The Determined Virgin. Daphne ClairЧитать онлайн книгу.
brief description of his career—the rocky beginning, the setbacks on the way, the eventual success—and she found herself caught up in his obvious enthusiasm.
Then he paused. ‘I guess that’s more than you ever wanted to know.’
‘No. It’s exciting.’
‘Is that what excites you? Talking business?’ His brows rose and his lips curved.
Rhiannon floundered. The innuendo was subtle and his eyes held laughter, but a flush rose from her throat and stung her cheeks.
Taking pity, he said, ‘I’d call downhill skiing exciting, parachuting, hang-gliding…and a few other things.’ For a moment a wicked gleam lit his eyes. ‘But biz talk?’ He shook his head. ‘You haven’t lived, baby.’
Rhiannon seized on the final word. ‘I’m not a baby!’
‘I’m nine years older than you,’ he reminded her.
‘Yes, Grandad.’
The gleam this time was retributive. ‘And I’m not your grandad.’
Rhiannon gulped down a mouthful of hot coffee. He didn’t look like anyone’s grandad. ‘Have you done those things? I mean…downhill skiing, hang-gliding…?’
‘And the rest?’ A crease appeared in his cheek. He was trying not to laugh. Held by that shimmering gaze with its veiled, provocative challenge, Rhiannon was suddenly breathless.
But not frightened.
Gabriel didn’t press her, to her great relief. This was too new a sensation to be taken at speed. He said nothing more until he’d demolished his gateau, then he sat back as she finished off her dish. ‘What did you do with those tiles?’
She told him about the church commission, answering his questions regarding tools and techniques. When she mentioned using tiles from demolition sites, he said, ‘The building next door to mine is being pulled down.’
‘Oh?’ She hadn’t been near there recently.
‘Maybe you should have a look.’ Pushing away his empty cup, he asked, ‘Do you want another?’
Rhiannon declined, not wanting any more coffee but curiously reluctant to move. She was, she realised dazedly, enjoying herself.
Only they couldn’t stay here all night. She fumbled for her bag and put on her jacket. ‘Thank you for this, it’s been nice.’
Rain had fallen while they were in the restaurant, and when they stepped outside the pavement was wet and shining under the streetlights, the tyres of passing cars hissing on the road surface. Still warm from the day’s sun, the asphalt steamed slightly.
‘It could be slippery,’ Gabriel said, his hand coming to rest on Rhiannon’s waist under the jacket. ‘Is your car in the parking building?’
‘Yes, but you don’t need to come with me.’
‘I’m going to pick up my car. And anyway, I wouldn’t desert you in the street.’
She was very conscious of his barely perceptible touch on her waist all the way there. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, and she didn’t pull away until she took out her keys and unlocked her car.
Before she got in he stopped her with a light hold on her wrist, and her gaze flew to his face. A whole colony of butterflies seemed to have taken up residence in her stomach, and she conquered the urge to pull away, standing very still while consumed by conflicting emotions of dread and curiosity.
A faint frown appeared between Gabriel’s brows. He bent his head quite slowly and brushed his lips against her cheek. ‘Goodnight, Rhiannon.’
Then he opened the door for her, standing back when she started the engine.
Watching the tail-lights disappear down the ramp, Gabriel flexed his fingers, then folded them into his palm. He could still feel the warmth that had emanated through Rhiannon’s thin blouse, and found himself fantasising about the smooth skin underneath the fabric, imagining tugging the garment from the imprisoning band of her skirt and running a finger along the groove of her spine, while he held her close…
It had taken considerable will-power to resist sliding his arm about her, resting his hand on her hip, nestling her shoulder under his. He’d felt the tiny tremor that seized her when he’d put his hand on her waist, and had made himself stop right there. In another woman he might have guessed the tremor indicated sexual awareness, but with Rhiannon…
He could hope, but she’d given no sign of welcoming his touch. And she’d been very composed, almost cool, since he’d walked into the gallery.
He went to the elevators, jabbing at the button.
Damn, she had been cool. Decidedly so. Cool and cagey. Not giving much away, except when he’d made an oblique, mildly sexual remark and she’d blushed like a schoolgirl.
So the coolness was a blind, a facade. Hiding what?
Fear. The word was stark, shocking.
He might never have suspected if he hadn’t caught her off guard that first day, scaring her witless with a single, asexual touch and an offer of help. She hadn’t been able to cover up so well then, her defences stripped for a few minutes by pain.
They were good defences.
The elevator doors slid open for him. A pretty young woman standing in the middle of the car gave him a small social smile as he entered and pressed the button for his floor. He could feel her covert glances but didn’t return them.
Rhiannon in the same situation had backed into the corner.
She’d been anxious from the moment he entered.
The woman he was sharing with now stepped forward when the elevator glided to a stop at her floor, and gave him a lingering sidelong glance as she left. He had no urge to follow her before the doors closed again.
In the gallery, on her own turf, Rhiannon had been perfectly sure of herself with her customers, and her manner had scarcely changed when Gabriel approached, except for that slight, involuntary alteration in her expression, like an invisible glass mask.
The mask had slipped when she spoke of her work, but it went right back at any hint of masculine interest. As though she had no idea how to deal with it.
She didn’t know how to flirt.
The doors opened and he stepped out. He smiled, unaware of the slightly tigerish quality of the smile.
Maybe he could teach her.
His purchase of the panel gave Gabriel an excuse to call at the gallery on Saturday, when Mosaica was open until two.
Ten minutes before closing time he found Rhiannon alone behind the counter, her head bent over a notepad.
‘Hi,’ he said, and she looked up, her eyes glazed for a moment.
When they cleared, her smile was uncertain. ‘Hello.’
‘You remembered?’ He glanced over at the mosaic and the red sticker fixed to it.
Rhiannon seemed to gather herself, assuming a professional air. ‘I was going to phone you on Monday and ask if you want it delivered.’
‘I’ll take it myself.’
‘Now? Certainly.’
The door chime momentarily drew her attention to a middle-aged Japanese couple entering. Then she turned to the door standing ajar behind the counter and called, ‘Peri?’
A broad-shouldered young man appeared, with smooth brown skin and large dark eyes, his black hair a mane of luxurious waves secured in a ponytail. A tie-dyed muscle shirt and purple leather pants hugged his lovingly honed chest and thighs, and he flashed a dazzling Tom Cruise smile at Rhiannon. ‘Yeah, boss?’
‘Mr