“I like this painting of the early settlers,” he said now, his deep voice bringing her out of her thoughts. “I saw a print of it years ago, but the brushstrokes and paint textures are nothing compared to the original.”
He turned to look at her. “It’s very evocative, don’t you agree?”
She fumbled for words when she saw the piece of work he was referring to. “Um…yes.”
He arched a brow. “You sound surprised?”
A thrill raced through her, but she managed to shrug as if it were no big deal. “It’s my favorite painting.”
“And you didn’t expect us to have the same tastes, right?” He paused, his blue eyes darkening. “I think we’d have a lot in common if we looked closely.”
She moistened suddenly dry lips. “Yes. Phillip, for one thing.”
He gave a slightly bitter smile. “Ah, Phillip. We’ll always have him in common, won’t we?” He turned back to the painting. “Tell me. Why is this your favorite?”
Obviously he wanted to keep things on an even keel, and she was only too happy to oblige. Yet she couldn’t help but feel a burst of excitement that he found the imagery of the painting as touching as she did. Perhaps there was more to him than met the eye.
She turned to the painting and let her gaze wander over the picture of their pioneer ancestors, losing herself in its sheer vibrancy and color. “I’d say it’s because it personifies the Outback spirit. That it’s possible to overcome any obstacle, no matter how big or daunting.”
“So you like challenges?” he pounced.
She drew in a shaky breath. Always the predator. He just couldn’t help himself. “Some challenges,” she admitted.
“I like certain challenges, too,” he drawled, his eyes intense. “If somebody tells me I can’t have something, then that’s when I want it.”
And he wanted her. He had no need to say it out loud. The wanting poured from him like a familiar scent.
She plastered a smile on her lips. “Then you’d better get used to disappointment,” she quipped, knowing her first instincts about him were correct. She hadn’t misjudged him. Not in the slightest.
A few hours later the two of them sat at an outdoor café not far from the exhibition, sipping at fruit daiquiris. The pre-Christmas festivities were still continuing, and people were out in force and in holiday mode, enjoying a stroll along the sail-shaded Smith Street Mall, listening to a busker play her guitar, watching a mime artist perform.
Brant couldn’t have cared less where they were or who was nearby. His concentration was solely and fully on one person. Kia looked as beautiful as always, with her blond hair pulled back in a French knot, and wearing a lemon-colored dress that displayed the elegant line of her neck and showed off her tanned shoulders and arms.
But something else about her today set his pulse spinning like a top. Watching her talk to the others at the gallery, he’d glimpsed an innocence in her lovely eyes that had been at odds with the knowing look in them, as if she couldn’t quite hide the sweet beneath the spice. Yet sweet was hardly a word he’d expect to use about Kia Benton.
He swallowed some of his drink, then decided he didn’t need any more intoxication right now. Apart from a brief time last night and again this morning, he’d never really been alone with her like this before. It had gone to his head—no, his body. His state of constant arousal was killing him.
And she knew it. That’s why she wasn’t quite facing him as she sat sipping her daiquiri, her body turned slightly toward the crowd.
But she was only fooling herself. There could be a brick wall between them and the attraction would still seep through. Didn’t she know there was no stopping it? Not unless they made love and got it out of their systems, and then he had the feeling it would probably only intensify.
“Tell me more about your father,” he said, suddenly interested in what made her tick.
She raised a wry eyebrow. “Why?”
He gave a smile. “Are you this suspicious of everyone or is it just me?”
“Just you,” she said, her lips curving into a sexy smile that was as unexpected as was her words. God.
She was lovely, with her smooth cheekbones, perfect nose, eyes that could dazzle a man with just one look and a deliciously tempting mouth.
She put her glass down, and when she looked up again her face had sobered. “There’s nothing much to tell. My father thinks he’s one of the beautiful people. He can’t stand being around someone who isn’t.”
Brant frowned. “You’re still his daughter.”
Her slim shoulders tensed. “The only reason he wants me around is because he thinks it’s good for his image.”
All at once something occurred to him. “Good Lord. Your father isn’t Lloyd Benton, is he?”
If it were possible, she tensed even more. “The one and only.”
Now he knew where she was coming from. Lloyd Benton owned the biggest fleet of used-car yards up and down the east coast of Australia. He was constantly in the newspapers with some young thing hanging off his arm—usually his current wife but not always. The man gave sleaze an added dimension.
“He’s your father?”
She raised her chin in the air. “I won’t apologize for him.”
“I don’t expect you to.”
No wonder she didn’t seem to hold men in high regard. Well, some men. He freely admitted that men like himself, who took one look and wanted to take her to bed, would only confirm her low opinion of the male species. Dammit, suddenly he was seeing another side to this woman that he wasn’t sure he wanted to see.
“It certainly explains a lot about you and Phillip.”
She tensed. “If you mean I want to marry someone who doesn’t have to bed every beautiful woman he meets, then you’re dead right. Phillip’s a nice man.” Her gaze dropped to her glass, then up again. “He’ll be a wonderful father and a faithful husband.”
“You didn’t say you loved him.” And he found that interesting. Very interesting.
“That goes without saying.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.”
And perhaps it was all an act. Perhaps working on people for sympathy was how she wormed her way into men’s beds…and their hearts. Perhaps it was all about paying back her father for being so weak.