Even outside of the cake, setting aside the contract, she was drawn to that photograph in a way she couldn’t understand. Maybe it was the look in Patrick’s eyes, or the pure joy in Jessica’s face, the sense of two souls intimately connected.
Or maybe it was pure nosiness. Either way, she felt compelled to follow the path a little further.
“Okay,” Dominic repeated simply, still quietly.
Her absurdly nervous gaze suddenly stopped skating around and returned to an object she’d just skimmed on his desk. It was a framed photograph, an old-fashioned shot of a youngish Sebastian De Vere standing outside De Vere’s in an earlier decade. At any other time, she’d be fascinated to see again how handsome he’d been—and how much his grandson resembled him. But it wasn’t the photograph that caught her attention. It was what was tucked into the frame.
Dominic’s eyes followed hers. And a tinge of color appeared in his cheeks.
Walking over, the butterflies skittering about her stomach, Sylvie reached out and touched the intricate little silhouette portrait of her own face. Her eyes lifted to Dominic’s in-the-flesh face, which was currently much stiffer than that paper.
“Pet,” he said. “She cut a couple of portraits in here one day when we were talking about Operation Cake. Yours and Mariana’s.”
“Yes. I saw Mariana’s after you gave it to her.” She ran her finger around the paper contour of her plait, dropped her hand to the desk. “You didn’t give me mine, though.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Because . . . we didn’t get along? And you wanted to keep Pet’s artwork?”
“I did want to have some of Pet’s art.” Dominic’s jaw ticked. “And somewhere along the line, I wanted that one in particular.”
Sylvie swallowed.
When he walked forward and slowly reached for her, sliding his hands around the curve of her waist, she touched his jaw almost wonderingly, feeling that increasingly familiar prickle of stubble. The softness of his lips when she ran her fingers over them, before his head lowered the short distance to hers.
The coming together was quiet and searching, but as soon as their mouths met, the kiss was hard, urgent. He pulled her up into his body, and Sylvie wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him tightly as they pressed closer to each other. His hand stroked up her ribs, his thumb lightly tracing the undercurve of her breast.
Little whispers of kisses on each corner of her mouth and the tip of her nose, before he roughly caught her lips again, pushing deep, a shivering rush of awareness that echoed in her heart.
If she’d rubbed a magic lamp and wished for the most head-spinning, gorgeous kiss, even a genie would struggle to top this.
Dominic’s fingers slid into her hair, cupping her neck, and his teeth closed on her lower lip.
“Oops,” Pet said from somewhere in the mists beyond Sylvie’s immediate consciousness.
Her lashes fluttered open, and she looked into Dominic’s darkened eyes. His hand tightened on her and he tore his gaze from hers, turning his head.
“Um. I’ll just wait at the car.”
Sylvie finally clued properly into Pet’s presence. She was standing at the door, clutching its edge, and looking equal parts thrilled and squicked-out.
She flitted away again, and Sylvie’s hand curled against the front of Dominic’s shirt, feeling the movement of his chest.
“That was—” Her voice was a crackly mess.
“It was.” Low and velvety, just one simple statement that made her shiver again. He ran the edge of his thumb down her nose. Touching her with an ease that would mean so much less from someone else. “Rain check?”
She nodded, and their fingers brushed, briefly interlocked.
As they left the office, Dominic rang ahead to the contact number they’d been given, to warn of an extra visitor.
Sylvie sat in the back of the car during the long, traffic-stalled trip to the mystery office building, partly so Pet could talk to Dominic. Partly because she had a mind all over the place right now—and frankly, enough sexual frustration that she felt awkward even sitting in the same car as his little sister.
Pet seemed to have gone unnaturally silent, however, and after about ten minutes, Dominic turned on the radio, which Sylvie doubted got much airtime in this vehicle.
A song finished, and the DJs filled the car with boring chat about a movie she’d never heard of. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d watched a film. Life at the moment revolved mostly around cake, with snatches of sleep when possible.
She looked at the back of Dominic’s head, his forearm resting on the steering wheel.
Although one or two other things were starting to take precedence.
The inane chatter suddenly turned to the royal wedding.
“They’re putting the whole thing on telly, so I hope the groom can get his vows out by dinnertime,” one of the shock jocks cracked.
Sylvie shook her head with a low sound of disgust.
“Sounds like Marchmont is still boffing his ex. The Eton set usually wait until after the wedding before they hook up a bit on the side . . .”
Emphatically, Dominic reached out and switched the radio off.
In the renewed quiet, Pet said, “These stories popping up about John Marchmont. It’s bullshit, surely?”
“It’s definitely bullshit.” Sylvie had no doubts whatsoever on that score. “He loves Rosie. I’ve met a lot of engaged couples in this business, and I’ve rarely seen a couple with such a strong, private connection.”
She expected a cynical rejoinder from Dominic at that, but he surprised her. “I agree. The connection between them seemed genuine.”
He changed lanes, turning into a quieter street. This was a part of London Sylvie rarely visited, mostly expensive commercial zones. Very old and exclusive-looking properties converted into office and loft space.
When Dominic had found a parking space, they stood looking at a heavily fenced Georgian property.
“And the battle resumes,” Dominic murmured.
“Hmm.” Sylvie started forward. “Countdown until the final proposals is on. I’d start preparing your gracious concession speech now.”
“Oh no,” she heard Pet say behind her, with a perfect blend of condescension and sympathy. “Does she really think they have a chance?”
Without turning around, Sylvie lifted her hand, made a very unsporting gesture, and heard Pet’s laughter ring out.
Dominic snorted softly.
Fortunately, none of the intimidating guards at the entrance had seen that lapse of professionalism. They were all too occupied with the woman having an almighty tantrum on the steps.
“I’m sorry, miss,” a grim-looking man in black said, stepping to block another attempt by the curly-haired blonde to get past him. “Entrance is by appointment only. And you’re not on our list.”
“I know they’re in there,” she snapped. She was probably quite pretty, but right now her face was red and screwed up with fury. She stamped her foot like a stymied toddler. “And I demand to see Johnny. I’ll even talk to her if he’s supposedly so ‘busy.’”
A woman in similarly funereal attire said something into her phone, which provoked a renewed screech of outrage.
“I need to see him. And who are you?” In a momentary break from her wild gesticulating, she’d caught sight of Sylvie and Pet, standing awkwardly at the bottom of the steps. “More of his discards?”