clothes,’ he said in a low voice.
She spun round, and he heard the small gasp as she realised how close he was to her. He saw in the surprised widening of her eyes that she thought she’d got away with the bin story.
‘What the hell is going on here? What are you? Some kind of stalker?’
She stood her ground defiantly, looking boldly into his face. The confident don’t-care exterior didn’t fool him. He could tell by the way her breath had quickened, the way her eyes met his, that she was attracted to him. She thought she could blag her way out of this, as she did everything else.
‘I came in to use the mirror,’ she said. ‘There isn’t a full-length one in my room. And thenI wondered if there might be a jacket I could borrow. I only have a pashmina and it’s freezing outside.’
‘Make a habit of wearing men’s clothes, do you?’
‘Masculine tailoring is the new black, actually,’ she said airily. ‘I was just having a try-on. It’s a girl thing. You should never trust the way it looks on a hanger.’
She sidestepped him deftly. He let her go, watched her as she pretended to look in the mirror, dabbing her lips with her little finger as if trying on menswear was the most normal thing in the world for a girl to do.
‘Naturally I would have asked your permission before I took it.’
‘Naturally,’
he said sarcastically.
She glanced at him.
It was clear now that she had to be gathering background for some article or other about him. He was shocked to realise how disappointed he felt by that. He’d begun to like her, with her off-the-wall behaviour and her amazing legs. He was used to mixing with women who played the game his way. A couple of dates, a good time, and when he broke it off—which he always did—they left on good terms. No fuss or backlash. Because his good opinion counted in the competitive world of film.
A woman with her own agenda was a refreshingchange. And that was not necessarily a good thing.
He considered walking her to the door right now and throwing her out, but he needed to speak to Mark first. Make sure he’d found out something to ensure her confidentiality. That, he insisted, was the only reason he didn’t tell her to go and pack now. It had absolutely nothing to do with the way she was affecting him from the waist down.
Obviously tasting victory when he didn’t say anything further, she made for the door while the going was good.
‘Going anywhere special?’ he called after her.
‘It’s a work thing,’ she called back. ‘Don’t wait up.’
The gallery would have been stunning even without pictures festooning the walls, Jen decided. The building itself was cutting-edge modern, and inside there was major use of glass, highly polished wood floors and superb clear spotlighting to show the art off to its best advantage. At least it would have done if any of the pictures had been Jen’s cup of tea. Enormous arrangements of Christmas greenery studded with tiny white pin lights stood near the entrance. Wine waiters mingled effortlessly among the guests, dispensing crystal flutes of champagne and canapés. The artist was up-and-comingand, according to the loud-voiced man dominating the group next to Jen, extremely collectible. The guests were glamorous, their enthusiasm for the exhibits bubbling like the champagne.
Feeling drab and invisible in her plain black shift dress, and unsteady in her borrowed nude heels, she took a third glass of the complimentary champagne from a passing waiter. OK, so she rarely drank, but in this intimidating fish-out-of-water environment at least it gave her something to occupy her hands. She found herself sipping from the glass in an effort to appear busy and avoid speaking. Not that anyone had attempted to start a conversation with
her
.
There were plenty of extremely attractive men in attendance, but they seemed to have at least two or three women keeping them company at all times, all of them beautiful and expensively
She spun round, and he heard the small gasp as she realised how close he was to her. He saw in the surprised widening of her eyes that she thought she’d got away with the bin story.
‘What the hell is going on here? What are you? Some kind of stalker?’
She stood her ground defiantly, looking boldly into his face. The confident don’t-care exterior didn’t fool him. He could tell by the way her breath had quickened, the way her eyes met his, that she was attracted to him. She thought she could blag her way out of this, as she did everything else.
‘I came in to use the mirror,’ she said. ‘There isn’t a full-length one in my room. And thenI wondered if there might be a jacket I could borrow. I only have a pashmina and it’s freezing outside.’
‘Make a habit of wearing men’s clothes, do you?’
‘Masculine tailoring is the new black, actually,’ she said airily. ‘I was just having a try-on. It’s a girl thing. You should never trust the way it looks on a hanger.’
She sidestepped him deftly. He let her go, watched her as she pretended to look in the mirror, dabbing her lips with her little finger as if trying on menswear was the most normal thing in the world for a girl to do.
‘Naturally I would have asked your permission before I took it.’
‘Naturally,’
he said sarcastically.
She glanced at him.
It was clear now that she had to be gathering background for some article or other about him. He was shocked to realise how disappointed he felt by that. He’d begun to like her, with her off-the-wall behaviour and her amazing legs. He was used to mixing with women who played the game his way. A couple of dates, a good time, and when he broke it off—which he always did—they left on good terms. No fuss or backlash. Because his good opinion counted in the competitive world of film.
A woman with her own agenda was a refreshingchange. And that was not necessarily a good thing.
He considered walking her to the door right now and throwing her out, but he needed to speak to Mark first. Make sure he’d found out something to ensure her confidentiality. That, he insisted, was the only reason he didn’t tell her to go and pack now. It had absolutely nothing to do with the way she was affecting him from the waist down.
Obviously tasting victory when he didn’t say anything further, she made for the door while the going was good.
‘Going anywhere special?’ he called after her.
‘It’s a work thing,’ she called back. ‘Don’t wait up.’
The gallery would have been stunning even without pictures festooning the walls, Jen decided. The building itself was cutting-edge modern, and inside there was major use of glass, highly polished wood floors and superb clear spotlighting to show the art off to its best advantage. At least it would have done if any of the pictures had been Jen’s cup of tea. Enormous arrangements of Christmas greenery studded with tiny white pin lights stood near the entrance. Wine waiters mingled effortlessly among the guests, dispensing crystal flutes of champagne and canapés. The artist was up-and-comingand, according to the loud-voiced man dominating the group next to Jen, extremely collectible. The guests were glamorous, their enthusiasm for the exhibits bubbling like the champagne.
Feeling drab and invisible in her plain black shift dress, and unsteady in her borrowed nude heels, she took a third glass of the complimentary champagne from a passing waiter. OK, so she rarely drank, but in this intimidating fish-out-of-water environment at least it gave her something to occupy her hands. She found herself sipping from the glass in an effort to appear busy and avoid speaking. Not that anyone had attempted to start a conversation with
her
.
There were plenty of extremely attractive men in attendance, but they seemed to have at least two or three women keeping them company at all times, all of them beautiful and expensively
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