured dryly. ‘You might want to put this on your shoulder to protect your jacket.’

      The woman handed him a square of white linen as she dumped the baby unceremoniously into his arms before turning to stride back across the office, giving Michael a perfect view of her curvaceous denim-covered bottom as she bent down to unclip the strap that secured the second, still-whimpering baby into the pushchair.

      Michael held the first baby—Sophie?—at arm’s length, totally at a loss as to what to do with her, and more than a little disconcerted to find himself the focus of eyes the same beautiful deep violet colour as her mother’s. A steady and intense focus that seemed far too knowing, almost mocking it seemed to him, for a baby of surely only a few months old.

      Eva lifted Sam up out of the pushchair as she straightened, more than a little annoyed that the two gabbling Archangel employees had woken the babies up at all; it had taken the whole of the walk from the hotel to the gallery to lull them into falling asleep in the first place, after a disjointed night of one or other of the twins—and consequently Eva—being woken up with teething pains.

      As a result both Eva and the babies were feeling a little disgruntled this morning. Which didn’t prevent her from almost laughing out loud as she turned to find D’Angelo was still holding Sophie with both arms straight out in front of him, a look of absolute horror on his face, as if the baby were a time bomb about to go off!

      But Eva only almost laughed...

      Because there had been very little for her to laugh about these past few nightmarish months.

      Those memories sobered Eva instantly. ‘Sophie doesn’t bite,’ she snapped impatiently as she cuddled a denim-and-T-shirt-clad Sam in her arms. ‘Well...not much,’ she amended ruefully. ‘Luckily they both only have four teeth at the moment...’

      Michael wasn’t known for his patience at the best of times—and right now, in the midst of this chaos, was far from the best of times. ‘I’m more interested in knowing what they, and you, are doing in the private area of Archangel, than in hearing how many teeth your children have!’

      The woman’s pointed chin rose as she looked at him with hard and challenging violet eyes. ‘Do you really want me to discuss that in front of your employees, Mr D’Angelo? I take it that you are Mr D’Angelo?’ She quirked a derisive brow.

      ‘I am, yes.’ Michael scowled darkly. ‘Discuss what in front of my employees?’ he prompted cautiously.

      Her mouth thinned. ‘The reason I’m in the private area of Archangel.’

      He gave an impatient shake of his head. ‘As I have absolutely no idea what your reasons might be I can’t answer that question.’

      ‘No?’ she scorned.

      ‘No,’ Michael bit out harshly. ‘Perhaps you would care to come through to my office...?’

      Pierre, a man several years his junior, voiced his concern by launching into all the reasons—in French, of course!—as to why he felt it inadvisable for Michael to be alone with this woman, with several less than polite references made as to whether or not she was quite sane, along with the suggestion that they call security and have her ejected from the building.

      ‘I understood all that,’ their visitor answered in fluent French as she turned her glittering violet and challenging gaze on the now less than comfortable Pierre. ‘And you can call security if you want, but, I assure you, I’m quite sane,’ she mocked Michael.

      ‘I never doubted it for a moment!’ Michael drawled, equally mockingly. ‘It’s fine, Pierre,’ he assured in English. ‘If you would care to come through to my office...?’ he prompted the woman again, before stepping out of the doorway to reveal the room behind him, still having no idea what to do with the baby in his arms. Especially as the baby—Sophie—was now smiling up at him beguilingly as she proudly displayed those four tiny white teeth.

      ‘She likes you,’ the baby’s mother announced disgustedly as she continued to carry Sam at the same time as she manoeuvred the pushchair past Michael and into his office.

      He hastily placed the piece of white linen on his shoulder and hefted the baby into one arm before he was able to close the office door behind him on the wide-eyed and slightly worried stares of Marie and Pierre.

      ‘Wow, this is some view...’

      Michael turned to see the violet-eyed woman gazing out of the floor-to-ceiling-windows at the view up the length of the Champs Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe; that view, and the prestigious address, were the main reasons for choosing this stunning location for the Paris gallery. ‘We like it,’ he drawled with hard dismissal. ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind explaining yourself...?’ he added pointedly. ‘Beginning with who you are?’ Michael had wondered briefly if she wasn’t the persistent Monique from Rafe’s past, but the English accent seemed to say not.

      Eva turned, still holding a now-quiet Sam in her arms. ‘My name is Eva Foster.’

      ‘And?’ D’Angelo prompted when she added nothing else to that statement, those obsidian-black eyes blank of emotion.

      Eva eyed him impatiently. ‘And you obviously have absolutely no idea who I am,’ she realised with horror.

      He arched dark brows. ‘Should I have?’

      Should he have? Of course he should, the arrogant, irresponsible jerk— ‘Perhaps the name Rachel Foster would be more helpful in jogging your memory?’ she prompted sweetly.

      He frowned darkly even as he gave a slow shake of his head. ‘I’m sorry, but I have absolutely no idea what—or who—you’re talking about...’

      A red tide seemed to pass in front of Eva’s eyes. All these months of heartache, chaos, heartache, loss, and, yes, just plain heartache, and this man didn’t even remember Rachel’s name, let alone Rachel herself—!

      ‘What sort of man are you? Don’t bother to answer that,’ Eva added furiously as she began to pace the office. ‘Obviously so many women pass in and out of your privileged life, and your no doubt silk-sheeted bed, that you forget about them as soon as the next one takes up occupancy—’

      ‘Stop right there,’ D’Angelo advised