. Читать онлайн книгу.
>
“Who are you?” he demanded About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Copyright
“Who are you?” he demanded
The urge to hit him in the face with it was strong. “I’m Beth Delaney,” she shot at him. It gave Beth savage satisfaction to see he hadn’t completely forgotten her. “I came looking for Jamie.”
His chin jutted. A muscle in his cheek flinched.
“He once said he would come to me when he could. He never did. Last night I had the chance to look him up. But Jamie was gone. I only found Jim Neilson.”
His mouth thinned into a grim line.
“Now it’s time for Beth Delaney to go, too,” she said with bleak finality. “There’s nothing left of what there once was.”
She turned away. There was nothing to hold her here. No doubt Jim Neilson would only feel intense relief at seeing her go, a ghost from the past he didn’t want to remember.
“Wait.”
The snapped command fell like a whiplash across her shoulders.
EMMA DARCY
nearly became an actress, until her fiancé declared he preferred to attend the theater with her. She became a wife and mother. Later, she took up oil painting—unsuccessfully, she remarks. Then she tried architecture, designing the family home in New South Wales, Australia. Next came romance writing—“the hardest and most challenging of all the activities,” she confesses.
Craving Jamie
Emma Darcy
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
CHAPTER ONE
SHE wore yellow.
It was the colour that first drew Jim Neilson’s eye. A daffodil amongst black orchids, he thought whimsically. Women in the arty crowd always seemed to wear black—leather, satin, silk, slinky knits—dressed up with gold chains or exotic costume jewellery. It was like a uniform that said, “I fit in. I belong to this smart, classy world.” The gallery was full of them, come to see or be seen at the preview of Paul Howard’s exhibition.
Jim wore black, too—silk shirt, designer jeans, casual leather jacket, Italian shoes. He quite enjoyed the illusion of fitting in, even while knowing he didn’t and never would. The sense of apartness never left him, no matter how high he climbed on the various ladders he’d chosen. In this milieu he had a well-earned reputation as an art collector. His opinion was respected, his favour sought. But that didn’t make him fit. It simply meant he had money to spend.
The woman in yellow intrigued him. She obviously didn’t mind standing out, being different. Not many people could wear that particular colour successfully. It either sallowed the skin or was too dominant, washing out the person. On her, it looked stunning. Just a simple linen suit with clean, classic lines.
She carried herself like a model, tall, slim, shoulders straight to maximise the striking curves of her figure, a long neck to support the thick fall of silky caramel hair that dropped to below her shoulders. Her face had an appealing, natural look, the golden tan of her smooth skin shining with vitality rather than matted with make-up. Bright eyes, a lush mouth and a straight, aristocratic nose.
Quite a honey, Jim thought, sexual interest aroused. His love-life—if it could be called that—could do with a boost. His interest in Alysha had waned even before she flew off for the fashion shows in Europe. He wanted someone new. A woman who excited him.
There were several women here who would jump at the chance of a tumble in bed with Jim Neilson. They didn’t care about the person he was inside, though. Just fancied him. Or what he could offer. He was bored with shallow relationships. He craved something more. A bit of mystery? The spur of a hunt instead of a lay-down gift?
The woman in yellow looked like a bright splash of spring in this crowd of sophisticates. Fresh. Tantalising. Whoever she was, she seemed to be alone, no one closely tagging her. She didn’t speak to anyone, either. His curiosity was more and more piqued as he watched her.
She wasn’t interested in the paintings. Her gaze only skimmed them, no pause for any lengthy assessment of their value or attraction to her personally. She looked at the men in each group she passed, scanning them closely as though anxious not to miss a face. The women were ignored, apparently inconsequential to her.
“Another glass of champagne, Jim?”
Claud Meyer at his elbow, oiling his way to a sale. The owner of the fashionable Woollhara gallery was always an assiduous host to good clients. This cocktail-hour preview would probably result in enough purchases to ensure the exhibition’s success for both artist and entrepreneur. Claud was a good businessman. Jim respected that while seeing straight through the tactics being used.
“Why not? Thank you,” he said, setting his empty glass on the silver tray Claud held and picking up a full one. “Quite a turnout tonight.”
“Popular artist,” was the knowing reply. “See anything you like?”
“Yes.” He nodded towards her. “The woman in yellow.”
Claud’s surprise was quickly swallowed into a good-humoured chuckle. “I meant the landscapes on show.”
“The guy has talent, but there’s nothing that hits me in the eye and says, ‘Buy me!’”
“He’ll be a good investment,” came the swift persuasion.
“Who is she?”
Claud followed the line of his gaze then looked back, puzzled.