Natalie noticed him as soon as he walked in. He was hard to miss: shaven headed, he wore cut-off jeans and a black vest top and he was so deeply tanned that at first she thought he might not be English. He strolled to the back wall and paused by the painting of the nude, as most people who came into the exhibition did, and for several seconds he stood, with his hands linked lightly behind his back, looking up at it. She couldn’t see the expression on his face, but for some reason she felt uncomfortable about his intense interest.

Which was mad. Waiting for her Lover, the most famous of her paintings, was there to draw people in. To make them buy. It depicted a young woman, her face half in profile, long dark hair fanning over her breasts, but not covering the nipples; she was sitting on a rock, all milky curves against stark grey lines, looking out at a dawn sea. Her long legs were drawn up on the rock, slightly parted and while one of her hands was behind her, supporting her, the other rested lightly against her pubic bone.

It was the position of this hand that had caused all the fuss when Natalie had first released the painting. There was much supposition in the press about exactly what the girl was doing, or had been doing, with that hand. Who she was, was more obvious. Even though the detail of her face wasn’t entirely clear, there were enough clues in the long dark hair and the curve of her cheekbone and the elegant shape of her shoulders to know that the nude was a self-portrait.

Natalie had a love-hate relationship with the painting now. It had, after all, caused the break-up of her marriage, but Anton, her agent, insisted it had pride of place at her exhibitions.

Anton was standing by the till to her left. As she glanced at him he raised pencil-thin eyebrows and gestured towards the shaven-headed man with a sneer.

‘Now there’s a timewaster if ever I saw one. He probably thought it was a buy-one-get-one-free sale.’

‘Don’t be so judgemental. He might be a rock star, who’s just landed his helicopter on the cliffs.’

‘I bet he’s not. I bet he’s a beach bum, who makes his living from sculpting driftwood into hideous little ornaments of dogs with A Present from Bournemouth inked on their fat bottoms.’

‘If I thought you really meant that I would slap you!’

‘But I do mean it.’ Anton snapped the till shut with a flourish, his eyes flashing with dark humour. ‘That is why we get on so well, my darling girl. You are the gorgeous young artist who has no idea how talented she is, and I am the washed-up old queen who is perfectly equipped to exploit your talent. It is an excellent combination.’

It was an odd combination, Natalie thought, trying not to laugh, but she did love him – he was right there. Anton had the hugest heart beneath his brittle veneer. And actually he was a damn good agent too. Since she’d known him he had steered her gently, but purposefully towards the big time.

The man was heading their way, and, slightly worried that Anton might make some disparaging remark, she stepped forward to greet him.

‘Hello there, I’m Natalie Crane. What kind of art are you interested in?’

He didn’t answer her question, just smiled and said, ‘I came to congratulate you.’ He had a dark brown voice – she always thought of voices in colour – and dark brown eyes with tiny flecks of gold in their depths. She felt a frisson of something when he looked at her. Maybe it was the intensity of his gaze. It was as if he could see right through her clothes – although he wasn’t looking anywhere but at her face.

‘Congratulate me on what?’ she said, hoping he wouldn’t notice her discomfort.

‘I’ve never met an artist who made money before.’

‘Perhaps you don’t move in the right circles,’ she said coolly, and could have bitten out her tongue. She was as bad as Anton – making judgements about him. And he couldn’t possibly know that it hadn’t always been galleries and big price tags for her, that she’d worked bloody hard to get where she was today.

‘I wasn’t criticising you.’ He looked amused, and she could see she hadn’t offended him. ‘I was merely making an observation. I’m Will Falcon.’ He held out his hand. It was deeply tanned like the rest of him; long fingers, clean fingernails – not the sort of hands that picked up driftwood on the beach and carved it into tat.

When he let her hand go, she could feel the space where his fingers had been. It was an odd sensation. Beside her, Anton gave a disapproving sniff.

Will leant forward and said in a voice meant only for her. ‘I was wondering if we could have a chat about your work. Perhaps you’d have time to join me for coffee.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Maybe lunch? Or doesn’t your minder let you out?’

There was a challenge in his eyes that she couldn’t resist. And it was lunchtime. She was entitled to lunch. She wondered why she felt she had to justify herself to the workaholic Anton. Was there some part of her that felt guilty, that knew, even then, what lay ahead? Because even in those first few moments she was hugely aware of Will. As they walked across the wooden interlocking tiles, her heels clicking, his Asics trainers almost silent, she could feel the atoms buzzing between them.