A Bargain with the Enemy. Carole Mortimer

previous half an hour of conversation had gone smoothly; it had even been enjoyable at times, as they’d discussed which paintings from her portfolio Bryn was going to show at the exhibition next month, the timelines and other necessary details. But that had so obviously only been a brief lull in the tension between them if Gabriel had now decided to pull his arrogant-millionaire rank on her. Bryn eyed him challengingly. ‘You have something against coffee shops?’

      Those sculptured lips thinned. ‘I don’t recall ever having been inside one.’

      Of course he hadn’t; people as rich as Gabriel D’Angelo frequented exclusive restaurants and fashionable bars, not high-street coffee shops.

      ‘But I do have something against one of my artists working in one of them, yes,’ he continued evenly.

      She stiffened. ‘One of your artists?’

      ‘This will be your first public exhibition, I believe?’ he prompted evenly.

      ‘I’ve sold one or two paintings in smaller galleries in the past couple years,’ she came back with defensively.

      ‘But am I right in thinking this will be the first time that so many Bryn Jones paintings have been shown together in an official exhibition?’

      ‘Yes...’ Bryn confirmed slowly.

      He nodded. ‘Then in future, whether you like it or not, your name will be linked with the Archangel Gallery.’

      Bryn certainly didn’t like it. It had felt as if she were being forced to walk over burning-hot coals by even entering her paintings in a competition being run by the hateful D’Angelo brothers; she certainly didn’t like the idea of her name being for ever linked with either them or their galleries.

      She hadn’t even told her mother of the desperation that had forced her to enter the competition, dreaded thinking how her mother would react if she were to ever find out Bryn was having her work shown at this gallery!

      And maybe Bryn should have thought about that a little more deeply before deciding to walk over those burning hot coals and enter the competition.

      Gabriel could almost actually see the war being waged inside Bryn’s head. The natural desire to have her artistic talent not only shown for the first time but also recognised for the talent that it was, obviously totally at war with her desire not to be in the least beholden, or associated with in the future, either the D’Angelo name or the Archangel Gallery. Yet another indication of how much she still disliked him and all he stood for. If he had needed any. Which he didn’t.

      ‘Your point being?’ Bryn now prompted guardedly.

      He grimaced. ‘I think it would look better in the catalogue being printed and sent out to our clients before the exhibition if you weren’t listed as currently working in a coffee shop.’

      ‘Better for whom?’

      Gabriel bit back his irritation with her challenging tone, having no intention of admitting that he had already known about her working in a coffee shop—and that it was him, personally, who didn’t like the idea of her working there. He might never have been into such an establishment, but he had driven past them numerous times, and the thought of Bryn being run ragged in such an establishment, day after day—evening after evening—just so that she could pay her bills every month, wasn’t particularly appealing.

      Besides which, Gabriel also knew, from the discreet enquiries he had made about her once Rafe had told him exactly who she was, that Bryn Jones suffered a constant struggle to pay those bills. A job as an assistant at Archangel would go a long way to relieving her of that burden, at least.

      A dark frown creased his brow. ‘What possible reason could you have for refusing a job here if it was offered to you?’

      ‘Let me see...’ She lifted a finger to her chin in exaggerated thought. ‘First, I don’t want to work in a gallery. Second, I don’t want to work in a gallery. And third, I don’t want to work in a gallery!’ Her eyes glittered determinedly.

      ‘This gallery in particular, or just any gallery?’ Gabriel questioned evenly.

      ‘Any gallery,’ Bryn answered firmly. ‘Besides, couldn’t it be considered as a little...incestuous, if I were to start working at Archangel now?’ she forestalled Gabriel D’Angelo’s next comment lightly.

      ‘Because of your inclusion in the exhibition?’

      ‘Exactly,’ she confirmed with satisfaction.

      His mouth tightened. ‘And that’s your final answer?’

      ‘It is.’

      He scowled darkly. ‘You’re very...intractable in your attitude, Miss Jones.’

      ‘I prefer to think of it as maintaining my independence, Mr D’Angelo,’ Bryn came back sharply.

      ‘Perhaps,’ he drawled as he stood up in one fluid movement, the dryness of his tone implying he thought the opposite. ‘I think we’ve said all that needs to be said for today. I have another appointment in—’ he glanced at the expensive-looking gold watch on his wrist ‘—ten minutes or so.’ He looked at her expectantly as she remained seated.

      ‘Oh. Right.’ Bryn stood up so hastily she accidentally kicked her bag across the floor, instantly scattering the contents far and wide. ‘Hells bells and blast it!’ She immediately dropped to her knees on the carpeted floor, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment as she began collecting up her scattered belongings, some of which were personal in the extreme, and cramming them back into her handbag.

      ‘I’ve always wondered what women kept in their handbags,’ Gabriel D’Angelo drawled in amusement.

      ‘Well, now you know!’ Bryn had paused to glare up at him, and instantly became aware of how his well over six feet of lean muscle towered over her so ominously. ‘And I would get this done a whole lot quicker if you were to help rather than just stand there grinning!’ Like an idiot, she could have added, but didn’t, because it wouldn’t have been the truth.

      The last thing Gabriel was, or looked like when he grinned in that way, was an idiot; devilishly rakish, devastatingly attractive—lazily, sensuously so—and maybe even boyishly mischievous, as that grin knocked years off his age, but he certainly didn’t look like an idiot.

      Besides which he had stopped grinning now, those chocolate-brown eyes narrowed on her in totally male assessment.

      A frown creased Gabriel’s brow as he looked down at Bryn on her hands and knees in front of him. It was a...provocative pose, to say the least. As the ever-increasing bulge in his trousers testified.

      Bryn’s cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly moist and parted and it should be illegal what those black trousers did for her heart-shaped bottom—and Gabriel’s arousal—bent over like that...!

      ‘Right,’ he rasped harshly as he crouched down beside her, his gaze averted as he gathered up the notebook and pen she had been using to make notes in earlier, as well as a small bottle of hand cream and a lip salve. ‘Hell’s bells and blast it...?’ he prompted gruffly, aware of her perfume now; nothing so anaemic as something floral for Bryn Jones, she was a mixture of spices, with an underlying hint of sensual woman.

      He saw her shrug out of the corner of his eye. ‘My mother has never approved of a woman swearing, so I learnt to improvise at an early age.’

      Gabriel only half listened to her answer as he moved down onto his knees. The smell of those spices—cinnamon, something fruity, maybe a hint of honey and that more elusive smell of sensual woman—all served to increase his awareness of the woman beside him. ‘A pot of white pepper, Bryn?’ he questioned as he held it up for inspection.

      ‘It’s cheaper than pepper spray!’ She snatched the pot from his hand before thrusting it back into her bag.

      Gabriel sat back on his heels to look at her. ‘Pepper spray?’

      ‘I