‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
‘I hope so... I’m looking for Darius Hadley. I was told his studio was in this street,’ she prompted.
The woman gave her a long, thoughtful look, taking in the grey business suit that she kept for meetings with the property managers of billionaires; she had hoped it would cut down on the inexplicable electricity that had sparked between them in Miles’s office. A spark that had sizzled even when he was outside on the pavement looking up at her.
Okay, maybe she should have worn a pair of sensible, low-heeled shoes, added horn-rimmed spectacles to make herself look seriously serious. Hell, she was serious, never more so—this was her career on the line—but there was only so far she could stretch the illusion. As for her favourite red heels, she’d needed them to give her a little extra height, some of the bounce that had been knocked clean out of her. Besides, Darius Hadley wouldn’t be fooled by a pair of faux specs. Not for a minute.
She’d experienced the power of eyes that would see right through any games, any pretence and knew that she would have to be absolutely straight with him.
No problem. Straight was what she did and she had it all worked out. The look, the poise, what she was going to say. She was going to be totally professional, which was all very fine in theory but first she had to find him. She’d called in a big favour to get his address but now she was beginning to wonder if she’d been sold a fake.
The woman, her inspection completed, asked, ‘Is Darius expecting you?’
‘He’ll want to see me,’ she said, fingers mentally crossed. ‘Do you know him?’
‘Sure,’ she said, a slow smile lighting up her face. ‘I know everyone. Even you, Natasha Gordon.’
Tash, still dragging her chin back into place, followed the woman back down the street towards a pair of wide, rusty old garage doors over which a sign suggested someone called Mike would repair your car while you waited. She produced a large bunch of keys and let herself in through the personnel door.
‘Darius?’ she called, leaving the door open. Tash, grabbing her chance, stepped in after her. ‘How are you feeling about the milkmaid today?’
Milkmaid?
There was a discouraging grunt from somewhere above her head. ‘Not now, Patsy.’
She looked up. Darius Hadley was standing on a tall stepladder, thumbing clay onto the leaping figure of a horse.
‘Do you still want to wring her neck?’ Patsy persisted.
‘Nothing has changed since last week,’ he replied, leaning back a little to check what he’d done, ‘but, to put your mind at rest, that damned house has given me enough trouble without adding grievous bodily harm to the list.’
‘So it would be safe to let her in?’
Now she had his attention.
‘Let her...’ He swung around and her heart leapt. He was so high... ‘She’s here?’
‘She doesn’t have a milking stool, or one of those things they wear across the shoulders with a pail at each end, but other than that she fits the description. Abundantly,’ she added with a broad smile. ‘Of course it helped that you’ve been drawing her on any bit of paper that comes to hand for the last few days.’
‘Patsy...’