For His Eyes Only

‘The engine rather than the chassis.’ Eager to avoid close eye contact, she walked around the beast, examining it from every angle, before looking across at Darius Hadley from the safety of the far side. ‘That’s what you do, isn’t it? Show us the inside of things.’

‘That’s what’s real, what’s important.’

‘I saw your installation outside Tate Modern. The house.’ That had been stripped back to the bones, too.

‘You’ve done your homework,’ he said.

‘I was just walking past. I didn’t realise it was yours until I looked you up online. I thought it was...bleak.’

‘Everyone’s a critic.’

‘No... It was beautiful. It’s just...well, there were no people and without them a house is simply a frame.’

‘Perhaps that was the point,’ he suggested.

‘Was it?’ He didn’t answer and she looked back up at the horse. ‘This is...big.’

‘I’ll cast a smaller version for a limited edition.’

‘Just the thing for the mantelpiece,’ she said flippantly. Then wished she hadn’t. His work was more important than that. ‘I’m sorry; that was a stupid thing to say. I’m a bit nervous.’

‘I’m not surprised. Does Miles Morgan really think he can buy me off with a glimpse of your cleavage and a slice of cake?’

‘What?’ She checked her top button but it was still in place. Just. She’d worn her roomiest shirt but working ten, fourteen hours a day didn’t leave much time for exercise, or a carefully thought-out diet. And she’d moved less and eaten more in the last week than was good for anyone; it was definitely time to get out of the kitchen and back to work. ‘Miles didn’t send me. As for the cleavage...’ She lifted her shoulders in a little shrug that she hoped would give the impression that she was utterly relaxed. She was good at that. The most important thing she’d learned about selling houses was to create an image. Set the stage, create an initial impact that would grab the viewer’s attention then hold it. This time she was selling herself... ‘I’ve been on a baking binge and eating too much of my own cooking.’

‘And now you want to share.’

‘I thought something sweet might help to break the ice.’

Ice?

There was no ice as she bent forward to tug on the gauzy bow that exactly matched the shade of her lipstick, her nails; only heat zinging through his veins, making the blood pump thickly in his ears.

He’d been drawing her obsessively for a week, trying to get her out of his head, but while the two-dimensional image had been recognisable it lacked the warmth, the sparkle of the original.

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