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“I want you.”
“I know,” she gasped.
To her frustration Adam tore his mouth away, his arms tight as he fought for control. “I didn’t mean to lose it like that,” he muttered into her tumbled hair. “At least, not yet.” Gabriel pulled away a little, her breath tearing through her chest as she stared into his smoldering eyes.
“I told myself I’d wait until you’d finished the restoration.” Adam held her fast when she tried to break free. “No—don’t flash those eyes at me. Not because I thought you’d 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.”
Gabriel subsided against his shoulder. “Does this mean you expect to sleep with me?”
A family with a passion for life—and for love.
Welcome to the fourth story in The Dysarts, a wonderful series by bestselling author Catherine George. Gabriel Brett is experienced like her father in restoration of all forms of art. When her father is taken to hospital with a slight heart attack, Gabriel takes over his business in Pennington. Adam Dysart, heir to his family’s fortune, arrogantly demands priority for a painting he urgently wants restored and is both angry and astonished when Gabriel turns him down flat. Adam has forgotten that they were first introduced when they were teenagers, when Gabriel was overweight, with braces on her teeth. Adam was so mortifyingly desperate to get away from her, she has harbored resentment toward him ever since….
Get to know each member of the Dysart family, and share in their trials and joys, their hopes and dreams, as they live their lives with passion—and for love.
Coming in November:
Kate’s story
Restless Nights
Catherine George
MILLS & BOON
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Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER ONE
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.
‘Adam! Sorry, couldn’t see for a minute.’
‘Hi, Eddie. Is Harry—Mr Brett around?’
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.
‘I’m afraid he’s not,’ she informed him coolly.
‘When will he be back?’ he demanded. ‘Look, my name’s Dysart. I’m a regular customer and I need some restoration work on a portrait in a hurry, so it’s vital I get in touch with Harry right away.’
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. ‘Sorry,’ she said curtly. ‘Out of the question.’
He stared at her in frustration. ‘Why not? If he’s away somewhere at least give me his number so I can talk to him—’
‘I can’t do that,’ she snapped. ‘He’s in hospital. He suffered a slight heart attack recently, and the only restoration he’ll be involved in for some time will be with his health.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Adam stared at her in horror. ‘That’s terrible!’
Her mouth tightened. ‘Your painting’s that important?’
‘My concern,’ he returned fiercely, ‘is for Harry. Tell me what hospital he’s in so I can visit him.’
‘No way, Mr Dysart. The last thing he needs is any badgering about work. From anyone.’ She watched with deep satisfaction as he fought a battle with his temper.
‘You’re new,’ said Adam at last. He nodded towards the others, who were pretending not to listen to the exchange. ‘I know Wayne and Eddie, of course. Has Harry taken you on to work for him?’
‘Temporarily, yes.’
His straight brows drew together, his dark eyes bright with appeal as he raked a hand through black curls damp with heat. ‘Look, let’s start again. I’m an old friend of Harry’s and I’m deeply concerned about him. I’d really like to know how he is.’
She looked at him for a moment, then nodded. ‘I’ll be back from the hospital about eight-thirty. If you want, you can ring me up at the house then.’
‘You’re staying here?’
‘I’m living here, Mr Dysart. At least, for the time being. I’m Gabriel Brett.’
‘Gabriel?’ Adam Dysart stared at her in astonishment, then held out his hand, his smile sudden and delighted. ‘It’s so long since we met I didn’t recognise you. Though Lord knows I feel I know you well enough. Harry talks about his brilliant daughter all the time, pleased as punch that you’re following in his footsteps—swears you’re even more skilled than he is.’
‘I’m