Web of Deception - By Nina Blake Page 0,3

She stared at him. “No, you’re not. You really do have a Klee.”

He nodded and when he offered his arm, she took it, though he hadn’t thought she would. Such a lovely surprise. As he led her down the short hallway to his office, he couldn’t help but think the walk with her at his side was all too brief.

Closing the door behind them, he pointed to one of two antique finish leather chesterfields.

“Take a seat,” he said. “I’ll get you a drink, if you like.”

* * *

Kate swallowed hard and turned around so her face wouldn’t betray her. If she was going to tell the truth, she was a little thirsty after the snacks in which she’d just indulged. That must be what had made her mouth suddenly so dry. But she knew a drink with this man would not be a good idea.

She was in his office. Alone with him. And she didn’t want to lead him on.

“No thank you,” she said. “I won’t stay long.”

He’d been right about one thing. It was certainly quieter in here. When he’d closed the door, it was as if the rest of the party disappeared. It was such a relief.

Glancing around the room, she noticed how different it was from the rest of the apartment, the décor in here being as far from cool and contemporary as you could get.

The office had the same American oak flooring as the living area but it was covered in a rich, deep green rug, which absorbed the noise and added warmth.

To her left, a large mahogany desk sat in front of a wall lined with book shelves. Interestingly, his desk didn’t look out onto the glass doors and the view to the harbour. Instead, it faced a burgundy wall covered in artworks.

And one painting took pride of place.

She had to see it. Had to get a closer look. Walking right up to the artwork, she was fixated on the texture of the paint and the tones of colour.

Only last year, she’d made sure to go to Bern when she was in Europe, especially so she could go to the Paul Klee Museum. Though hardly an art expert, she loved the dream-like quality of his paintings, the way he played with shape and colour, his gentle humour.

But there was no way Daniel could know any of that.

Taking a few steps backwards, she took in the whole painting, the hues, the shapes. It was so free, so full of life. Everything that she wanted to be, except she could never quite let go enough, could never quite let rip completely.

Suddenly, she felt something behind her.

Someone.

She turned to face him. Daniel didn’t budge. His shoulders broad, his chest strong, he was like an anchor. Even through his suit she could feel how hard his body was. This was a powerful man. In more ways than one.

Her eyes were fixed on his face as she stood close to him and for the first time truly looked at him. At first glance, anyone could tell he was good looking with his short black hair, dark eyes and olive skin but that was only the beginning. There was a roguishness in the depths of his eyes, in the hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Charming. He was that. Way too smooth. The sort of man you had to watch out for.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to…”

He brushed some droplets off his jacket. “It’s okay. It’s only brandy.”

Looking down, she saw he must have got himself a drink while she wasn’t looking, and she’d spilt it when she bumped into him. Also when she wasn’t looking.

They were standing in front of his desk so she reached across for some tissues and took the glass from his hand, wiping it dry before placing it on the desk. Then she grabbed some more tissues and dabbed at his hand. It was the least she could do.

Kate felt his gaze upon her, felt him watching her every movement. His hands were large, his fingers long and elegant, and she wondered how she would feel if those masculine hands were on her waist, her hips, her body.

She handed back the brandy glass, their fingers overlapping. The warmth of his touch made her feel suddenly anxious. She pulled her hands away.

“There’s not much left,” she said.

“That’s okay. I wasn’t very thirsty.”

Daniel knocked back the remaining brandy and turned to slide the glass onto the desk, his jacket brushing against the bare skin of