The Rich Man's Blackmailed Mistress. Robyn Donald

      Evenly, her voice aloof, Sable replied, ‘Yes, of course.’

      Heart skipping into an uneven rhythm, she closed the computer and straightened up to walk towards him, glad that she’d worn a dress in the bold, clear red that gave colour to her pale skin and made her eyes dark and deep and—she hoped—impossible to read.

      She was fiercely aware of Kain on a level so basic she had no command over it. Every cell seemed to recognise him, as though his touch had imprinted her for life.

      And that ridiculous overreaction scared her.

      ‘Come this way,’ she said in her most modulated voice, hoping that he hadn’t noticed her tension.

      Silently he surveyed the exhibition with an impassive face. This year the committee that oversaw the choice of artists had chosen those with postmodern credentials, and because the exhibition and auction gave them excellent publicity most had really let themselves go.

      Sable kept her features controlled. Somehow, she didn’t think Kain would be impressed—unless he was buying an investment. You didn’t have to like investments.

      He surprised her by asking, ‘What do you think of them?’

      ‘My opinion isn’t worth anything,’ she evaded.

      ‘You don’t like them.’

      How had he noticed that? Uneasily she said, ‘I don’t know anything about this sort of art so my personal opinion means nothing. I can get an expert to discuss them with—’

      He stopped her with a glance and a single word. ‘No.’

      For the next half hour he strolled along the row of pictures, standing back occasionally to get a better view, looking more closely at others. Sable wondered just what was going on behind that handsome face.

      Finally he said, ‘Tell me what you really think.’

      Exasperated by his persistence, she returned shortly, ‘The only useful comments I could make would just be parroting what I’ve heard.’

      ‘I don’t want that—I want your opinion. You must have some idea—wasn’t your father an artist? Angus Martin? The Art Gallery has several of his pictures and one stunning watercolour.’

      Touched—and made extremely cautious by the fact that he’d heard of her father—she said, ‘If you’ve seen it you’d know that he didn’t paint like this.’

      ‘But you must have heard him discuss art.’

      Oh, yes, endless discussions that had degenerated into maudlin regrets that his skills no longer matched his vision, that he’d drunk away whatever talent he’d once had…

      Faced with a determination that matched her own—and because Kain Gerard might be prepared to spend a lot of money on this very good cause—she said reluctantly, ‘I don’t understand the artists’ visions or their objectives, and I don’t know enough about art to relate to their techniques.’

      ‘Why does that annoy you?’

      You annoy me, she thought, irritated with him and with herself for being so affected by him.

      Shrugging, she returned lightly, ‘Because I feel as though I’m missing out on something—on some secret that others understand.’

      He pinned her with a considering stare that lasted two seconds too long, then nodded. ‘Fair enough. Did you see our photograph in the newspaper?’

      She’d very carefully avoided looking at the social pages. ‘No, I didn’t.’

      His smile told her he didn’t believe her. ‘A pity. I’m afraid it won’t garner Maire Faris good publicity—the dress doesn’t show to advantage. However, her name is mentioned.’

      Something in his tone made her uncomfortable. She said stiffly, ‘I’m glad.’

      Fixing his gaze on a canvas that to Sable looked like a too-dramatic representation of a bad headache, he asked with casual interest, ‘Have you heard from Brent lately?’

      ‘No.’ She stole a glance at his profile, strong and commanding. Something very strange happened to her stomach—no, her heart.

      Ignore it, she told herself sturdily, and said with brittle composure, ‘Apparently he’s not going to be able to contact anyone for a month or so. Rather ironic that a man whose life is focused on the internet should deliberately leave himself without access to it.’

      ‘I think he’s ready to go cold turkey for a while,’ Kain said. He delivered a low-wattage version of that killer smile. ‘Thank you for showing me around.’

      She said formally, ‘I hope we’ll see you at the auction.’ He’d been invited; she’d have to check to see if he’d accepted.

      ‘Possibly.’

      Her complete ignorance had probably blown any chance of a good sale, she thought with wry resignation and accompanied him back to the reception area.

      Poppy looked up, her pretty face awed. With some surprise Sable noted the smile he bestowed on the younger girl. Friendly, appreciative, it showed none of the antagonism that seemed to underlie his attitude to her.

      In response, Poppy blushed brilliantly, melting without any visible sign of resistance.

      Afterwards Sable had to endure the younger woman’s sighing comments, relieved when lunchtime came—only to find herself being warned during the meal by Maire.

      ‘Kain’s nothing like his cousin,’ the older woman said, eyeing the huge muffin she’d chosen. ‘Brent’s a nice boy—bright too, and he obviously has a good business brain when it comes to the internet—but he doesn’t have Kain’s charisma.’

      ‘No,’ Sable agreed, touched in some secret part. She’d been on her own since she was seventeen, and the only womanly influence in her life had been her father’s neighbour Miss Popham, an elderly woman whose brisk, practical attitude hadn’t encouraged confidences.

      Don’t go there, she thought and hurriedly transferred her attention back to Maire. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to fall for either of them.’

      ‘It’s not always that easy,’ the designer said shrewdly, ‘especially as you’re living with Brent.’

      ‘I’m not—I’m staying in his apartment until I find a suitable flat.’ Because it was important, she emphasised, ‘We aren’t lovers—or even possible lovers.’

      Maire lifted incredulous brows.

      Harried, Sable expanded, ‘He’s years younger than me, for heaven’s sake, and I feel positively ancient when I’m with him. We haven’t got that sort of relationship—haven’t even exchanged so much as a kiss!’

      ‘But he wants to,’ Maire said pragmatically.

      Sable sighed. ‘It’s not going to happen. He knows that now.’

      ‘So why did you move in with him?’

      Normally she wouldn’t have considered it, but one weekend while Sable was away her flatmate had held a party, a wild affair that had led to a wholesale trashing of the villa they shared.

      Briefly she explained, and Maire tut-tutted. ‘Your name was on the lease, was it?’

      ‘Yes.’ It hadn’t surprised Sable when she and her repentant flatmate had been asked to leave, but she’d been horrified to discover that her landlady—an elderly widow—had let the insurance lapse.

      Because, she’d informed Sable, she’d considered her to be a responsible person who’d look after the place. And perhaps because she’d just forgotten. Legally, of course, Sable wasn’t obliged to pay for the damage, but for her own peace of mind she needed to. The landlady had been kind to her, and she hated to leave with a stain on her conscience—already stained enough, she thought