His Christmas Virgin. Кэрол Мортимер
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Jonas mused; his cousin wasn’t known for her effusiveness when it came to her job as art critic for The Individual.
Amy linked her arm with his encouragingly. ‘Come and look at some of her paintings.’
Mac continued to chat lightly with a collector who had expressed a serious interest in buying one of the paintings on display, at the same time completely aware of Jonas Buchanan and his cousin as they moved slowly through the two-roomed gallery to view her work.
It was impossible to tell from Jonas’s expression what he thought of her paintings, those blue eyes hooded as he studied each canvas, his mouth unsmiling as he murmured in soft reply to Amy Walters’s comments.
He probably hated them, Mac accepted heavily as she politely tried to refer the flirtatious collector to Jeremy for the more serious discussion over price. No doubt Jonas preferred modern art as opposed to her more ethereal style and bright but slightly muted use of colour. No doubt he had only agreed to accompany his cousin this evening in the first place because he had known that by doing so he would undermine Mac’s confidence.
He needn’t have bothered—Mac already hated all of this! She disliked the artificiality. Found the inane chatter tiresome. And she found herself especially irritated by the opportunistic collector she now realised was unobtrusively trying to place his hand on her bottom…
Mac moved sharply away from him, her eyes snapping with indignation at the uninvited familiarity. ‘I’m sure that you’ll find Jeremy will be only too happy to help with any further questions you might have.’
The middle-aged man chuckled meaningfully as he moved closer. ‘He isn’t my type!’
Mac frowned her discomfort, at a complete loss as to how to deal with this situation without causing a scene. Something she knew was out of the question with a dozen or so reporters also present in the room.
In their own individual ways Jeremy and Magnus had worked as hard on producing this exhibition this evening as Mac had. If she were to slap this obnoxious man’s face, as she was so tempted to do, then the headlines in some of tomorrow’s newspapers would read ‘Artist slaps buyer’s face!’ instead of any praise or constructive criticism on her actual work.
She gave a shake of her head. ‘I really don’t think—’
‘Sorry to have been gone so long, darling,’ Jonas Buchanan interrupted smoothly as his arm moved firmly about Mac’s waist to pull her securely against his side. He gave the other man a challenging smile, those compelling blue eyes as hard as the sapphires they resembled. ‘It’s rather crowded in here, isn’t it?’
‘I—yes.’ The older and shorter man looked disconcerted by this unmistakable show of possessiveness. ‘I—If you will both excuse me? I’ll take your advice, Mac, and go and discuss the details with Jeremy.’ He turned to hurriedly disappear into the crowd.
Mac found that she was trembling in reaction—and was totally at a loss to know if it was caused by the unpleasantness of the last minute or so, or because Jonas still held her so firmly against him that she was totally aware of the hard warmth of his powerful body…
Jonas took one look down at Mac’s white face before his arm tightened about her waist and he turned her towards the entrance to the gallery. ‘Let’s get some air,’ he suggested as he all but lifted her off the floor to carry her across the room and out of the door into the icy cold night. Something he instantly realised was a mistake as he could see by the street-lamp how Mac had begun to shiver in the thin silk dress. ‘Here.’ He slipped off his jacket to place it about her shoulders, his thumbs brushing lightly against the warm swell of her breasts as he stood in front of her to pull the lapels together.
Her eyes were huge as she looked up at him. ‘Now you’re going to be cold.’
She looked like a little girl playing dress-up with the shoulders of Jonas’s jacket drooping down at the sides and the bulky garment reaching almost down to her knees. Except there was nothing childlike about the sudden awareness that darkened those smoky-grey eyes, or the temptation of those parted red-glossed lips as she breathed shallowly.
‘How old are you really?’ Jonas rasped harshly.
She blinked. ‘I—What does that have to do with anything?’
He gave an impatient shrug of his shoulders. ‘When I met you the other night you looked like someone’s little sister. Tonight you look—well, tonight you look more like most men wished their best friend’s little sister looked!’
She tilted that long elegant neck as she looked up at him. ‘And how is that?’ she prompted huskily.
This is a bad idea, Buchanan, Jonas cautioned himself. A very, very bad idea, he warned firmly even as his fascinated gaze remained fixed on those moist and parted lips.
A taste. He just wanted a taste of those sexy red lips—
Hell, no!
He was trying to transact a business deal with this woman, and he made a point of never mixing business with pleasure. And Jonas had no doubts it would have been very pleasurable to touch and taste those full and pouting lips with his own…
His expression was deliberately taunting as he looked down at her. ‘In that dress you look like a woman who’s ready for hot and wild sex.’
Mac’s eyes widened as she gasped at the insult. ‘I’ll wear what I damn well please!’
That blue gaze moved deliberately down to the split in the side of her dress that revealed the long, bare length of her silky thigh. ‘Obviously.’
‘You’re no better than the idiot whose attentions you just appeared to save me from,’ she accused furiously as she pulled his jacket from about her shoulders and almost threw it back at him before turning on her heel and marching back into the gallery without so much as a second glance.
Rude. Obnoxious. Insulting. Rat!
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