âI know,â she gasped.
To her frustration Adam tore his mouth away, his arms tight as he fought for control. âI didnât mean to lose it like that,â he muttered into her tumbled hair. âAt least, not yet.â Gabriel pulled away a little, her breath tearing through her chest as she stared into his smoldering eyes.
âI told myself Iâd wait until youâd finished the restoration.â Adam held her fast when she tried to break free. âNoâdonât flash those eyes at me. Not because I thought youâd stop work on it. But because I wanted every trace of the professional removed from our relationship first. I want the woman, Gabriel, not just the skills. Here in my arms, like this.â
Gabriel subsided against his shoulder. âDoes this mean you expect to sleep with me?â
THE atmosphere in the barn was pungent with various solvents as three people laboured to the accompaniment of music from a portable radio. One was transferring drawings from one water tray to another, another busy at a dry table retouching a print, while the third, some distance away across the barn under a north light, bent over a small oil painting, examining it through a binocular headband equipped with dual magnifiers. The absorption of all three was so intense the noise of a car arriving outside in the lane went unnoticed, as did the long shadow which fell across the June sunlight in the doorway a moment later.
The new arrival peered round the room, urgency in every line of his tall, rangy body. He rapped sharply on the open barn door, but had to knock a second time before one of the absorbed figures at the tables looked up, eyes blinking owlishly until he recognised the dark figure outlined by sunlight.
âAdam! Sorry, couldnât see for a minute.â
âHi, Eddie. Is HarryâMr Brett around?â
The effect of the question was startling. Both young men looked in anguished appeal at the third member of the trio, who remained perfectly still for a moment, her back turned. She gestured at one of them to turn off the radio, pushed the headband up over the peak of her baseball cap, replaced it with dark glasses, laid the painting flat, then stripped off cotton gloves worn to protect it and finally turned round to walk to the doorway with a lack of urgency in vivid contrast to the simmering impatience of the man waiting for her.
âIâm afraid heâs not,â she informed him coolly.
âWhen will he be back?â he demanded. âLook, my nameâs Dysart. Iâm a regular customer and I need some restoration work on a portrait in a hurry, so itâs vital I get in touch with Harry right away.â
Her eyes narrowed behind the dark, concealing lenses. So this was Adam Dysart grown up. Not the beanpole of a schoolboy she remembered, nor the arty, languid type she had expected him to become, but well over six feet of tanned muscles in disreputable torn jeans and a faded black sweatshirt. âSorry,â she said curtly. âOut of the question.â
He stared at her in frustration. âWhy not? If heâs away somewhere at least give me his number so I can talk to himââ
âI canât do that,â she snapped. âHeâs in hospital. He suffered a slight heart attack recently, and the only restoration heâll be involved in for some time will be with his health.â
âOh, my God!â Adam stared at her in horror. âThatâs terrible!â
Her mouth tightened. âYour paintingâs that important?â
âMy concern,â he returned fiercely, âis for Harry. Tell me what hospital heâs in so I can visit him.â
âNo way, Mr Dysart. The last thing he needs is any badgering about work. From anyone.â She watched with deep satisfaction as he fought a battle with his temper.
âYouâre new,â said Adam at last. He nodded towards the others, who were pretending not to listen to the exchange. âI know Wayne and Eddie, of course. Has Harry taken you on to work for him?â