Читать книгу A Silken Seduction - Yvonne Lindsay - Страница 11

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 was a long time ago, but thank you,” he said, reaching out to rest one hand briefly on her shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze.

He kept the touch light, not lingering too long, but the heat of her body through her T-shirt seared like a brand on his palm. He forced himself to let go and create a little more distance between them. He already knew she found him attractive. It had been there in the instinctive flare of her pupils, in the blush across her cheeks, in the way she kept checking him out even when she tried not to. He wasn’t above using that to his advantage in this instance, but his own attraction to her left him more than a little startled.

He needed to return things to an even footing and he forced his concentration back toward her work.

“Landscapes aren’t really your thing, are they?” he asked with sudden perspicacity.

“What makes you say that?” she asked. “You think it’s no good? Seriously, if you’re trying to get on my good side, you’re going about it the wrong way.”

He gave a short chuckle, giving in to the burst of humor her wry observation initiated.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t good. Technically, you’re doing a great job, but a photo would serve just as well.”

“Damned with faint praise,” she said wryly, snapping the lid closed on her box of paints and gathering up her brushes and the small folding table she’d rested her supplies on.

“So what is your passion?” Marcus persisted. “What is it that really sets you on fire?”

She lifted her gaze to his face but her observation of him was different from how her eyes had skipped over his features before. This time, he sensed she wasn’t looking at him as a man, but as a subject.

“Portraits,” she said with a shrug, “nudes.”

A bolt of sexual hunger rocked through him. Nudes? What would it be like to sit for her? he wondered. He rapidly extinguished the growing fire that lit through his veins. Miss Avery Cullen was getting more and more interesting by the second but he didn’t want to scare her off. Not when there was so much at stake.

“Like your great-great-uncle?” he asked.

She gave a careful nod. “You seem to know your stuff.”

“Waverly’s doesn’t make a habit of hiring idiots,” he replied.

“I’m sure it doesn’t,” she agreed as she continued to gather her things together. “You know my uncle’s work?”

“I studied him in college. Baxter Cullen’s work has always been among my favorites.” He reached for her unfinished canvas and easel. “Here, let me help you with that.”

“Thanks,” she said, to his surprise. He hadn’t expected her to accept his offer. They started to walk back toward the house. “Do you paint?”

“Not my strength, I’m afraid,” he answered with complete honesty. “But I’ve always had an appreciation for well-executed work.”

She stopped at the double set of French doors that led into the house. “I have a Baxter Cullen here, would you be interested in seeing it?”

For a second his heart skipped a beat. Was she referring to Lovely Woman—the very painting he sought to restore to his grandfather? He fought to inject the right note of interest, as opposed to overwhelming desire, into his voice.

“That would be great, if you’re sure it’s no bother.”

“It’s no bother. Come up to my studio,” Avery said.

He followed her through a well-used parlor and then up the wide wooden staircase that led to the next floor. His feet were silent on the carpet runner even while his heart beat a tattoo in his chest he was almost certain had to be audible. The second set of stairs was narrower, the handrail less ornate, but he could see the patina of time on the highly polished wood and wondered, with a tinge of bitterness, how many generations of hands had taken their right to live here for granted. He’d lay odds no one in the Cullen family, or even on Avery’s mother’s side, had ever had to sell anything just to put food on the table.

You can take the boy out of the neighborhood, he could hear his grandfather’s voice echoing in his mind, but you can’t take the neighborhood out of the boy. Well, he’d spent most of his adult life working hard to try to prove Grampa wrong on that score. One day he’d be able to give them both what they deserved, and hopefully that one day, courtesy of Avery Cullen, would be soon.

“This was the nursery, back in the day when children were seen and not heard,” Avery commented as she directed Marcus where to put the easel and painting and moved across the room to a set of sliding doors that, when opened, revealed a built-in bench and basin.

He looked around as she cleaned her brushes. The high unadorned ceilings reflected the cool light that streamed in from the tall windows. He could see why Avery used this room as a studio. But then his attention was caught by the very thing he sought.

Blood pounded in his ears as he approached the small but perfectly executed nude of a young woman bathing, and he fought to keep his breathing under control. He stopped in front of the picture and counted slowly backward from one hundred. His eyes drank in the vision in front of him. Technique aside, the rendering was near perfect. He almost felt like a voyeur, as if he’d caught a glimpse into the private life and time of the woman, as she dragged a dripping rag gracefully over one softly rounded shoulder.

A dreadful urge to simply rip the painting from its hook and race down the stairs and out of here bloomed inside. An urge he instinctively suppressed. He hadn’t waited this long just to ruin everything now but it was harder than he’d expected to finally see the painting his grandfather had been forced to sell twenty-five years ago.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Avery said from behind him. “Apparently she was one of the maids in Baxter’s household. There was a bit of a scandal over this back then. She was dismissed by Baxter’s wife, Isobel, when she saw the painting. Isobel accused the maid of having an affair with Baxter and insisted her husband destroy the picture. Obviously he didn’t. There was a rumor that he sent the painting to the maid, but we have no actual proof of who owned it after it left his house.”

“Interesting that there was no blame laid at her husband’s feet for exploiting a maid in his employment.” As hard as he tried he couldn’t keep a hint of bitterness from his voice. The underclass always bore more than its share of blame in situations like this.

Avery shrugged. “I don’t know whether there was or not. His wife was apparently quite a forceful character. Probably necessary when Baxter was oblivious to everything but his work.”

“And, no doubt, his subject.”

A small smile tugged at her lips. “Yes,” she conceded. “And his subject, although I wonder if he ever saw her as anything other than tones and light and shadows.”

Marcus clenched his jaw to hold back the words that hovered on the tip of his tongue. It wouldn’t do to let Avery know that he had no doubt that Baxter Cullen had most definitely seen his model as far, far more than that.

After all, the subject in question had been Marcus’s own great-grandmother.

Marcus forced himself to shift the conversation away from the woman in the painting. Knowing it was because of him that the nude no longer hung on Grampa’s sitting-room wall made seeing the work more emotional than he’d anticipated—and Marcus didn’t do emotion.

“How did your father come into possession of Lovely Woman?”

“Through a broker, I imagine. That’s how he bought most of his favorites, although he was pretty good at spotting bargains in estate lots and secondhand stores. Even so, he was a stickler for paying a fair price.”

“I’m surprised you have it here in your studio.”

“It’s my inspiration,” she answered simply.

“For your nudes?”

“Not just my work—for everything, really. It reminds me to look for beauty in all things, no matter what the circumstances.”

“I’m surprised you have to look. Aren’t you surrounded by beauty here in your home?” He tore his gaze from the painting and turned to face her.

Her 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.