Mr. (Not Quite) Perfect (15 page)

It was lucky that she wasn’t in love with William, Allegra reflected glumly. Nobody wanted her at the moment.

Max had wanted her. For a moment Allegra let herself remember the heat that had burned like wildfire along her veins, the taste of his skin and the wicked, wonderful torment of his mouth. The way the world had swung giddily around, the shattering pleasure. She could have had that again, but she had said no, and now it seemed that he was getting back together with Emma.

Allegra sighed. It made it so much worse when the only person you could blame for your misery was yourself.

NINE

Think about your
career
, Allegra told herself fiercely.
Think about this amazing article you’re going to write that’s going to impress the notoriously unimpressable Stella and open doors for a career in serious journalism. Think about how pleased Flick is going to be with you when your analysis of the latest political crisis hits the headlines
.

But before she could tackle politics and the global economy she had to make a success of
Making Mr Perfect
.

Rousing herself, Allegra poked Max in the ribs as William headed into the next room of the gallery, Darcy breathlessly in tow. Caught up in the crowd, Allegra and Max were trailing behind them.

‘You’re supposed to be impressing Darcy with your knowledge of modern art,’ she muttered.

‘I would if there was any art here,’ said Max. ‘How does this guy get away with it?’ He studied a plate, encrusted with dried baked beans, that was set carefully on a table next to a rusty oil can. Craning his neck, he read the price on the label and shook his head. ‘He’s having a laugh!’

‘Digby Fox likes to challenge conventional expectations about art,’ Allegra said dutifully, but her heart wasn’t in it.

‘You can’t tell me you actually like this stuff?’

‘Not really,’ she admitted, lowering her voice as if confessing to something shameful. ‘I prefer paintings.’

Ahead of them, William had stopped in front of a collection of torn bin bags that were piled up against the stark gallery wall. ‘A searing commentary on modern consumption,’ he was saying as Max and Allegra came up.

Allegra was sure she heard Max mutter, ‘Tosser.’

‘One can’t fail to be struck by the nihilistic quality of Digby’s representation of quotidian urban life,’ William went on while Darcy looked at him with stars in her eyes.

‘It’s powerful stuff,’ she said, her expression solemn. ‘It makes you feel
small
, doesn’t it?’

William nodded thoughtfully, as if she had said something profound, and turned to Max, evidently deciding it was time to include him in the conversation. ‘What do you think, Max?’

Max pretended to contemplate the installation. ‘I think it’s a load of old rubbish,’ he pronounced at last.

William looked disapproving and Darcy disappointed, but a giggle escaped Allegra. Oh dear, sniggering at childish jokes didn’t bode well for her future as a journalist with gravitas.

‘Yes, well, shall we move on?’ said William, taking Darcy’s arm to steer her on to the next exhibit.

Max caught Allegra’s eye. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said. ‘This is all such bollocks and we can’t even get a decent drink.’

She opened her mouth to insist that they stayed, to point out that she had a job to do, but somehow the words wouldn’t come. ‘I don’t suppose it would matter if we slipped out,’ she said instead, looking longingly at the exit. Max was right. What was the point of staying? ‘I’d better go and tell Darcy and William, though.’

‘You really think they’re going to notice that we’ve gone?’

‘Probably not—’ she sighed ‘—but allegedly Darcy’s here for the article, and I invited William. I can’t just abandon them without a word. I’ll go and tell them I’ve got a headache and see you outside.’

It was amazing how her spirits lightened at the prospect of escaping with Max. By the time Allegra had pushed her way through the crush to William and Darcy, who were at the very back of the gallery by then, and then to the front again, she was hot and bothered and practically fell out of the door to find Max waiting for her.

Outside, a fine London mizzle was falling and Max’s hair was already damp, but it was blessedly cool and Allegra fanned herself with the exhibition catalogue. ‘That’s better,’ she said in relief, heading away from the noise of the gallery.

‘I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind,’ said Max, falling into step beside her.

‘No way. I had to fight my way out, though. I can’t believe how many people there were in there.’

Max snorted. ‘Talk about the emperor’s new clothes!’

‘It was a bit rubbish,’ Allegra allowed.

‘Literally,’ he said sardonically. ‘So, do I gather Darcy wasn’t devastated about me leaving her with William?’

‘I’m afraid she was delighted. She might have thought you were pretty cute once, but she’s forgotten all about you now that she’s met William.’

‘She wasn’t really interested in me anyway,’ said Max. ‘She was just bored and looking for someone different.’

‘Well, William’s certainly that. Political aide and lingerie model...it’s not an obvious combination, is it? But Darcy thinks William’s really clever, and she loves the way he talks to her as if she’ll understand what he says.’

A grunt. ‘He was showing off, if you ask me.’

‘Yes, but can you blame him? Darcy’s so beautiful.’

‘I can blame him for ignoring
you
,’ said Max, scowling. ‘I thought you two were going out?’

‘Not really. We’d just had a drink a couple of times. It’s not as if we’d ever—’ Allegra stopped.

Slept together. Like she and Max had done.

There was a tiny pause while her unspoken words jangled in the silence. Allegra developed a sudden fascination with the shop window they were passing.

Max cleared his throat. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked. ‘About William?’

‘No, not really,’ she said with a sigh. ‘He’s nice, but I don’t think he’s my kind of guy.’

‘Who is?’

You are
. The words rang so loudly in Allegra’s head that for one horrified moment she thought that she had spoken them aloud.

‘Oh, you know, the usual: tall, dark, handsome, filthy-rich...’ She hoped he realised that she was joking. ‘The truth is, I’m still trying to find a man who can match up to my Regency duke.’

‘The terrace ravisher?’

‘That’s the one. I don’t know anyone with a fraction of his romance,’ she told Max.

‘You don’t think holding out for an aristocrat who’s been dead for a couple of hundred years is going to limit your options a bit?’

‘I’m hoping they’ll invent a time travel machine soon,’ said Allegra. ‘In the meantime, I’ve got my fantasy to keep me warm.’

Max raised his brows. ‘Whatever turns you on,’ he said and they promptly plunged into another pool of silence.

He
had turned her on. Allegra’s pulse kicked as she remembered that night: the way they had grabbed each other, the frenzy of lust and heat and throbbing need. It hadn’t been tender and beautiful. It had been wild and frantic and deliciously dirty. A flush warmed her cheeks, thinking about the things Max had done, the things she had done to him. She had turned him on too.

They had turned each other on.

Desperately trying to shove the memories away, Allegra was glad of Max’s silence as they walked. At that time of the evening the back streets of Knightsbridge were quiet, apart from an occasional taxi passing, engine ticking and tyres shushing on the wet tarmac. Allegra was glad she had worn her boots rather than the more glamorous stilettos she’d dithered over. At least her boots were comfortable—well, relatively. She had to be careful not to twist her ankle falling off their substantial platform soles but otherwise they were almost as good as the trainers Max had once suggested she wear to work.

Max. Why did everything come back to him now?

She was agonizingly conscious of him walking beside her. His shoulders were slightly hunched and he had jammed his hands into his trouser pockets. Damp spangled his hair whenever he passed under a street lamp. He seemed distracted and she wondered if he was thinking about Shofrar. This time next week he’d be gone.

Something like panic skittered through Allegra at the thought, and she shivered involuntarily.

‘You cold?’ Max glanced at her.

‘No, not really.’

His brows drew together as he studied her skimpy jacket. ‘That’s not enough to keep you warm. Didn’t you bring a coat?’

‘No, I—’ But Max was already pulling off his jacket and dropping it over her shoulders. It was warm from his body and the weight was incredibly reassuring.

‘I’m not cold,’ he said, ‘and, besides, it doesn’t matter if this shirt gets ruined. I am never, ever going to wear it again!’

‘To be honest, I wouldn’t have said it was really you,’ said Allegra as she settled the jacket more comfortably around her, and Max smiled faintly.

‘Don’t tell Dickie that. It’ll break his heart.’

She longed to take his arm and lean into his side, but she couldn’t do that. Allegra kept her eyes on the pavement instead and clutched the two sides of the jacket together. She needed to show Max that she was fine about him leaving, that she had put that night they had shared behind her, just as she had said she would.

He had been in touch with Emma and it was too late now to tell him that she had changed her mind. It would make things even more awkward if he knew that she thought about him constantly, and that a dull ache throbbed in her chest whenever she thought about saying goodbye.

So she lifted her chin and summoned a bright smile. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll have much need of a fancy wardrobe in Shofrar,’ she said, determinedly cheerful.

‘Nope. White short-sleeved shirt, shorts, long trousers for business meetings, and that’s about it,’ said Max. ‘I won’t ever need to dither over my wardrobe again.’

Allegra’s smile twisted painfully. ‘A life away from fashion. That’ll make you happy.’

‘Yes,’ said Max, but he didn’t sound as sure as he should have done. Of course he would be happy when he was there, he reassured himself. He couldn’t wait. No styling sessions. No dancing lessons. No being told to roll up his cuffs, no need to consider what to wear. No messy house.

No Allegra.

The thought was a cold poker, jabbing into his lungs and stopping his breath. It was all for the best, of course it was, Max reminded himself with a shade of desperation. Going out to Shofrar was the next step in his career. It was what he had worked for, what he wanted. He would love it when he was there.

But he was going to miss her, there was no use denying it.

They were making their way slowly towards Sloane Street, along a side street clustered with antique shops and art galleries. Many were open still to cater for the after work crowd, and they had passed more than one gallery having a preview party much like the one they had just come from.

Allegra was absorbed in thought, her gaze on the window displays, which meant Max could watch her profile. Knowing that he could only look at her when she wasn’t looking at him now made his chest tighten. When had she become so beautiful to him? Max’s eyes rested hungrily on the curve of her cheek, on the clean line of her jaw and the lovely sweep of her throat. With her face averted he couldn’t see her mouth, but he knew exactly how luscious it was, how her lips tipped upright at the corners and curved into a smile that lit her entire face.

God, he was going to miss her.

‘Oh...’ Unaware of his gaze, Allegra had stopped short, her attention caught by a single painting displayed in a gallery window.

The painting was quite small and very simple. It showed a woman holding a bowl, that was all, but something about the colours and the shapes made the picture leap into life. Compared to this, Digby Fox’s installations seemed even more tawdry. This quiet painting was clearly special even though Max didn’t have the words to explain how or why that should be so.

Holding the jacket together, Allegra was leaning forward to read the label. ‘I thought so,’ she said. ‘It’s a Jago Forrest. I’ve always loved his paintings.’

Max came closer to read the label over her shoulder. At least, he meant to read it, but he was too distracted by Allegra’s perfume to focus. ‘I’ve never heard of Jago Forrest,’ he said.

‘I don’t think many people have. My art teacher at school was a fan, or I wouldn’t have known about him either. He’s famously reclusive, apparently... Oh, it looks like he died last year,’ she went on, reading the label. Cupping her hands around her face, she peered through the window into the gallery. ‘It says this is a retrospective exhibition of his works.’

‘Why don’t we go in and have a look?’ said Max on an impulse. If you’d asked him a day earlier if he’d voluntarily go into an art gallery, he’d have scoffed, but the little picture in the window seemed to be beckoning him inside. ‘At least we can look at some real art this evening as opposed to piles of rubbish.’

Inside, it was quiet and calm with none of the aggressive trendiness of the earlier gallery. A strikingly beautiful woman with cascading red curls welcomed them in and told them they were welcome to wander around, but she looked at Allegra so intently that Allegra clearly began to feel uncomfortable.

‘If you’re about to close...’

‘No, it’s all right. I’m sorry, I was staring at you,’ said the woman. She had a faint accent that Max couldn’t place. Eastern European, perhaps. ‘We haven’t met before, have we?’

‘I’m sure I’d remember,’ said Allegra. ‘You’ve got such gorgeous hair.’

‘Thank you.’ The woman touched it a little self-consciously. ‘I think perhaps I’m too old for such long hair now but Jago would never let me cut it.’

Her name, it turned out, was Bronya, and she had been Jago Forrest’s muse for nearly twenty years, living with him in secluded splendour in an isolated part of Spain. She told Allegra that Jago had refused to see anyone, but that after he’d died she had decided to make his work accessible once more.

‘But his portraits are so tender,’ said Allegra. ‘It’s hard to believe that he disliked people that much.’

Bronya smiled faintly. ‘He was a complicated man,’ she said. ‘Not always easy to live with, but a genius.’ She looked sad for a moment. ‘But I mustn’t hold you up. Take your time looking round,’ she said, gesturing them into the gallery. ‘This is his most recent work down here, but some of his earlier paintings are upstairs if you’d be interested to see those too. Are you
sure
we’ve never met?’ she said again to Allegra. ‘You seem so familiar...’

Max found Jago Forrest’s paintings oddly moving. Many were of Bronya, but he’d also painted countrywomen with seamed faces and gnarled fingers, and there were several young models he’d painted in the nude, portraying their bodies with such sensuousness that Max shifted uneasily.