A Silken Seduction. Yvonne Lindsay
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.
She felt her guard rise even higher. “I believe I asked you to leave, Mr. Price.”
“Marcus. And you did. Ever so nicely, but—” he leaned forward and traced one finger across a smear of paint on the index finger of her right hand “—I find myself wanting to continue to discuss art, and its many forms, with you.”
For just a moment she was trapped in the thrall of his touch. So light, and yet pulling from deep within her a reaction so intense it took her breath clean away. If circumstances had been different, she’d lean toward him, too, and see whether he tasted as enticing as his words sounded.
The squawk of a bird settling in a nearby tree broke the spell Marcus had woven. She wasn’t into fleeting pleasure and a fling with Marcus Price would be exactly that. A fling. Life was worth so much more—correction, she was worth so much more than that. Avery pointedly looked at his hand before withdrawing her own from beneath it.
“Sadly, I can’t say the same.”
He quirked his lips in a half smile. “C’mon, I bet you’re wondering, even now, what it is that you’re doing wrong with your painting, why it’s not working.”
The challenge hung in the air between them.
“Wrong?” she answered, raising her brows.
“I am recognized as something of an expert in art, you know.”
“Selling it, perhaps.”
“Identifying what’s worth selling,” he corrected, his voice still light but carrying an underlying steel that proved she might have dented his pride just a little.
“So, tell me, what is it that I’m doing wrong,” she challenged. She didn’t for one minute believe he’d be able to direct her any better than she could herself.
“It’s in the way you’ve captured the light.”
“The light?” Oh, God, she must sound like an idiot parroting his words.
“C’mon, I’ll show you.”
Before she could answer he’d risen from his chair and taken her hand in his own. The warmth of his fingers as they curled around hers, holding them lightly but without any hint of letting go anytime soon, felt oddly right. She was helpless to protest as he led her down the shallow terrace steps and back to where her easel stood waiting with its half-finished canvas.
“Actually, it’s more in the way you haven’t captured the light,” Marcus said, pointing to the dappled texture of rich early autumnal tones on the stretched canvas. “See? Here, and here. Where’s the light, the sun, the warmth? Where’s it coming from? Where’s the last caress of summer?”
In an instant she knew exactly what he was talking about and she mixed some paint on her palette and, with a clean brush, swiftly applied her attention to one area of the canvas.
“Like that?” she asked, stepping back.
“Yeah, just like that. You know what you’re doing. How did you miss it?”
“I guess the light’s been missing from my life for a while now,” she said without thinking. “And, I stopped looking for it.”
Two
Marcus couldn’t help but feel the solid wall of her grief as he watched her. He acknowledged it and then swept it to the back of his mind, where he could potentially deal with it later. Right now he had to keep his advantage. He’d been plotting for months to get beyond Avery Cullen’s well-trained guard dogs and he wasn’t about to waste his gain now.
He was close, so close he could feel it in the tingling in the pit of his stomach. If he could secure the rights to sell the Cullen Collection, his bid to become a partner at Waverly’s would be a foregone conclusion—and it would take him one almighty step closer to getting back that which belonged to his family.
“It’s tough, losing a parent,” he said, injecting the right note of sympathy into his voice.
She gave a brief nod and he glimpsed a sheen of moisture in her wide-spaced blue eyes before she turned away from him and added a few more touches to the painting. This was wrong. A gentleman wouldn’t be capitalizing on her sorrow—but he was no gentleman, certainly not by birth. But even though he knew what should be the right thing to do, he was so close to his goal he could almost taste the success. He saw her slender shoulders lift as she drew in a deep breath, then settle once more as she let it pass slowly through her lips.
“It’s why this painting is so important to me. This garden was his favorite place in the world, especially in the fall. He always said he felt closest to my mother here. I take it you’ve lost a parent, too?” she asked, her voice a little shaky.
“Yeah, both of them.”
It wasn’t strictly true. While he had lost his mother before he could remember her, his father was still alive—somewhere. The man had stated his own price for staying out of Marcus’s life—a price Marcus’s grandfather had willingly paid—and surprisingly, so far, his father had kept his word.
Her voice was firmer when she spoke, her eyes filled with compassion. “I’m sorry, Marcus.”
And he knew she was. He felt a pang of guilt that he should accept her sympathy. He hadn’t known either of his parents. His mother had given birth to him while serving time for drug possession and supply, leaving him to the care of her father from the day he was born. She’d later died when he was about two years old, using the drugs that had ruled her life since her late teens—the price of the contraband eventually being far higher than she’d ever anticipated. His father had been itinerant, turning up only when he knew he could fleece the old man for more money in exchange for leaving Marcus alone. Eventually his grandfather had sold his dearest possession to buy his late daughter’s partner off for good—that action had, strangely enough, led Marcus right here to Avery’s garden.
He shrugged, determined to stay on track. He couldn’t change who his parents were, but he could certainly make amends to his grandfather for the damage they’d wreaked on Grampa’s life. And that started with getting back the painting the old man should never have been forced to sell.
“It