Читать книгу Craving Jamie - Emma Darcy, Emma Darcy - Страница 7

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. “Are you kidding me?”

“You must know who she is, Claud. This preview is by invitation only.”

He frowned. “I’ve never seen her before in my life. She didn’t have an invitation. I let her in because she said she was meeting you.”

Jim’s curiosity took a mega-leap. “How very enterprising of her,” he mused.

“I assumed since you came alone...”

“She was my date?”

Claud shifted uneasily, not enjoying being wrong-footed. “If she lied...”

“No. Let her be, Claud. She will be meeting me.” Jim eyed the gallery owner with a sardonic twinkle. “If she likes one of these landscapes, I might even buy it. Who knows what could eventuate?”

Recognising there was no profit in engaging Jim Neilson in further conversation, Claud smiled and said, “In that case, I hope she pleases both of us.”

“Mind if I take another glass of champagne?”

“Help yourself.”

Claud moved on, doing the rounds of prospective customers. Jim concentrated his attention on the woman in yellow. Had she tossed off his name simply as a ploy to get into the gallery, or was it her intent to meet him? For what purpose? It was an intriguing question.

Was she a gold-digger on the hunt? Ever since he’d been listed as one of the most eligible bachelors in Australia—without his permission—he’d been the target of quite a few novel approaches.

His revulsion to the idea she’d come here on the make was strong. He didn’t want her to be like that. Yet she was sizing up the men in the gallery. And dismissing them, one by one.

Cynicism soured his mind as he continued to observe her meticulous assessment of the male half of the company. If he was her mark, he was in the mood to string her along for a while before delivering a comeuppance she wouldn’t forget in a hurry. He despised freeloaders. He’d worked damned hard to get where he was. A pretty face and a beguiling body bought nothing from him. Except space in his bed if he really felt enticed to take what was offered.

She came through the archway that linked the two rooms on the first floor of the gallery. Jim tensed as her gaze swung towards him. Any second now, the moment of truth. He waited, a savage challenge brooding in his mind, his eyes simmering with dark intent.

She found him, her eyes widening as he stared straight at her. A questioning? An expectation of some response from him? Almost as if he should recognise her. Well, she was bound to disappointment if she thought that old line would work on him. He’d never seen her before in his life.

If there was one thing Jim prided himself on, it was total recall, people, places, figures. It was his one great talent, the means by which he had climbed to the pinnacle he now occupied, the hottest financier in town. The woman in yellow was not, and never had been, part of his world.

Her expression changed. It was as though she had mentally stepped back from her first reaction. She studied him with an intensity he found oddly discomforting. He could feel her trying to burrow under his skin to see the man inside. It was a cool, steady, calculating look, the kind an astute man might give in sizing up someone he was dealing with, not even a hint of sexuality in it.

It provoked Jim into moving, taking the initiative from her. She wanted to meet him? Fine! She would meet him on his terms.

He had a compelling urge to reduce her to simply another woman, a woman responding to him as a man. He wanted to strip off her deceptive cloak of spring, unmask both her body and mind. He wanted her flesh in his hands, naked of any illusion, grinding her into compliance to his will.

Deliberately he slid his eyes over the lush fullness of her breasts, his mouth curving into a smile of male appreciation. Her short skirt gave him a good view of her legs, too, long and lissome in silk stockings. He imagined them wound around him in submission. He would give her one hell of a serve for tricking him.

No one fooled Jim Neilson for long.

He was too wise in the ways of the world.

The yellow had been nothing but a spotlight. An impact colour. It would give him a lot of satisfaction ... taking it off her.