incredible shade of deep blue, she noticed—night-dark and piercing and remarkable enough to eclipse even the rugged symmetry of his face. With the jeans went untidy, slightly too-long hair, making him more rock-star than literary agent.
Yes, Fran thought, her heart pounding like a mad thing. No wonder Rosie had fallen so badly. He looked exactly like a sex god! ‘And you must be Sam Lockhart,’ she gulped.
He shot a brief glance at his wristwatch and she found herself thinking that she had never seen a man so at ease in his own skin as this one.
‘Yeah,’ he drawled. ‘That’s me!’
‘Nice of you to come to the door and meet me!’
‘If you can’t manage to navigate your way from the front door to the study, then I think you’re in the wrong job, honey.’ He yawned again. ‘Come in and sit down.’
Fran gazed around the room. ‘Where?’
Sam conceded that she did have a point. Just about every available surface was given over to manuscripts of varying thicknesses. Some had even overflowed from his desk to form small paper towers on the Persian rug.
‘Don’t you ever clear up after you?’ she asked, before she had time to think about whether or not it was a wise question.
‘If you tidy manuscripts away, you lose them,’ he shrugged, as he rescued the telephone from underneath a shoal of papers. ‘At least if they’re staring you in the face you can’t hide away from the fact that you need to get around to reading them sometime!’
The blue eyes glanced rather absently around the study. ‘Though maybe it is a little cluttered in here. The sitting room is just along there.’ He pointed towards a low door at the far end of the room. ‘Why don’t you trot along and wait for me in there. Make yourself comfortable. I’m expecting a call any minute, but I shan’t be long.’
‘Please don’t rush on my account,’ she gritted, irritated at being told to trot along—as if she was some kind of pit-pony!
This drew a sardonic smile. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’
The first thing Fran decided when she walked into Sam Lockhart’s sitting room, was that there was no woman living in the house with him—or if there was, then she must be a very passive and insipid woman because the place had masculinity stamped indelibly all over it. Deep, bold colours and substantial furniture.
Fran was used to being in strangers’ houses; it was part of her job. She knew how much a home environment could tell you about a person, and over the years she had become an expert at reading the signs of domestic bliss.
Or turmoil.
The room had all the untidy informality of truly bachelor territory. For a start he seemed to be incapable of throwing away a single newspaper—since she could see Sunday supplements dating back from the previous month, and beyond. And there were enough books heaped on a low table and on the floor surrounding it for him to consider opening his own personal library! She crouched briefly to scan some of the titles and was alarmed to see that they shared some of the same taste in authors. Disturbing.
She rose to her feet and carried on looking. There were no photos scattered anywhere, but that didn’t really surprise her. Women were the ones who put photos in a room—reminders of great family occasions like engagements and weddings and christenings. Which were also a mark of possession and ownership—marks that men seemed to need less than woman.
She picked up a beautifully worked tapestry cushion which was lying on the chair, and was so busy examining it that she didn’t hear him come into the room. It was only when she turned around to find herself being studied intently by a pair of dark-blue eyes that Fran realised he was standing watching her.
Still holding onto the cushion, she blinked. As well as taking the phone call, he must have washed his face and swiftly shaved the blue-black blur of shadow away from the square chin. And run a comb through the dark tangle of his hair. He had put a dark sweater on too, and the soft navy cashmere clung to the definition of broad shoulders.
Suddenly, his blue eyes looked even bluer, so that their soft brilliance seemed to cut right through you, like a sword. Oh, my goodness, she thought weakly, he really is gorgeous. Fran clutched the cushion against her chest, like a breastplate, and saw him frown.
‘Planning to take that home with you?’ he queried softly.
Fran stared down at the cushion in her hands. On one side the single word Sam was embroidered, in a heart-shaped frame made of tiny scarlet flowers. On the other side was an intricately crafted message which said, A love given can never be taken away.
‘This is beautiful,’ she said politely, wondering who the maker of the cushion was. Someone who obviously adored him. ‘Absolutely beautiful.’
So why did his face close up so that it looked all shuttered and cold?
‘Yes,’ he said repressively. ‘It is.’
Part of her job was asking questions; making connections. If she saw something she liked she tried to find out where it came from, because you never knew when you might want one just like it. ‘Do you mind me asking where you got it from?’
His eyes narrowed and Fran was surprised by the sudden appearance of pain which briefly hardened their appearance from blue to bruise. So he could be hurt, could he?
‘Yes, I do mind! I told you that I had a plane to catch,’ he said coldly. ‘Yet you seem to want to spend what little time we have discussing soft furnishings.’
Feeling slightly fazed at the criticism, Fran quickly put the cushion back down on the sofa and looked at him expectantly. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said lightly. ‘Force of habit.’
He didn’t even acknowledge the apology. ‘Why don’t we just get down to business.’
Standing there, with her sheepskin coat making her feel distinctly overdressed, Fran felt hot and out-of-place and very slightly foolish. He could have done with a crash course in common courtesy, she thought. ‘Mind if I take my coat off first?’
‘Feel free.’
She noticed that he didn’t attempt to help her remove the heavy, fur-lined garment and was irritated with herself for even caring. He was a future client—hopefully—not somebody she would be taking home to meet her mother!
She draped the coat over the arm of a chair and stood in front of him, feeling slightly awkward, and not in the least bit confident. So now what did she do? She found herself wondering what was going on behind those dark eyes of his. And what he saw when he looked at her in that curiously intent way of his.
Her clothes were practical and comfortable, in that order—it went with the job. Very short skirts which meant you couldn’t bend over without inhibition were out. So were spindly and unsafe heels designed to make legs look longer. But although Fran was a little curvier than she would have ideally liked, she was also tall enough to carry off most clothes with style. Today, her brown woollen skirt skimmed her leather-booted ankles and the warm, cream sweater cleverly concealed the thermal vest which lay beneath.
She glanced at him to see if there was any kind of reaction to her appearance, but Sam Lockhart’s expression remained as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa. Now why did that bother her? Because the arch-philanderer didn’t think she warranted a second look? For heaven’s sake, woman, she told herself—you’re here to avenge some broken hearts—not join their ranks!
‘So are you going to sit down?’ he murmured. ‘I’d prefer to stretch my legs before my flight, but there’s no reason why the interview should be uncomfortable for you, is there?’
‘Er, no, I’ll stay standing,’ she stumbled. ‘W-what interview?’
‘The interview which helps me decide whether to give you the job or not.’ A mocking look. ‘What else did you think this was going to be? A tea party? I have to decide whether I want you to work for me and