The Power of the Legendary Greek - By Catherine George Page 0,61

up your mind, then?’

‘Yes. It was never on, really.’ Isobel gave a mirthless little chuckle. ‘Deep down, it seems, I’m the product of my grandparents’ upbringing.’

Having made her decision, Isobel hid Luke’s portrait away, but she hung the watercolour of his beach in the gallery with a ‘sold’ sticker on it. The painting aroused such interest it resulted in new commissions Isobel welcomed with open arms, both from an extra income point of view and as a means to fill time, which hung heavy since her return from holiday.

Jo came into town once a week to take her out to a meal, a ritual she’d kept up since her marriage. One evening her husband March came with her, and on another occasion Isobel managed to catch Josh and Leo Carey with rare matching time off from the hospital, which resulted in a hilarious evening, as always when the four of them were together. Jo also passed on an invitation from her parents to spend an entire day at their home one Sunday. ‘March is coming, too, and you can play with the children as much as you like,’ she said firmly.

Isobel accepted only too happily, glad of the chance to see young Kitty and Tom, Jo’s irresistible little siblings. The working week she could manage. But when the gallery was shut on Sundays she had too much time for the burning question of whether she had made the biggest mistake of her life in cutting herself off from Luke.

Two months after her return from Greece, Isobel was about to lock up for the day when a car drew up right outside the gallery. She went out to say that it was a no parking zone, then froze, the colour draining from her face as the driver got out and stood looking at her over the top of the car.

Oh, God. Isobel’s mouth dried and her heart began to pound as the familiar black eyes locked with hers. Her gut reaction was to run inside and lock the door. Instead, she stood her ground and smiled brightly. ‘Why, hello. This is a surprise.’

‘And not a pleasant one, I think,’ said Luke, locking the car. He wore beautiful suede boots, heavy sweater and jeans, all very different from his usual garb on Chyros. But his face was the handsome mask she remembered only too well. Whatever Luke was thinking, he was giving nothing away as he crossed the kerb to join her. ‘But surely you expected this after the letter you wrote, Isobel?’

‘No, I didn’t,’ she said truthfully. How on earth had he found her?

‘Have you finished for the day?’

‘Yes. I was just about to lock up. Would you like to come in?’

Luke followed her inside, watching as she closed the door. Conscious of the black eyes following her every move, Isobel punched in the numbers on the security pad beside it and shot bolts home at the top of the door and again at the base.

‘Perhaps you’d care to look round the paintings while I make coffee,’ she said brightly. ‘Or would you prefer a drink? I have some wine—’

He shook his head. ‘I would like to look at the paintings. Is any of your work here, Isobel?’

‘Yes. I have a little section all to myself.’ When she made no move to direct him, Luke strolled away on a tour of the artwork she prided herself she displayed to the best advantage with subtle lighting against the contrast of the gallery’s dark red walls.

Luke paused when he reached the far end of the room and looked in silence at a collection of Isobel’s watercolours. ‘You have sold your painting of my beach.’

‘No. I put a sold sticker on it to show it wasn’t for sale.’

‘You intend to keep it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

She looked at him steadily. ‘As a souvenir of my holiday. I once told you—though you didn’t believe me at the time—that where others take holiday snaps, I sketch or paint.’

Luke’s mask slipped a fraction as he walked back to her. ‘Spiro showed me the drawing you made of my face. It flatters me.’

She shrugged. ‘I thought it was pretty accurate, myself. Though I rarely do portraits. Not my field.’ Lord, this was painful. Why didn’t he yell at her, or at least tell her why he’d come?

‘Your hair is shorter,’ he remarked. ‘I prefer it long.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘So do I. Losing a chunk of it was hardly my fault.’

‘No, it was mine,’ he agreed grimly and moved closer, his eyes softening.