A Silken Seduction. Yvonne Lindsay
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full lips twisted in a wry smile. “You’d be surprised at what surrounds me and what’s expected of me.”
He could sense there was hurt lying behind her words, but surely living in her gilded world couldn’t be all that bad? In the distance Marcus heard the sonorous chimes of a grandfather clock, counting out the hour. It was getting late. While every urge pushed him to press the advantage of her current openness he knew that underneath she was probably still as skittish as a first-time buyer at auction.
“I’d better head off,” he said. “Thank you for showing me the painting.”
“You’re welcome. Here, let me show you back downstairs.”
Avery led the way down the two flights of stairs and through to the black-and-white-tiled foyer. At the door, Marcus turned and put out his hand, surprised when, without hesitation, Avery took it in her smaller one.
“I’m not going to give up, you know,” he warned her with a smile.
“Give up?”
“On getting you to agree to sell your father’s collection.”
Avery laughed, the intensity that had clouded her features while they were upstairs in the studio lifting with the sound. “It’s not going to happen.”
“I usually get what I want,” he drawled, this time letting his gaze caress her face before sliding lower to where her pulse beat visibly at her neck.
A warm flush of color stained her skin and her fingers tightened on his imperceptibly before she withdrew them from his clasp.
“Perhaps it’s time you learned to cope with disappointment,” she said, her voice a little husky.
“You think I don’t know disappointment?” he asked, injecting just the right amount of teasing into his tone.
She flushed again. “I’m sure it’s not up to me to know that.”
“I’ve had my share. It just served to make me more determined to get exactly what I want out of life.”
“And is brokering the Cullen Collection what you want out of life?” she asked, lifting her chin a little in a silent challenge.
“It’s at the top of my list at the moment,” he acceded with a calculated smile. “But there are other things I want.”
“I’m intrigued,” Avery said, stepping back a little, as if creating more distance between them could overcome her curiosity. “Perhaps you could explain to me exactly why my father’s paintings are so important to you over dinner here tonight? We dine at eight.”
Satisfaction swelled inside him. It was like taking candy from a baby. She’d gone from emphatically saying “no” to now being interested, albeit remotely. It was an important first step. Now he had to make sure he left her feeling secure enough that she’d grant his request.
“I’d love to discuss it further over dinner, but not here. Why don’t I take you out instead? I still need to check into my hotel but I can be back here in say—” he cast a glance at the wafer-slim Piaget timepiece on his wrist “—two hours. Does that suit you?”
For a moment he thought she might refuse, but then her face cleared and she gave him a small smile. “I haven’t been out in a while, so, yes, I’d like that. I’ll see you at seven?”
“I’ll be here.”
As Marcus made his way down the shallow concrete stairs that led from the front door toward where he’d parked his rental car, he fought to control the urge to fist pump the air in triumph. Every word, every second brought him closer to success. He could see the ink on his partnership offer already.
Three
Avery leaned back against the door after closing it behind Marcus. She couldn’t believe she’d invited him to come back for dinner, let alone agreed to go out with him! He made her uncomfortable with his direct, impossibly green-eyed stare, and with his very reason for being here in London—hassling her about selling her father’s collection. But for some bizarre reason he also lit an interest in her that she hadn’t felt in a long time and she was intrigued to know why he was so intent on procuring the collection.
Surely it couldn’t hurt to spend a few more hours in his company?
Two hours. She had two hours to get herself tidied up and in a presentable enough state to go out. She mentally ran through her wardrobe options. She’d left most of her party clothes back in Los Angeles but she had a few pieces that might work for tonight.
She sighed. Who was she kidding? He hadn’t asked her out because he was attracted to her. He was probably more attracted to the commission he’d earn if she agreed to let him list the collection for sale. God, even thinking about it brought a sense of loss to throb painfully inside her chest.
She wasn’t going to part with the collection, but that wouldn’t stop her from making the most of Marcus Price’s company. He had come across to her as being pretty astute about art and his reaction to Lovely Woman had surprised and intrigued her. He’d been enthralled by her ancestor’s work. Baxter Cullen had been one of the most revered American painters of the early twentieth century; it stood to reason that Marcus would have studied him while in college. Yet she sensed there was something more about his interest in the painting up in her studio.
In fact, she thought as a shiver ran down her spine, he’d stared at the painting with almost the same avarice as when he’d stared at her in the gardens. As if he had a sole purpose to acquire a specific thing or, in her case, person.
The shiver rippled through her body again, but this time it had nothing to do with caution or anxiety and everything to do with instinctive female response to someone who was very definitely pure alpha all the way. She hadn’t been this attracted to anyone in a very long time. It was frightening and exhilarating. It had been too long since she’d allowed herself to feel. With her father’s sudden illness—well, sudden to her as he’d kept the truth of his cancer to himself for the better part of nine months—and subsequent death, she’d locked away her feelings. Focused her energy into doing everything she could to support her father during his last months here in London, putting everything in her life on hold.
She’d lost a great deal in that time. Her father, first and foremost, as the disease ravaged his body, then his mind, so that he barely recognized his surroundings anymore, let alone his daughter. And secondly, the group of people she’d called friends—friends who could probably better have been identified as sycophants, people only interested in what knowing her could gain for them. They’d all withdrawn from her. Never for a moment supporting her in her time of need. All except Macy, her one true friend, but there was only so much a person could do with an ocean between them.
It had been the withdrawal of her friends that had made her see how truly alone she was in this world. Sure, a few of them had contacted her after her father’s obituary had appeared in the papers. But not to offer sympathy. Instead they’d asked her when she’d be back in circulation, making it painfully obvious that her financial contribution to their frequent partying had been missed now that they had to “slum it” at bad tables at restaurants, drink cheaper bottles of champagne and take cabs rather than limousines. How no one else’s name had quite the pull that the Cullen name had. Avery had realized she’d let herself be used, all in the guise of being a part of something that was fun, carefree, connected.
When her eyes had opened it had been herself she looked at most critically. She’d let it happen, she’d allowed herself to be walked over and used for what she was, not who. In the weeks following her father’s funeral she’d promised herself one thing—she would never allow herself to be used again. She’d withdrawn, wrapping herself in her grief and throwing herself into the arts-related charities her family had always supported—even toying with creating a new one of her own, one that would support children’s aspirations in the artistic realms.
Avery pushed herself off the door