Carole Mortimer Romance Collection

If she hadn’t been sure what to wear for their date, formal or casual, then Wolf seemed to have been even less sure. He was wearing no jacket at all, despite the brisk breeze on this April evening, and his shirt had come adrift from the faded denims he wore—and he seemed to have the remains of a meal down the front of the pale blue shirt! At least—she frowned at the vivid red and green streaks—she presumed it was a meal?

His appearance was certainly much less formal than it had been on Saturday evening, and his hair was hopelessly windswept, not with that deliberate casualness that was so much in fashion nowadays, but actually blown in complete disarray by the breeze.

A fact he seemed to become conscious of as she continued to look at him silently, putting up an impatient hand to smooth the errant dark blond locks from his brow. ‘I really am sorry I’m late for our date, Cyn,’ he told her with a rueful grimace. ‘But I— Well, I got caught up in work, and—’

‘You work on a Sunday?’ She couldn’t help her surprise.

He grinned at her reaction. ‘I work every day, Cyn.’ He took a firm grasp of one of her arms. ‘Let’s go and eat—we can talk over our meal,’ he suggested cajolingly.

He thought she was going to refuse to have dinner with him at all because he was over ten minutes late! Cyn realised dazedly. She hadn’t been very happy about having to stand in such a conspicuous place as she waited for him, she admitted—and, now that he had arrived, Ron, the doorman, was completely agog at just who had turned up to meet her, obviously recognising Wolf from last night!—but she was far too curious about this enigmatic man to change her mind about having dinner with him just because of that. And from Ron’s almost stunned expression, the sooner they moved away from the hotel the better!

‘I thought you might have already eaten...?’ She frowned up at Wolf as she moved with him to the taxi he had signalled to come over to them.

Wolf gave the driver an address before joining Cyn in the back of the taxi, looking puzzled as he turned to look at her. ‘What on earth gave you that—? This isn’t food,’ he dismissed with a laugh as he saw the direction her gaze had taken, putting up a self-conscious hand to the marks on his shirt. ‘I should have changed before coming to meet you,’ he acknowledged with a grimace. ‘But I was so caught up in what I was doing, it was almost seven-thirty before I even remembered our date—I didn’t put that very well, did I?’ He winced as he saw her mockingly raised brows.

She laughed softly, starting to relax now that they were away from the hotel; it was the worst possible place they could have agreed to meet, although she acknowledged that, at the time, they hadn’t had much time to think of another location. ‘It wasn’t the most flattering thing you could have said,’ she shook her head with a rueful smile.

Wolf’s hands moved to clasp one of hers. ‘Once you’ve known me for a while, you’ll realise that flattery is one thing I never give,’ he told her with intensity. ‘In fact, I’ve been accused of the opposite on more than one occasion.’ He seemed to deliberately lighten the conversation. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve asked the driver to take us to my flat; I really should change before taking you out to dinner!’

Cyn didn’t care where they went; her body was doing strange things just at the touch of his hand on hers, and she could see that awareness reflecting in the warm amber of Wolf’s eyes as they made the journey to his flat.

The flat, as she should have guessed, was in Mayfair, and Wolf took her up in the almost silent lift to the penthouse apartment at the top of the building. But the furniture, she saw as they stepped straight into the luxurious lounge, ebony and chrome, the suite of dark brown leather, somehow didn’t look like Wolf at all. Which was a ridiculous thing for her to think. What did she know of this man’s tastes in—?

‘Barbara’s idea of what my apartment should be furnished like,’ Wolf told her with a dismissive grimace as he seemed to guess her thoughts.

Barbara again. Cyn couldn’t help wondering exactly where the other woman fitted into his life—because she obviously did fit into it somewhere. Somehow that knowledge made her feel strangely depressed.

Wolf seemed unaware of her feelings this time. ‘Give me a few minutes to change and I’ll be with you,’ he promised lightly. ‘Help yourself to a drink,’ he waved vaguely in the direction of the drinks cabinet across the room. ‘And feel free to peruse the bookshelves,’ he added before hurrying from the room, already unbuttoning his shirt as he went.

Cyn took a few minutes to catch her breath before taking him up on either of those offers; being in the company of Wolf Thornton was a little like being ushered along by an express train!

But when she did finally look at the extensive bookshelves along one wall of the room—she wasn’t interested in the drink, she rarely drank alcohol anyway, and never on an empty stomach—she found Wolf’s taste in books as lively as his mind, the subject matter ranging from poetry, autobiographies, both historic and fairly recent, to art and history. His taste in fiction was almost as varied; thrillers, fantasy, mysteries, even the occasional novel which she would have classed as romance. Admittedly the latter were usually the classics, but nevertheless Cyn still thought it would be difficult to tell the nature of the man from his taste in books. And even in the short time she had known him, it had become very important to her that she should come to know more about him, much more about him.

But Wolf’s ‘few minutes’ stretched into much longer than that, until a glance at her wristwatch told her he had been gone at least half an hour. Surely it didn’t take him this long to change his clothes? Even if, at the last minute, he had decided to shower and shave before he put on fresh clothes, it surely wouldn’t have taken him as long as this?

‘Wolf?’ she called out tentatively. ‘Wolf!’ she said more firmly when she received no answer to her first call. Still no answer. What on earth was the man doing?

She didn’t exactly feel comfortable with the idea of going into his bedroom, but if he wasn’t going to answer her when she called...! Besides, for all she knew, he might have fallen or something, and be unable to answer her. It wasn’t very likely, she admitted, but something had to be delaying him.

The ‘something’ turned out to be a total surprise. Cyn had had no idea...!

Wolf’s bedroom—another room she would say hadn’t been decorated or furnished by him, the cool blues and heavy ornate furniture not suiting him at all—was empty of the man himself, as was the adjoining bathroom. But the other adjoining door she discovered across the room proved more fruitful.

She entered the room slowly, tentatively, her eyes widening as she found herself in a studio, an artist’s studio. Paintings finished and half finished, leant against every bit of wall-space. The roof of the room was mainly glass, to allow the maximum of light, Cyn would guess, light needed to paint the vivid scenes that assaulted all the senses, not just the optical ones, as she gazed around the room at them in increasing wonder. The paintings were good, very good, even to her untutored eye. And Wolf had painted them...

The man himself sat with his back towards her, obviously totally engrossed in the half-completed canvas in front of him, the woman in the picture lying like a siren across the grey rocks as the even greyer sea thundered around her, trying to tear her into its silky depths. Silver-blond hair swirled in the savage wind, the woman’s pale blue dress clung wetly to the sensual curves outlined beneath. Cyn’s gaze returned to the woman’s face, to the serene expression, the elfin face dominated by deeply violet-coloured eyes... There was something familiar about the woman, something— My God, she thought, it was her!

She must have gasped out loud at the realisation, because Wolf turned sharply, his gaze glazed and unseeing for a few brief seconds, and then he seemed to focus on her, shaking his head self-disgustedly. ‘My God, I’ve done it again, haven’t I?’ He stood up abruptly, wiping paint from his hands on to a cloth that looked as if it wasn’t the first time he had done so today, what had once been a white cloth now covered in— It was paint Wolf had on his shirt too, Cyn suddenly realised; he must have been working on this painting before he came to meet her. This was the reason he had forgotten their date.

And the woman in the painting was her, she was sure of it...

Wolf saw the puzzlement in her face, as he crossed the room to stand in front of her. ‘Yes, it’s you,’ he confirmed softly. ‘It’s the main reason I was late meeting you this evening.’

Cyn still stared at the half-finished painting. ‘You were busy working on it,’ she nodded dazedly.

‘I have been since I got home last night.’ He was also looking at the painting. ‘But it wasn’t just that.’ He moved to gently clasp her shoulders, his expression intense as he looked down at her. ‘While I was working on the painting time seemed to stand still, go nowhere, and I—’ He shook his head. ‘When I told you earlier I’d forgotten our date, I didn’t mean I’d really forgotten it, only that the time had slipped away from me. God, I’ve been longing to see you again since I left you last night. Do you believe in destiny, Cyn?’ he prompted forcefully, shaking her slightly when she didn’t immediately answer him. ‘I’m not sure that I did. Until last night. Painting is my life, Cyn, I’ve wanted to do nothing else—have done nothing else—since I can remember.’ He was talking quickly, desperate in his need to make her understand. ‘And I’ve been satisfied, even pleased at times—no mean feat, believe me; I’m my own hardest critic!—with some of the work I’ve done in the past. But last night, when I could finally get away from the party, I was inspired. I knew I had to put you on canvas, knew exactly how I had to put you on canvas too.’ He gazed across the room at the painting. ‘It’s good, Cyn.’ His face glowed with the satisfaction of knowing he spoke the truth.

And he did, Cyn couldn’t argue with that. The painting was beautiful, hauntingly so. But what did it mean? Why had Wolf painted her in that way?

‘I’m getting these paintings ready for my first exhibition due to take place in the summer,’ he told her now. ‘I wanted—needed—something special as the main subject of that exhibition.’ He looked back at the painting. ‘This painting is going to be it.’

Cyn dragged her own gaze away from the hauntingly hypnotic painting, looking up at Wolf as he once again became engrossed in the half-completed canvas; it was obvious, even now, that it was going to be a painting worthy of the title ‘something special’, and that had nothing to do with the fact that Wolf had painted her to look so beautiful. There was a magic quality about all Wolf’s work, but this one...! Cyn didn’t doubt that the exhibition was going to be a success for him, that the name Thornton was going to be associated with much more than the business world by the end of the year, that Wolf Thornton, the artist, was going to become known worldwide.

‘I’m glad meeting me was able to give you that,’ she told him shyly.

He turned to look at her, shaking off the hypnotic quality of the painting, a warm smile lighting his perfectly hewn features as he once again clasped her arms. ‘Oh, it gave me much more than the painting, Cyn,’ he assured her firmly. ‘It gave me the woman I’m going to marry!’

She felt as if all the breath had been knocked from her lungs. Her mouth went dry, every muscle in her body was tense with disbelief. He couldn’t really have said...

‘Destiny, Cyn,’ he reminded her teasingly, laughing down affectionately at her pole-axed expression. ‘I wasn’t just talking about the inspiration for the painting,’ he rebuked gently. ‘It was meeting the woman I wanted to make my wife that gave me that inspiration!’

‘Me?’ she squeaked. She couldn’t believe this man—his background as a Thornton apart, if it ever could be!—a man who, if he really believed in destiny, must know he was destined to be one of the greatest artists of the day, actually wanted to marry her.

He didn’t know anything about her, or her early years in an orphanage, even more years than that in different foster-homes, the time after that when she had struggled to attain even enough secretarial qualifications to get suitable work. Her job as receptionist at Thornton’s Hotel was her most prestigious yet. And now the man who half owned that hotel was telling her he had taken one look at her and decided he wanted to marry her. It was unbelievable!

‘You, Lucynda Smith,’ he confirmed determinedly. ‘And before my exhibition goes on I’m going to convince you that you want to marry me too!’

* * *

And he had convinced her, effortlessly; it had been impossible not to fall in love with him, to be there when he needed her. The two of them spent every moment they could together from that very first night, to make sure he didn’t forget to eat altogether when he became engrossed in his painting—she had finally gone out that first evening and bought them a take-away Chinese meal!—to marvel in the passion of his lovemaking, their physical response to each other almost overwhelming in its intensity.

By the end of their first month together the painting of Cyn had been completed even to Wolf’s own exacting demands—and Cyn had proudly worn his engagement ring on her finger.

She knew exactly what had happened to that sapphire and diamond engagement ring; she had given it back to him only weeks later.

But what had happened to the painting of her? And the other paintings he had had completed in his studio too? Because there had been no exhibition of Wolf’s work during that summer, or any other as far as Cyn was aware. And she had looked out for Wolf Thornton paintings during the following years, had both dreaded, and longed, to see his work again. But there had been no Wolf Thornton paintings on display, ever.

What had happened to Wolf...?

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_c3562c19-0120-5a84-a4ff-5c672e7c1ba8)

‘WOLF can be—difficult,’ Rebecca told her awkwardly.

Tell me about it, Cyn thought ruefully, remembering all too clearly that last conversation she had had with him. Not that she could tell this girl about that.

The two of them had met for lunch as arranged, and almost as soon as their food had been ordered Rebecca had launched into an explanation as to why she had thought it best to talk to Cyn in privacy concerning her wish not to hurry the wedding arrangements. Cyn had sat quietly and listened to it all during the soup course—the claim again that there was plenty of time yet until the wedding, that the invitations didn’t need to go out for weeks yet, that Rebecca knew exactly what sort of wedding-gown she wanted, bridesmaid’s dresses too, and they could all be made a bit nearer the time. Besides, Rebecca had added lightly, she wanted to lose a bit of weight before the wedding, which only meant the wedding-gown would have to be altered to fit her if it were made now.

Looking at her, at Rebecca’s slenderness already bordering on delicacy, Cyn didn’t think the other girl needed to lose any weight at all, just as she didn’t think any of these excuses had anything to do with Rebecca’s request for space and time over the wedding arrangements. Although she still hoped the young gardener wasn’t the real reason for Rebecca’s reluctance to get the wedding arrangements under way.