can be of some assistance to you and your husband.’
JOANNA REALISED SHE should have anticipated something like this when Matt disappeared. Because, of course, her husband had been waiting for them in the manager’s office.
Matt had been standing by the windows, looking out on the manicured golf course at this side of the hotel. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his pants, his shoulders broad beneath the heat-dampened silk of his shirt.
And despite herself, Joanna felt a pang, not unlike the pang she’d felt when Matt and his father had first walked into the Bellamy Gallery all those years ago.
David had been hosting another of those evenings for new artists, and apparently one of his flyers had found its way into the lobby of the Novaks’ hotel. Matt had told her his father had persuaded him to come; light relief after a day of boardroom politics. But he’d told Joanna that as soon as he’d seen her he’d been very glad he had…
Joanna looked round the gallery with a feeling of pride. The place was full, patrons and visitors milling about, helping themselves to a glass of wine or a canapé, offering silent and not so silent opinions of the paintings on display.
And she’d arranged it all, she thought with pride. She’d sent out the invitations, arranged for flyers to be placed in hotel lobbies, made the event sound so attractive that any visitor to the capital might be intrigued by its originality.
The young artist they were showcasing, Damon Ford, was a minor celebrity in his own right after winning a gold medal in athletics at the last Olympics.
But in spite of this success, Joanna believed that his art was the real attraction here. His work was an abstract palette with no perspective in visual reality. It wasn’t to everyone’s taste, but in a world where fantasy had become so popular, Damon’s imagery struck a chord.
‘A good turn-out.’
David Bellamy, the man who owned the gallery and her boss, spoke the words with some satisfaction.
‘You’ve done good, Joanna. Damon should be pleased.’
Joanna smiled. ‘Oh, he is. I spoke to him a few moments ago, and he’s really excited to see his work enjoying such success. It depends whether anyone buys anything, of course, but I saw the Arts Editor from the Evening Gazette just now and he seemed very impressed.’
She looked eagerly about her. Yes, she thought, her instincts had been right. Damon was that unusual thing: an artist who cared, not just about his work, but also about pleasing his public.
Her eyes scanned the crowd as they had been doing all evening and came to rest on two men who had just come in. They were both tall and dark, but the younger man was slightly taller than his companion, with the kind of dark penetrating gaze that sought Joanna out and found her—staring at him.
Oh, God, she thought, looking away, embarrassment filling her face with what she was sure was unbecoming colour. An unfamiliar fluttering began in the pit of her stomach, and she pressed a nervous hand to her midriff. He would think she was trying to attract his attention, when nothing could be further from the truth.
Nevertheless, she managed to appear composed when the man in question pushed his way through the crowd to join her.
‘Hi,’ he said, with the kind of lazy smile that brought goose bumps out all over her skin, ‘I understand you’re the artist here.’
His accent revealed he was from the other side of the Atlantic and Joanna was taken aback. ‘Oh—oh, no,’ she said hurriedly. ‘No, I’m not the artist. I just helped to organise the event.’
‘That’s what I meant,’ he said easily. ‘This is some classy affair you’ve put on.’
‘Do you think so?’ Joanna couldn’t help being flattered. It was one thing for David to say she’d done a good job and quite another for one of their guests to compliment her.
‘Sure.’ He glanced about him. ‘So—do you want to show me where can I get a drink around here?’
Nevertheless, she’d quickly realised that it was not the time to be thinking about the past. Matt had heard their entrance and swung round to look at them, and, although she’d been tempted to turn on her heel and march back out of the door, defiance, and the knowledge that she’d only embarrass the manager, had kept her where she was.
In consequence, the man was now opening the door of an invitingly lamplit suite on the eighteenth floor, ushering them both inside, just as if Matt was staying the night.
‘If there is anything else I can do for you, Mr Novak,’ he said, irritating Joanna anew by addressing Matt, ‘you have only to let me know.’ He handed him the key card. ‘I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable here.’
‘I’m sure we will,’ agreed Matt, his hand compelling Joanna forward, a silent warning not to argue. ‘Thanks for your help, George. I won’t forget it.’
The manager lifted a self-deprecating hand, and, with another smile in Joanna’s direction, he stepped out of the room and closed the door firmly behind him. And the minute the door was closed, Joanna moved abruptly out of Matt’s possessive reach.
‘I suppose you expect me to be grateful,’ she said, aware of the disagreeableness of her tone. ‘Well, okay, I appreciate not having to stand in a queue, but I would just as soon be in one of the standard rooms.’
Matt snorted. ‘How did I know you were going to say something like that?’ He strolled across the sitting room to where sliding glass doors opened onto a private balcony. ‘You might like to step outside and admire the view,’ he added, glancing back over his shoulder. ‘You can hear the ocean from here.’
‘And feel the humidity,’ retorted Joanna, making no attempt to join him. The manager had carried her bag upstairs and now she picked it up to carry into the adjoining bedroom. But the realisation that Matt would probably follow her if she did had her setting it down again. ‘Please, close the windows and go.’
‘‘Aren’t you going to offer me a drink? I’d have thought it was the least you could do after the efforts I’ve made on your behalf,’ remarked Matt tolerantly, but he did at least part of what she’d asked and slid the window closed.
Efforts I didn’t ask you to make, thought Joanna uncharitably.
Glancing round, she saw the small fridge, masquerading as a polished cabinet.
‘Help yourself. You’re paying for it.’
Matt crossed the room and plucked a can of cola from inside the cabinet and inclined his head. ‘Thanks.’
‘My pleasure,’ she said, her tone indicating the opposite. Then, she added, ‘You’re not going to change my mind, you know.’
‘Okay.’ Matt shrugged. ‘But as you said, we’ll talk about it in the morning.’
‘Is there any point?’
‘I hope so.’ Matt raised the can to his lips and took a drink, and then looked around the room. ‘This reminds me of the suite we occupied the first time I brought you here.’ He took the step that allowed him to glance through the bedroom door. ‘Yeah, I remember they had to come and change the bed because we’d made love in the shower and we were still soaked when we—’
Joanna’s lips tightened. ‘Stop it,’ she said, unable to deny the images his words had created. She took a steadying breath. ‘Is—is your father enjoying his return to work?’