| Author: | Serena Fairfax | ISBN: | 9780956974860 |
| Publisher: | Serena Fairfax | Publication: | December 6, 2011 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords Edition | Language: | English |
| Author: | Serena Fairfax |
| ISBN: | 9780956974860 |
| Publisher: | Serena Fairfax |
| Publication: | December 6, 2011 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords Edition |
| Language: | English |
Francesca saw instantly that the chair was too low to be comfortable for his height, his long legs encased in designer jeans jack-knifed against his jaw. Brushing back a strand of her straight, fine blonde hair, she hurried towards him from her tiny office at the rear of Craig Fine Arts - a Bond Street art gallery.
He was straight off a red-eye transatlantic flight. She hadn't expected him until much later when, with her boss Alec Craig, the gallery's founder, they would discuss business with him over a leisurely lunch. But he’s here now and far too early. Francesca steeled herself for the encounter.
'Rafe Rostov.' He uncoiled his lean, powerful body at six feet topping her by several inches. ‘I’m meeting with Alec Craig.' The voice was a deep, eastern seaboard drawl and long forgotten echoes from the past rushing back reminded her how soft-almost seductive - it could sound.
Francesca held out her hand. 'Did you have a nice flight?' she asked taking refuge in the usual pleasantries. Her level voice surprised her as her gaze met those piercing cobalt blue eyes that flickered appraisingly over her slim figure, registering the tender curve of the mouth below gypsy brown eyes, the clean line of chin and the soft colour in the high cheek bones.
Francesca kept her face composed but her body tensed with the bittersweet of reunion and her heart began to race wildly. She hadn't set eyes on Rafe for nine years, since she was seventeen. But that gut wrenching feeling was back even though he’d altered considerably, his height now carried with easy assurance, the smart-casual designer wear that spoke of success - the ungainly youth now a lionised sophisticate whose paintings adorned the homes of Texan oil barons and discriminating international collectors.
'Sure – that’s what you pay for and ought to get in first class! And it looks as if I'm gonna have an even nicer day,' he grinned engagingly and raked fingers through that still unruly coal-black hair. 'So you're Alec's assistant, Frankie. You're the girl who’s been liaising with my New York agent. I guess I should have known.' So he remembered, too. He paused and added gently, 'you’ve a very short memory and I guess I’ve a very bad one. Let's keep it that way, Frankie. Pardon me, I reckon you’re Francesca here.'
Francesca saw instantly that the chair was too low to be comfortable for his height, his long legs encased in designer jeans jack-knifed against his jaw. Brushing back a strand of her straight, fine blonde hair, she hurried towards him from her tiny office at the rear of Craig Fine Arts - a Bond Street art gallery.
He was straight off a red-eye transatlantic flight. She hadn't expected him until much later when, with her boss Alec Craig, the gallery's founder, they would discuss business with him over a leisurely lunch. But he’s here now and far too early. Francesca steeled herself for the encounter.
'Rafe Rostov.' He uncoiled his lean, powerful body at six feet topping her by several inches. ‘I’m meeting with Alec Craig.' The voice was a deep, eastern seaboard drawl and long forgotten echoes from the past rushing back reminded her how soft-almost seductive - it could sound.
Francesca held out her hand. 'Did you have a nice flight?' she asked taking refuge in the usual pleasantries. Her level voice surprised her as her gaze met those piercing cobalt blue eyes that flickered appraisingly over her slim figure, registering the tender curve of the mouth below gypsy brown eyes, the clean line of chin and the soft colour in the high cheek bones.
Francesca kept her face composed but her body tensed with the bittersweet of reunion and her heart began to race wildly. She hadn't set eyes on Rafe for nine years, since she was seventeen. But that gut wrenching feeling was back even though he’d altered considerably, his height now carried with easy assurance, the smart-casual designer wear that spoke of success - the ungainly youth now a lionised sophisticate whose paintings adorned the homes of Texan oil barons and discriminating international collectors.
'Sure – that’s what you pay for and ought to get in first class! And it looks as if I'm gonna have an even nicer day,' he grinned engagingly and raked fingers through that still unruly coal-black hair. 'So you're Alec's assistant, Frankie. You're the girl who’s been liaising with my New York agent. I guess I should have known.' So he remembered, too. He paused and added gently, 'you’ve a very short memory and I guess I’ve a very bad one. Let's keep it that way, Frankie. Pardon me, I reckon you’re Francesca here.'
