Sweet Seduction Surrender (13 page)

And Dominic was right. I couldn't pay the bills without signed contracts lined up. And I most definitely needed something right now to keep me busy, to keep my mind occupied.

Did it matter if this man was eccentric in his behaviour and interactions with those he employs? He was clearly well off, part of the social stratosphere that I was raised within, and that the Montgomery-Smiths revelled in. And it is there that the money is to be made.

"Are you trying to gain my services, Mr...?" I asked, leaving the question open for his name.

"Tremayne," he replied smoothly, offering me a hand to shake. "Richard Tremayne. And yes, Ms Anscombe, I want you designing my new store. But I want it completed by Monday week. Can you achieve that?"

Even though the question was direct, there was still a hint of levity in his tone. He'd intended for his words to be frank, but they'd fallen short of commanding. And I'd had a taste of commanding when done correctly, and as much as I didn't want to think of Jason again, it always led back to him in the end.

Everything led back to him.

But, I needed to focus. Richard Tremayne was wealthy, probably successful, and wanted to hire me, nothing more. I had to remember that and forget about strong minded men in my bed. This was work. I was in no position in my recovery of the Jason Debacle, to be thinking in any other terms except professionally.

I'd throw myself into my business, ignoring the ache that seemed to fill me up inside, and with time things would get better. Then, maybe, I could consider another man in my bed. Commanding or not.

"I would need to see your premises to determine what time-frame would be achievable," I said, turning fully to face him at last.

His smile was slow and languid in coming. He thought he had me already. Clearly he hadn't dealt with an Anscombe yet.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card, then handed it over between two long manicured fingers.

"Nine am tomorrow, Ms Anscombe. I'll bring the coffee."

I took his card and retrieved one of mine from my pocket in return.

"No need," he said, jovially. "I already have one. As well as your latest catalogue. Like I said," he took a step backward, intending to leave, I think, "I do my homework. You're exactly what I want."

He offered a nod of his head and then spun on his heels and walked down the steps into the night. I'm not sure if he'd even stepped foot inside the Montgomery-Smith's house, let alone greeted them. But within seconds he'd disappeared in amongst the dark shadows of their back yard.

What a strange man.

I glanced down at his business card, tilting it to get a better view in the dim light from the house. Gold embossed flowing print displayed his name and contact details, including a phone number, website, physical address and his business' title:
Tremayne Arts
.

I flicked it over in my hand, wondering if he would be as difficult to deal with as Mrs Montgomery-Smith. Then, dismissing that as irrelevant, slipped the card into my pocket.

It had been a very long day and night, but maybe, at least, I would have something to show for it. And a pressure filled job to occupy my mind.

At this point, it was the best I could hope for.

My bedside phone ringing woke me. I'd set my alarm for seven thirty, leaving me enough time to get up and face the day. A day that included a possible new client. I was still a little unsure about Richard Tremayne, but a job was a job. And I was not above admitting I needed all the financial assistance I could get. Let alone the distraction a contract would provide.

I picked the handset up and mumbled out, "Katie Anscombe," flicking a glance at the clock to see it was just after seven. Who phones at this hour?

"Katie," Gen's excited voice said over the line. "I spent all evening yesterday phoning everyone. So, you don't have to worry about a thing. I've sorted it. Can you bring a pasta salad?"

I blinked, rubbed a hand over my sleep encrusted eyes and tried to sit up.

"Darling, you're going to have to be more specific. What have you sorted?"

I fluffed a few pillows behind my back and settled in for a Genevieve Cain runaway mouth moment. If I had coffee, I'd be set.

"Well, you know, chickie. The barbecue."

"The barbecue? Genevieve, I told you I can't make it this weekend."

"No, you said you couldn't make it Sunday night. So, I changed it to tonight instead."
Oh.
"Dom and I really want you there with us. But you're going to have to act all surprised. No one would appreciate you knowing ahead of time. Gotta keep it fair, you know?"

No I didn't know, and I really didn't want to face this. Damn. She'd changed the barbecue to this evening, because I couldn't make tomorrow's date. I felt tears prickling behind my eyes, I blinked my lids rapidly, trying to still their onslaught. I'd done enough crying, thank you very much. But this,
this
, was too much. Lovely, sweet Genevieve going to all that trouble to fit in with me.

Sure, she wanted
everyone
there for her and Dom's big moment, but it still filled my bitter heart with warmth. And then the thought of having to face Jason again froze it solid.

"Oh, Genevieve," I said on a breath of air. Then corrected myself. "That's sounds brilliant." I forced a little joy into my words.

"Everyone thought I was being crazy, changing the date by one day," Gen was saying, but I found myself slinking further and further beneath the covers, gripping the handset in a white knuckled clasp, and blanking out slightly on her actual words. "But I think they've got used to my uniqueness by now. I didn't tell them it was because you couldn't make it, just in case they were pee'd off or something. But I made them all promise to be here by six. I've started getting a bit tired in the evenings, so it's a little earlier than usual. Hope you don't mind. Kelly just said she'd hit the town afterwards, if Dom and I kicked everyone out for an early night in bed. I laughed at that, couldn't exactly tell her I'd be asleep by nine, no hanky panky for me."

There was a grumble in the background, which had to have come from Dom. Either bemused at Gen's forthrightness, or contradicting her about the whole no hanky panky thing.

"I know, honey," Gen said, voice slightly muffled as she held the phone away, "but it's Katie, I can't say that. You flipped when she saw your naked butt, how the hell do you think she'd respond to you suggesting I just lie back and think of Britain and you'd do all the..."

The phone was abruptly pulled from Gen's hand, by the sound of the scrabbling in the background. There was a grunt, followed by a giggle and then Dominic's voice down the line.

"Six o'clock tonight, Katie. Bring a pasta salad. And no excuses. You will be there."

"Dom," I attempted.

"No excuses. We need to see you. OK?" The last was said more softly. He was worried.

"OK," I replied, meekly.

There was a pause, then a sigh his end.

"Good. See you tonight, sis." The line went dead.

I returned the handset to its cradle and curled up under the covers again. I spent the next few minutes refusing to cry, then mercifully, my alarm went off and the day of distraction could finally begin.

Tremayne Arts was on The Strand, just below Parnell Rise. It had a pleasant façade and maybe half a dozen parking spaces out front. A boon for this part of Auckland City. As the business wasn't yet open to the public, there were plenty of spots available for me to park in. I pulled up next to a shiny Lexus, which I was guessing belonged to Tremayne.

Picking up my satchel, which included all the necessary equipment I'd need if I chose to take this contract on, I slipped out of my car and after locking it, headed over to the front doors. I didn't need to knock, Tremayne opened it when I was still a few feet away. He'd been watching for me. I felt a little jolt of surprise shoot through me at that thought. I wasn't late, so he shouldn't have been pacing at the doors for my arrival, but an almost creepy feeling slithered down my spine.

Nick, in all his brotherly over protectiveness, had instilled in me a wary observant quality. It wasn't something I found at all natural, but over the course of the past few years his constant reminders of trusting your first impressions and never ignoring that initial reaction to a situation, has made me more circumspect. I don't think I would have even considered Tremayne's behaviour unusual in the past, but Nicky had a way of getting through my resistance. Making Tremayne's intense demeanour and obvious heightened anticipation of my arrival cause me to startle slightly.

I forced myself to calm and not show the small amount of alarm I had felt. Smiling at Tremayne, I offered a greeting.

"Good morning, Mr Tremayne."

"Please, call me Richard. And may I call you Catherine?" he asked, holding the door open for me to walk through, but not stepping back enough for me to slip past without brushing his sleeve.

"Of course," I murmured, ducking my head as I stepped into a large open planned space.

The natural lighting streaming through the large exposed windows along the front of the building made long shadows appear in haphazard stripes across bare concrete floors. It was a complete blank canvas. No flooring or lighting in place. No wall breaks or designated areas existing. Just a huge square room, with offices and amenities along the back wall. Nothing else.

For the first time since arriving I felt a much more welcomed feeling settle inside my stomach. Excitement. The exuberant thrill of creating something out of almost nothing.
What I could do to this space.

"Ten days, you said?" I asked distractedly, scanning the height of the walls, taking further steps inside to look at everything from different angles. I had a dozen different ideas streaming through my mind already. Some of them running away and becoming behemoths in seconds. All of which I needed to rein in as the man had said he already new what he wanted. No doubt anything I suggested would be dismissed. He may not have been a dominant person, but he knew how to get what he wanted, I was sure.

"Yes," he murmured, making me flick a glance over in his direction. He was leaning against a wall, legs crossed casually at the ankles, watching me keenly. "I'm on a tight schedule."

I returned my attention to the room itself. Something about his continued appraisal of me left me unnerved. I wasn't sure if it was entirely bad, this sensation of unease. Which sounds paradoxical. But sometimes that jittery feeling you get when something disturbs you can be because of something good. At this point, I couldn't tell if I liked his obviously male regard, or not.

"You said you already know what you want. I gather that means you have a theme or design in mind already?" I asked, still scanning the space, estimating distances and the potential that existed. Already choosing the central piece of furniture that would make this showroom shine; an almost completely circular shaped settee I'd spotted in one of my furniture supplier's storerooms last month. It would be perfect as a focus point, not to mention a suitable spot to sit back and relax, while you gazed at artwork around the space.

"Not at all," he replied, surprising me enough to stop what I was doing and devote my attention to him. "What I meant to say is, I know
who
I want. To create the design, of course."

"Oh." It slipped out. I couldn't deny I felt flattered. In a professional manner, of course.

"I've seen much of your work, Catherine. I like it. I especially like the modernity and unexpectedness of Malcolm's sitting room." So, he had been inside the Montgomery-Smith's room. Just not last night. "I could imagine something along those lines here. Can't you?"

I returned my gaze to the blank room before me and forced myself to overlay an image of the Montgomery-Smith's design in this space. My heart fell. Because he was right. This could be a grand room, it could really make a statement. And as much as I didn't want to revisit a design that had been created at such a pivotal part of my life, at a moment in time I cared to forget, I knew I might have to.

But, most art showrooms tend to be bland, to allow the art to speak for itself. If you detracted from the pieces for sale, then you sold your product short. If I created anything here, it would have to be a version of the Montgomery-Smith's to produce ambience and awe, toned down to a degree where necessary, to complement the art.

"What type of artwork do you sell, Mr Tremayne?" I asked, my mind moving a mile a minute now.

"Richard, Catherine," he reminded me. "Please call me Richard. I have every intention of us becoming fast friends throughout this process. And friends call each other by their given names. Am I correct?"

My friends called me Katie, not Catherine. Even my parents called me Katie. Jason, of course, called me Kate. For some reason, neither of those nicknames felt suitable for this man. I was nowhere near ready to hear him call me anything other than Catherine. Catherine was almost someone else in my mind.

I just offered a nod in agreement, not wanting to get too bogged down by semantics.

"As for the artwork, everything you saw at Malcolm's house, I sourced for him."

Ah, and there went that idea that it couldn't coexist with the Montgomery-Smith's design. I had worked the final look around their artwork. It was made to measure.

Which meant, this job could go an awful lot easier than I had first thought.

I walked over to the far wall and looked inside the offices. They were finished to a professional standard, so was the kitchen and bathroom area.

"I gather you're satisfied with these," I said, nodding my head toward each room.

"Yes, they'll do."

"So, that leaves this wonderful space." I'd opened my arms up and waved to indicate the vast empty room we were in. Richard's smile at my choice of words and action was genuine. He was pleased I could see the potential.

"Yes," he murmured. "What's the verdict? Can you make something of it?"

I peeled my eyes off the room and turned my gaze to him. He'd stepped away from the wall and now stood, hands in trouser pockets making him seem approachable, even handsome.

"Yes, I could make something of this." I'd kept my voice level, professional. But inside I was eager to get started. I'd already fallen for the project, there was no way I'd turn down this job now. "Do you have any specific requirements? Areas set aside for different artwork? A piece that requires special treatment and placing?"

"I can give you a catalogue with all the pieces I currently have and we can work through what should have priority and not. I know what sells, but I'd like your interpretation of what should go where. It will be your design. Fully. I'll just provide the pieces as your muse."

I sucked in a small breath at his words. The design I'd create would be based on the Montgomery-Smith's, and we all know how I managed to come up with that. In that instant, I had a sudden urge to flee. But I scolded my ridiculous lovelorn heart and told myself this was business. A job. A contract that would pay the bills.

"All right," I said with a nod of my head; more for me, than him. "I can't provide a quote until I've seen the pieces and we're agreed on a display plan. Once I have those items locked down, the design can be created in forty-eight to seventy-two hours."

The fact that I would be mimicking a completed design and already had focal furniture picked out in my mind, knowing they were available at my suppliers and easily covered to suit the finished look, made the time-frame required to complete the project a fraction of what I would normally require.

"I'd need at least ten days to achieve the finished product," I added, "so it would be advisable if I could see the catalogue of your stock today and we arrange a time to discuss your needs as soon as possible." I was ready to get this started. To throw myself into something that would take utter focus and block out everything else.

"I can give you a catalogue to take away this morning, and as for arranging a time to discuss my... needs, may I suggest dinner tonight." He must have seen the wariness and reluctance on my face, because he quickly added, "A business dinner, if you will."

I hesitated, trying to think of a way out. Then the obvious flashed through my mind. The barbecue. I already had plans that I couldn't possibly put off. I mean, Genevieve had changed the date to fit in with me. I couldn't, in all good conscience, deny her wishes now. Even if every fabric of my being wanted to avoid her and Dom's house, in the hopes of not having to see Jason.