lay beneath that outer veneer of cold urbanity, and they had been drawn to him, had trusted him.
Eva would have preferred, it would have been safer, if she had never so much as glimpsed that man beneath those layers...
Because she was far too aware of Michael already. Against her will—her loyalty to her sister—she had found him overpoweringly attractive as the co-owner of the Archangel galleries, dressed in his dark and exquisitely tailored business suits. But she found him even more so in the casual T-shirts and faded denims he changed into in the evenings, both emphasising the lean strength of his body, while at the same time doing nothing to diminish the leashed sensuality of the man wearing those clothes.
‘I had always assumed E J Foster was a man.’
Eva turned to him in surprise. ‘Why?’
‘I have no idea,’ he acknowledged gruffly, eyes glittering darkly as he continued to look up at the photograph rather than at Eva. ‘I really should have known... It’s so obvious to me now that a woman took this photograph,’ he added ruefully. ‘It’s there, in the gentle way the fading light picks up the darkness of the baby’s eyes as its head rests tiredly against its mother’s shoulder, in the smooth turn of the mother’s cheek as she gazes up at the lioness with its own cub. I believe a man would have concentrated on the majesty of the lioness and cub, rather than the more gentle beauty and calm of the mother and her baby.’
Eva felt slightly...unnerved— very unnerved!—by this further example of Michael’s insight into what her feelings had been that evening in Africa, because those had been exactly her emotions as she photographed the woman and lioness. And Michael had known that just from looking at the photograph. So much so that he had wanted to own it...
Her discomfort, her awareness of him, in this dimly lit bedroom, increased exponentially.
It was so quiet in this part of the apartment, no sound of traffic or people, just the soft sound of their joint breathing, and the dim lighting to add to the air of intimacy.
An intimacy Eva knew she desperately needed to break—before she did something incredibly stupid!
In fact, now would definitely be a good time for one of the twins to cry out for attention!
No such luck, she realised, as the rest of the apartment outside this bedroom remained completely, eerily, silent...
Eva moved abruptly to look at the second illuminated frame, frowning as she found herself looking up at a painting of a single red rose. A dying rose, the blood-red petals falling softly down onto the base of the canvas. ‘This painting is...’ She broke off, lost for words as to both the poignant beauty and starkness of the subject of the painting.
‘Allegorical,’ Michael provided huskily.
‘Yes.’ Eva nodded, having known immediately that the painting represented so much more than the dying of that beautiful, perfect rose.
Just as she knew that the death of the rose would represent different things to different people. In some, the death of hopes. In others, dreams. And to many, love...
The question was, which of those things did it represent to Michael, a man Eva hadn’t initially believed to be capable of any of those softer feelings, but had come to see differently?
He was a wealthy and successful businessman, so she very much doubted that he had any unfulfilled hopes and dreams in the professional side of his life.
Which left his personal life, and the possible death of love. Or perhaps trust...? Which would go a long way to explain his distrust of her initially, a distrust she had realised was slowly fading...
Michael was still single. And completely unattached romantically? Eva had never thought to ask! Had he once hoped for more? Had he loved and lost, a loss this painting represented to him?
Eva couldn’t imagine any woman wanting to walk away from the intensity of emotions she was now so sure Michael was capable of feeling.
So perhaps it wasn’t
Eva would have preferred, it would have been safer, if she had never so much as glimpsed that man beneath those layers...
Because she was far too aware of Michael already. Against her will—her loyalty to her sister—she had found him overpoweringly attractive as the co-owner of the Archangel galleries, dressed in his dark and exquisitely tailored business suits. But she found him even more so in the casual T-shirts and faded denims he changed into in the evenings, both emphasising the lean strength of his body, while at the same time doing nothing to diminish the leashed sensuality of the man wearing those clothes.
‘I had always assumed E J Foster was a man.’
Eva turned to him in surprise. ‘Why?’
‘I have no idea,’ he acknowledged gruffly, eyes glittering darkly as he continued to look up at the photograph rather than at Eva. ‘I really should have known... It’s so obvious to me now that a woman took this photograph,’ he added ruefully. ‘It’s there, in the gentle way the fading light picks up the darkness of the baby’s eyes as its head rests tiredly against its mother’s shoulder, in the smooth turn of the mother’s cheek as she gazes up at the lioness with its own cub. I believe a man would have concentrated on the majesty of the lioness and cub, rather than the more gentle beauty and calm of the mother and her baby.’
Eva felt slightly...unnerved— very unnerved!—by this further example of Michael’s insight into what her feelings had been that evening in Africa, because those had been exactly her emotions as she photographed the woman and lioness. And Michael had known that just from looking at the photograph. So much so that he had wanted to own it...
Her discomfort, her awareness of him, in this dimly lit bedroom, increased exponentially.
It was so quiet in this part of the apartment, no sound of traffic or people, just the soft sound of their joint breathing, and the dim lighting to add to the air of intimacy.
An intimacy Eva knew she desperately needed to break—before she did something incredibly stupid!
In fact, now would definitely be a good time for one of the twins to cry out for attention!
No such luck, she realised, as the rest of the apartment outside this bedroom remained completely, eerily, silent...
Eva moved abruptly to look at the second illuminated frame, frowning as she found herself looking up at a painting of a single red rose. A dying rose, the blood-red petals falling softly down onto the base of the canvas. ‘This painting is...’ She broke off, lost for words as to both the poignant beauty and starkness of the subject of the painting.
‘Allegorical,’ Michael provided huskily.
‘Yes.’ Eva nodded, having known immediately that the painting represented so much more than the dying of that beautiful, perfect rose.
Just as she knew that the death of the rose would represent different things to different people. In some, the death of hopes. In others, dreams. And to many, love...
The question was, which of those things did it represent to Michael, a man Eva hadn’t initially believed to be capable of any of those softer feelings, but had come to see differently?
He was a wealthy and successful businessman, so she very much doubted that he had any unfulfilled hopes and dreams in the professional side of his life.
Which left his personal life, and the possible death of love. Or perhaps trust...? Which would go a long way to explain his distrust of her initially, a distrust she had realised was slowly fading...
Michael was still single. And completely unattached romantically? Eva had never thought to ask! Had he once hoped for more? Had he loved and lost, a loss this painting represented to him?
Eva couldn’t imagine any woman wanting to walk away from the intensity of emotions she was now so sure Michael was capable of feeling.
So perhaps it wasn’t
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