Jill Mansell - Sheer Mischief

But this man, even if he was a tourist, which she doubted, was in a different league altogether. Anxious not to put him off, Thea decided to wait for him to initiate any conversation.

Resuming her seat before the half-finished figure upon which she was currently working, she rinsed her fingers in the bowl of water next to it and continued moulding the clay over the wire base of the torso.

Within the space of a minute she became aware of the fact that the man was now watching her. Calmly ignoring him, she concentrated instead upon the job in hand. The naked female required breasts and she had to decide on an appropriate size for them. It was also tricky ensuring they didn’t end up looking like improbable silicone implants. The figure was of a middle-aged woman; they had to have the correct amount of droop.

Oliver Cassidy, in turn, was studying the interesting outline of Thea Vaughan’s breasts beneath her ivory cheesecloth blouse. She was wearing several heavy silver necklaces and no bra, and as far as he was concerned her figure was admirable.

He was drawn, too, to the strong facial features of the woman who seemed so absorbed in her work. With those heavy-lidded dark brown eyes and that long Roman nose, she looked almost like a bird of prey. The swirl of white hair, caught up in a loose bun, contrasted strongly with her deep tan, but although he estimated she must be in her late forties, the lines on her face were few.

Observing her clever, capable hands as they moulded the damp clay, he said, ‘Did you do all these?’

Thea glanced up and responded with a brief smile. ‘Yes.’

‘You’re very good.’

‘Thank you.’

Intrigued by her apparent lack of interest in engaging him in conversation, Oliver Cassidy thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and surveyed the ballerina once more.

‘I particularly like this one.’

‘So do I,’ said Thea easily. Leaning back and resting her wrists on her thighs, careful not to get clay on the full, navy blue cotton skirt, she added, ‘It’s for sale at three thousand pounds.’

She liked the fact that he didn’t even flinch. She liked it even better when he frowned and said, ‘What’s the matter, are you trying to put me oft? Don’t you want to sell it?’

‘I’m an artist, not a saleswoman.’ Narrowing her eyes and tilting her head to one side in order to survey the figure currently in progress, she said, ‘And since three thousand pounds is a great deal of money, I doubt very much whether anything I say would have much impact either way. I couldn’t persuade you to buy something you didn’t want, so why on earth should I even try?’

Accustomed to the cut-throat machinations of the property business which had made him his fortune and rendered him impervious to the hardest of hard sells, Oliver Cassidy almost laughed aloud. Instead, however, and much to his own surprise, he heard himself saying, ‘But I do want it. So persuade me.’

Thea, enjoying herself immensely, replied, ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you might not be able to afford it. I couldn’t live with my conscience if I thought I’d inveigled you into buying something you couldn’t afford.’

In fifty-one supremely selfish years she had never yet been troubled by her conscience, but he didn’t need to know this. Her eyes alight with amusement, she shook her head.

‘Do I look,’ demanded Oliver Cassidy in pompous tones, ‘as if I can’t afford it?’

This time she gave him a slow, regretful smile. ‘I wouldn’t know. As I said, I’m not a saleswoman.’ He replied heavily, ‘I can tell.’

The ensuing silence lasted several seconds. Thea, determined not to be the one to break it, carried on working.

‘I’ll buy it,’ said Oliver Cassidy finally. ‘On one condition.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Mmm?’

‘That you have dinner with me tonight.’

Openly teasing him now, she said, ‘Are you sure you can afford both?’

For the first time, Oliver Cassidy smiled. ‘I think I can just about manage it.’

‘Oh well then, in that case it’s an offer I can’t refuse. I’d be delighted to have dinner with you, Mr—’

‘Cassidy. Oliver Cassidy. Please, call me Oliver.’

For buying the ballerina I’d call you anything you damn well like, thought Thea, struggling to conceal her inner triumph. Rising to her feet, she wiped her hands on her skirt. What did a few clay stains matter, after all, when you’d just made a mega sale? The contract was sealed with a firm handshake.

‘Thank you! It’s a deal, then. Oliver.’

Chapter 12

‘He’s a pig,’ said Janey, who still hadn’t forgiven Guy for his snide comments of the previous night. Overcome with a sudden need for companionship she had arrived at Thea’s house at eight only to find her mother getting ready to go out.

Thea, wearing her favourite crimson silk shirt over a peasant-style white skirt, was doing her make-up in the mirror above the fireplace. With an ease borne of long practice, she swept black liner around her eyes, enlarging and elongating them just as she had done for the past thirty years.

‘You mean that photographer chap?’ she said vaguely, having been only half listening to her elder daughter’s grumbling. ‘I thought he was supposed to be rather gorgeous.’

‘That’s beside the point.’ Janey, immune to Guy Cassidy’s physical attractions, threw her a moody glance. ‘And that stupid bottle of wine was just about the last straw. It w-as Maxine’s fault, of course, but he automatically assumed I’d opened it.’

Thea completed her make-up with a dash of crimson lipstick and treated herself to an extra squirt of Mitsouko for luck. Chucking the bottle into her bag, she said briskly, ‘Well, he isn’t your problem. And I’m sure Maxine can deal with him. She’s always been good with difficult men.’

Luckily, Janey hadn’t expected motherly support and reassurances; they simply weren’t Thea Vaughan’s style. Now, listening to her airy dismissal of the problem which as far as her mother was concerned wasn’t even a problem, she managed a rueful smile.

‘Speaking of difficult men, who are you seeing tonight?’ Is all this really in aid of Philip?’

‘Thea froze with her bag halfway to her shoulder. Her eyebrows lifted in resignation. ‘Oh, sod it.’

Philip Slattery wasn’t difficult at all. One of Thea’s long-standing and most devoted admirers, he was as gentle as a puppy. Janey liked him enormously, whereas her mother took him almost entirely for granted, seeing him when it suited her and ditching him unmercifully whenever somebody more interesting came along. As, presumably, somebody now had.

‘You mean, Oh sod it, you were supposed to be seeing Philip but you’d forgotten all about him,’ she said in admonishing tones. Then, because Thea was showing no sign of reaching for the phone, she added, ‘Mum, you’ll have to let him know. You can’t just stand him up.’

Thea pulled a face. ‘He’s going to be awfully cross with me. He’s holding a dinner party at his house. Now I suppose he’ll accuse me of lousing up the numbers.’

‘Mum!’ Janey protested, dismayed by this act of thoughtlessness. ‘How could you possibly forget a dinner party? Why don’t you just cancel your other date?’

‘Out of the question,’ declared Thea, picking up the phone and frowning as she tried to recall Philip’s number. Her own, it went without saying, was practically engraved on his heart. ‘I sold the ballerina this afternoon.’

‘So?’

‘He invited me to have dinner with him, on the strength of it. Darling, he’s seriously wealthy, not to mention attractive! This could be so important; I’d have to be a complete idiot to turn him down: