Yvonne Lindsay - A Silken Seduction

“Don’t be,” she answered in as quelling a tone as she could muster, given the unbidden buzz of heat that unfurled through her body at his nearness. “I made my position on the sale of my father’s Impressionist collection quite clear when you first contacted me. You’ve come a long way for a wasted journey.”

He smiled in response and a flutter of unadulterated feminine interest flickered through her veins. A flutter she attempted to suppress as rapidly as it arose. As handsome as he was, and he certainly was that, she knew his type all too well. Bold, brash, confident. He was everything she wasn’t and he was in for a disappointment if he thought she would be talked into selling her late father’s much-coveted collection.

“Now I’ve finally had the chance to meet you, I know my time wasn’t entirely wasted.”

His voice was laden with innuendo and the surety he would get what he came for.

“You can stop trying to flatter me, Mr. Price. Better men than you have tried…and failed.”

“Marcus, please.”

She nodded, a bare ascension of her head. “Marcus, then. It doesn’t change anything. I’m not selling and I really don’t understand why you’re here.”

“Your assistant, David Hurley, arranged our meeting two weeks ago. I had assumed he’d told you but—” his green eyes narrowed as he obviously noted the flash of anger that she knew must show across her expressive features “—I can see from your expression that he neglected to do so. I’m sorry, Miss Cullen. I believed you were open to discussions.”

Oh, he was good. Charming, sincere—she could almost believe him if she didn’t wonder just how much he’d bribed David to set this up. She would have hoped her late father’s assistant was above such a thing but apparently not. And, to be honest, she couldn’t imagine any other way Marcus would have succeeded in getting the appointment he’d been hounding her for in the past month. She made a mental note to follow up with David as soon as possible. He was still based in her hometown of Los Angeles and despite the years of service he’d given her dad, if he didn’t have a valid explanation, she was prepared to lose him over this. Trust was something earned and, when breached, easily broken.

“Your coffee should be ready,” Avery answered, refusing to confirm or deny David’s part in this. “Shall we go up to the terrace?”

“Thank you.” Marcus held out one hand, gesturing for her to precede him.

She couldn’t help but feel the assessment of his eyes on her back as she followed the path that led to the terrace at the side of the house. Every feminine cell in her body wished she was wearing something more…. Well, anything other than the old jeans and T-shirt she’d chosen to wear for painting today. In the instant she thought it, she dashed the vanity from her mind. She wasn’t out to impress Marcus Price or anyone like him. She’d learned the hard way how to read people who wanted to use her for their own advancement and she had no doubt that securing the Cullen Collection, the Impressionist paintings her father had acquired over the past two and a half decades, would be a golden feather in this hotshot’s career-advancement cap.

They arrived on the terrace just as Mrs. Jackson wheeled out a cart laden with afternoon tea—or coffee as the case was—and transferred the cups and saucers to a small wrought-iron table set with two matching chairs. Avery invited Marcus to sit down.

“Cream or milk?” Avery asked as she finished pouring the aromatic dark brew from the silver coffeepot embossed with the crest of her English mother’s family.

“Just black, thanks.”

“Sugar?” she continued, striving to follow the social graces her parents would have expected of her had they both still been alive.

“Two, please.”

She arched a brow. “Two? Ah, yes, I can see why.”

“You think I need sweetening?” There was a hint of laughter in his voice.

“You said it, not me.”

Using silver tongs, she dropped two cubes of sugar in his coffee and handed the cup and saucer across to him.

“Thank you,” he said, holding it in one hand while with the other he picked up the silver teaspoon resting on the saucer, to stir his coffee.

Avery found herself mesmerized. Long fingered, yet broad and capable, his hands were both those of an artist and a man more accustomed to physically working hard for a living. That traitorous curl of warmth licked through her body again. She really needed to get out more, she thought as she tried to quash the attraction she felt toward him. She’d been sequestered in her London home since her father’s death and, aside from a brief trip to New York to support her best friend during the auction of Macy’s famous mother’s possessions, she’d kept social contact to an absolute minimum. Maybe it was time for that to change. In fact, hadn’t Macy told her she should at least meet Marcus, if only for the eye-candy quotient?

Change or not, Marcus Price was too slick for someone like her.

“About the Cullen Collection—” he began after taking a sip of his coffee.

“I’m not interested in selling. I don’t know how I can be any clearer on the subject,” Avery interrupted.

She really was losing patience over this. She couldn’t expect anyone to fully understand just why she was so determined to hold on to the paintings. They were collecting dust in her family’s Los Angeles mansion. Deep down she knew she needed to do something—loan them to a museum or a gallery, anyone who’d appreciate them more than she did. But she couldn’t bring herself to let them go just yet. Her father had amassed the Impressionist works over her lifetime and even as a child she’d understood his satisfaction in acquiring another piece for the collection.

Forrest Cullen had loved every canvas with a devotion Avery had often envied for herself. Oh, she knew her father had loved her in his own distant way, but even after her mother’s death when she was five he’d continued to remain a disconnected parent. She’d always felt her father had had two great loves in his life. His wife and his collection. She wasn’t about to part with the remaining tangible link she had to the man she’d idolized her whole life. It, and the garden here in London that he’d so patiently tended, made her feel closer to him—made his loss less raw.

Marcus interrupted her thoughts, bringing her very firmly into the present.

“I’m sure you’re well aware of what the collection could command from the right buyers.”

Avery gave him a cynical half smile. “Look around you, Marcus. I’m not exactly short of a dollar or two.”

“Then think of it this way. Those paintings deserve to be in the hands and view of people who truly appreciate them.”

She stiffened. Had David told him that she actually didn’t even like most of the collection? No, surely even he didn’t know that much.

“Are you suggesting I don’t appreciate my father’s collection? That’s rather assumptive, wouldn’t you say?”

Marcus narrowed his green eyes and gave her an assessing look. She fought the urge to tidy herself under his scrutiny, to smooth the wisps that, in the curse of fine blond hair, had escaped her ponytail and even now tickled against her cheeks in the light afternoon breeze.

“I’m sure you have your reasons, but I believe that anyone can be swayed with the right enticement.”

She laughed aloud. The sheer audacity of the man.

“I’m not interested in enticement, Mr. Price,” she said, deliberately returning to using the formal version of his name. “Now, if you’ve finished your coffee, I’ll ask Mrs. Jackson to see you out.”

“Are you going back to your painting?” he asked, not moving an inch from his seat.