The Fine Art of Temptation

London-based artist Avery Cullen refuses to sell her late father’s art collection. But bold, brash Marcus Price will try everything to get her to reconsider. He even launches an all-out sexual siege on the lonely heiress in the gilded cage.

Securing the collection would be a coup for his auction house, but for Marcus, it would settle a lifelong score. He’s managed to keep his true motives hidden along with his family’s skeletons…and now he’s so close, he can taste success in Avery’s kiss. But after their torrid night of passion, is Marcus prepared for the outcome?

Avery in his arms…

The memory was all he could handle.

She got to him on so many levels. Him, the original user. The guy who’d used his unmistakable charm to fake his way to a pedigree no one questioned. He was immune to the vulnerable; he’d trained himself to be. Because Marcus Price never took his eye off the prize, and he was always prepared to work hard to get whatever he wanted.

You want Avery Cullen.

Sure, he wanted Avery. She was a goddess, with a body that promised untold sexual delight, yet she maintained an air of naivety, of untapped raw passion, that was enough to entice even the most jaded of souls.

But there was something he wanted even more.…

Dear Reader,

I was delighted to be invited to participate in The Highest Bidder continuity. The opportunity to work with authors I admire is something I like to grasp firmly whenever it is presented to me. While we’re always given the skeleton of our stories, and the continuity overview, seeing how everyone fleshed out their characters and cleverly wove the threads of the mysteries of the Gold Heart statue was fascinating.

In A Silken Seduction, Avery Cullen and Marcus Price are such different people. She’s gentle, shy and perhaps a little naive. He’s confident, determined and very, very aware of what he wants in life. She’s from old money, lots of it. He, most definitely, is not. Yet their attraction to one another is something neither can ignore.

Can their growing attraction for one another survive Marcus’s driving ambition, or will one of them pay the ultimate price and have their heart irrevocably broken? I do hope you enjoy finding out the answers as you delve into A Silken Seduction.

Happy reading,

Yvonne Lindsay

A Silken Seduction

Yvonne Lindsay

www.millsandboon.co.uk

New Zealand born, to Dutch immigrant parents, YVONNE LINDSAY became an avid romance reader at the age of thirteen. Now, married to her ‘blind date’ and with two fabulous children, she remains a firm believer in the power of romance. Yvonne feels privileged to be able to bring to her readers the stories of her heart. In her spare time, when not writing, she can be found with her nose firmly in a book, reliving the power of love in all walks of life.

She can be contacted via her website:

www.yvonnelindsay.com

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Yvonne Lindsay for her contribution to The Highest Bidder miniseries.

To my fellow authors—Maureen, Charlene, Paula, Cat

and Barbara. It’s been a genuine pleasure, thank you.

And, to CG and JA—

working with you guys is always a delight.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Bonus Story

One

“Miss Cullen is not taking visitors!”

Avery started at the outraged voice of her housekeeper—the action making her blotch a daub of the yew-green paint at the end of her brush. The sound of footsteps came swiftly on the ancient paved path behind her. She sighed and put the paintbrush down. On this overcast and suddenly autumnal London day she was already losing the light and, interruptions aside, the painting wasn’t going well anyway. If only passion for a subject made up for a lack of everything else, she thought as she reached for the linseed-oil-scented rag on the shelf of her easel and wiped her hands before turning to see what the fuss was about.

Her housekeeper usually had no trouble heading off visitors at the front door. The woman was fiercely protective of Avery and fully respected the younger woman’s wish for privacy. But it seemed someone had managed to cut past Mrs. Jackson’s normally effective defense. The man walking a clear yard ahead of the stout housekeeper had his eyes on only one thing. Avery.

Tall, with dark blond hair that, while short, managed to look like he’d just rolled out of bed, and a light beard that suggested he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, there was no doubt he was disreputably good-looking. There was also something vaguely familiar about him. No, surely not. She would have remembered meeting him before. She didn’t know him at all. Sure you do, a tiny voice whispered from deep inside. Wasn’t he that guy Macy had pointed out when they were in New York for the Tarlington auction? Avery shoved the voice back down where it belonged as a shiver of something undefined shimmered up her neck. Not fear. Not even apprehension over the stranger striding so determinedly toward her, strangely enough.

No, this was something else. Something she had about as much trouble putting a name to as she’d had capturing the beauty of her father’s favorite garden in oils on canvas. Whatever it was, it made a bloom of heat kiss her cheeks and she felt her pulse rate lift a notch. Irritation at being disturbed, she told herself, but she knew it was anything but.

“I’m sorry, Miss Cullen, I informed Mr. Price you aren’t taking visitors but he just wouldn’t listen.” Disapproval was clear in every vowel of the housekeeper’s London East End origins. She gave an indignant sniff. “He says he has an appointment.”

Mrs. Jackson’s rosy cheeks glowed even brighter than usual at this clear invasion of her mistress’s privacy.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Jackson. He’s here now,” Avery answered as soothingly as she could and, summoning the hospitality that had been drummed into her from an early age, she offered, “perhaps our guest might like some tea on the terrace before he leaves?”

“Coffee, please, if you have it,” the man said, his voice pure Boston Brahmin all the way, but it was his name that finally filtered through her memory and caught her attention.

As Mrs. Jackson bustled off to prepare the coffee, still bristling with outrage and muttering under her breath, Avery gave him her full consideration.

“Price? So you’d be Marcus Price, of Waverly’s in New York?” she asked.

Waverly’s was the auction house that had handled her friend Macy’s mother’s estate sale. Seeing what Macy had gone through over the sale had made Avery all the more determined to hold on to the treasures that made up her past—whether she liked them or not. At least she had the luxury, literally, of not having to sell those memories as poor Macy had.

“I’m flattered you remember my name,” he said with an easy smile that made her stomach do an uncomfortable flip in response.

“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.

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 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.

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 and headed for the stairs. At least with Marcus Price she knew exactly what he wanted. The Cullen Collection and nothing else. Sure, he might pay her some compliments, make her feel like a woman with heated blood in her veins, but that was where it began and ended. He had an agenda. She was safe from hurt provided she went into this with her eyes wide open—and they were most definitely open.

* * *

Marcus pulled the classic Jaguar he’d rented to a halt at the top of the loop in the Cullen driveway. Anticipation thrummed through his body at the thought of the next few hours with Avery Cullen. She was wary, and justifiably so. He’d have to tread very carefully to get what he wanted but he had no doubt he’d succeed. Besides, spending the evening in her company would be nothing but pleasure. With her cool Nordic beauty, obviously a throwback to her English mother’s Norse ancestors, she looked like an ice princess. An ice princess right before the thaw, he smiled to himself as he bounded up the concrete stairs that led to the imposing front entrance to her home.

The woman who opened the door to him, though, was anything but cool and his own body heated in appreciation at the transformation. Wrapped—there really was no other way to describe the way her dress clung to her body—in vibrant red, with her silver-blond hair drawn up into a loose twist off her neck and with her lips painted a luscious tone to match her dress, she was a far cry from the fragile, wounded female in jeans and a T-shirt he’d met in the gardens today.

He took a moment to take in the full effect of her stunning beauty. From top to toe she was the whole package—a package that sent a jolt of pure lust burning through his body.

“You look amazing,” he blurted with all the finesse of a randy twelfth grader heading to senior prom.

“Thank you,” she replied, her full lips pulling into a tempting curve. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

He offered her his arm. “Shall we go?”

Her fingertips seared through the fine cotton of his shirt as she rested her hand elegantly on his forearm. “Where are we going?”

He named a restaurant that clearly garnered her immediate approval.

“Very nice, I haven’t been there in a while,” she said with a nod of her head.

Intimate and with excellent food, Marcus knew the place was exalted by food lovers who moved in only the best social circles. There was usually a waiting list to get through its hallowed doors but he hadn’t scholarshipped his way through the best prep schools and colleges in Boston without learning a thing or two about contacts. A quick call to an influential old college roommate, who now worked in the financial sector here in London, and the reservation had been a fait accompli.

Marcus handed Avery into the passenger seat of the car and as he settled himself behind the wheel she turned to speak to him.

“You okay driving on the left-hand side of the road?”

“I got here safely enough, didn’t I?” he answered with a smile. “Seriously though, I come to the U.K. fairly often, you’re safe with me.”

Safe enough in the car perhaps, he amended silently. What happened during dinner and, hopefully after, was another thing entirely. And there it was, that intense burning need for her, rocketing through his veins—and other parts of him. Parts he fully intended to ignore, but they were not so easily disregarded. His body thrummed with awareness of her presence beside him, of the subtle floral fragrance she wore that tempted him to find out if she tasted as sweet as she smelled. Marcus’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel, as he forced himself back under control. There was plenty of time to indulge in how she made him feel. For now he simply had to ensure that she’d be open to further discussion. He wasn’t about to let physical desire stand in the way of garnering the most influential sale of his career.

Traffic was surprisingly light as they drove toward the restaurant. Gliding the car to a halt in front of the valet stand, Marcus quickly alighted and went around to Avery’s door to help her from the vehicle, relishing the opportunity to watch her long slender legs as she swung them out of the car. Avery gracefully rose on silver spike-heeled sandals that did all kinds of wicked things to his imagination, and Marcus was struck anew by her almost ethereal beauty.

Heads turned as they were ushered in through the front door. The maître d’ greeted them both by name. He shouldn’t have been surprised. While his research had told him that Avery grew up every inch a privileged, although shy, sun-kissed California girl, she’d spent considerable time the past few years on the charity circuit between L.A. and here. Until her father’s sudden illness, that was. After that, she’d dropped out of circulation, not reappearing in the public eye until now, months after Forrest Cullen’s death. An unexpected surge of protectiveness welled up inside him as those turning heads, one by one, swiveled back to their dinner companions, the buzz of conversation suddenly rising in the rarified atmosphere of the restaurant.

Always one to take the bull by the horns, Marcus inclined his head to Avery’s and whispered in her ear, “Looks like you’ve just become the main topic of conversation, hmm?”

She nodded, a brief jerk of her slender neck. The action seemed totally at odds with her innate poise and beauty. “Some people never did have anything better to do.”

Even though she’d brushed off the reaction of the restaurant patrons, the hint of bitterness in her tone spoke volumes and he realized what an ordeal it had been for her to walk past the other tables. Her hand had tightened on his arm the moment she’d been recognized and he’d felt her relief when they were shown to their table for two, set off in an intimate alcove near the rear of the restaurant.

“From their reactions I’d say it looks like it’s been a while since you’ve been in circulation,” he said carefully after they’d been seated and provided with menus. He didn’t want her to know that he’d investigated her so thoroughly.

“I haven’t been out much,” she said carefully. “It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be—to drop out of circulation, I mean.”

He reached a hand across the table, lightly brushing her forearm. “Thank you for coming out with me tonight.”

He felt, rather than saw, her reaction to his touch. The way her skin tautened beneath his fingertips, tiny goose bumps rising as if a shiver had passed through her body. Her gaze locked with his and he saw the flare of sensual awareness that blazed deep within her eyes. Eyes that were suddenly molten, before she obviously shut down the feeling as effectively as if she’d been doused in a glacier-fed lake. Giving an internal shrug, Marcus decided not to pursue her reaction just yet. After all, it didn’t take him closer to his goal and it had clearly disturbed her. He wasn’t quite sure which of those reasons struck him most strongly—his need to secure the sale of the Cullen Collection, or the near overwhelming urge to further explore the burgeoning awareness that pulsed between them.

* * *

“It was nice to be asked,” she said, simply fighting to maintain her composure.

Inside, however, was a different story. She was shocked at how such a simple gesture could cause such a riotous reaction. His caress had been light, impersonal even, and yet it felt as if a thousand tiny energy bolts danced under her skin. Her eyes flew up to meet his. In the subdued lighting of the restaurant they were a darker green than she remembered, more like the mesmerizing glow of a flawless emerald. She felt her internal muscles clench on a rise of intense physical interest.

Marcus Price was dangerous. Not only was he a threat to her equilibrium, he was very definitely a man on a mission. She couldn’t afford to lower her guard or who knew what he might get her to agree to do.

It had been a long time since anyone had shown her attention that wasn’t aimed at garnering something back for the donor. She never used to care all that much. She had a few close friends and a far wider group of acquaintances who she could rely on for a fun time. But when her father became ill, and the seriousness of his illness became apparent, she’d realized how shallow she’d allowed her life to become. And it had opened her eyes to the truth that the only person she honestly could rely on was herself—provided she remained true to herself all the time.

She’d meant what she’d said. It was nice to be asked. Prior to her father’s illness, her group of friends had formed a habit of directing her to wherever they happened to be. Her sheltered upbringing had only served to feed her natural shyness and insecurities and she’d initially welcomed their direction. Perhaps her behavior had been born out of her own desire to be a part of something, anything—to simply belong. But they’d been using her in their own way, and she’d let them. Convincing herself she enjoyed their company, the endlessly dull nights of partying, picking up the tab at the end of the evening without so much as batting an eyelid. Oh, yes, she’d been popular all right.

A hint of bitterness lingered on her tongue at the memory. She’d been so hopelessly naive. Would Marcus be any different than the others? she wondered. Would he expect her to pick up the tab for tonight? Well, she could only wait and see. He’d stated his reasons for seeing her right from the start and despite her rather unnerving reaction to him, she knew exactly where she stood. Marcus Price was in for a surprise if he thought he could railroad her into doing anything she didn’t want to.

He was unexpectedly good company and Avery was impressed by Marcus’s astute observations on the art world. She could hear it in his voice, his enthusiasm for his profession and his determination to succeed. But there was more to his drive to move up the ranks within Waverly’s—he genuinely loved and appreciated the works he handled. His appreciation for them was obvious in his every word.

Growing up as she had, she’d been surrounded by genuine art lovers as well as those who only saw art as an investment opportunity. She knew well how to tell the difference. Her father had been an intriguing combination of the two, a fact that had made him sought out by individuals, museums and galleries alike for his opinion on specific works.

Marcus seemed to have many of her dad’s qualities when it came to discussing specific works. He was knowledgeable and perceptive in his remarks, but most of all—perhaps most disconcertingly—he was passionate, too. By the time they were sipping coffee and lingering over the simple dessert of mixed fresh berries and cream he’d ordered for them to share she found herself not wanting the evening to end.

Nothing like her usual escorts, he’d only had one glass of wine through dinner and, more importantly, hadn’t pressed her to continue drinking when he himself had stopped. His solicitousness had come as a surprise. From the brief phone call she’d had from him last month, and the subsequent calls and emails she’d avoided, he’d struck her as being both pushy and persistent. And yet tonight he’d been anything but.

As he gestured to the waiter for their bill she found herself wishing she’d met him under different circumstances. Circumstances that didn’t involve his trying to procure her father’s collection. On that thought she realized she’d allowed herself to be lulled into beginning to think there was more to this evening than there could be. But, she reminded herself sternly, the Marcus Prices of this world usually operated on one agenda. She was a conduit to what he wanted. She had no illusions about that.

The waiter laid the discreet black-leather wallet containing their bill on the table between them. Avery went to reach for it, out of habit, but Marcus’s hand settled heavily upon hers.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, an odd expression on his face that was part confusion and part injured-male pride.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m picking up the tab, of course.”

“No, you are not,” he said firmly, lifting her hand from the bill. “I can’t believe you thought I’d ask you out to dinner and expect you to pay.”

“I’m more than happy to split the check. It’s been a lovely evening.”

“Avery, I asked you as my guest. Even if I hadn’t, I still wouldn’t expect you to pay for anything.”

He slotted his credit card inside the wallet and nodded as the waiter returned to lift it from the table.

“Ah, yes,” she said, “this is a business expense for you, after all.”

He shot her another look, and this time there was no mistaking the irritation on his face. “Is that what you think?”

“Well, isn’t it?” she challenged.

He sat back in his chair, his eyes never leaving her face. He gave a short, sharp nod. “It might have started that way,” he conceded.

Avery felt a surge of hope swell inside her. Started that way? So where did that leave them now? Was he as attracted to her as she was to him? The waiter returned, preventing Marcus from saying anything further and she watched as he signed his name on the chit with a flourish, adding a tip in cash at the same time.

“Come on,” he said, rising from the table. “I think we should go.”

She’d offended him, she just knew it. Aside from placing his hand possessively at the small of her back as they left the restaurant and waited for the valet to bring his car around, he said nothing. He saw her settled into the soft leather of her seat before again taking the wheel and driving back toward her home. When he pulled up outside the front entrance she quickly unbuckled her seat belt and turned to face him.

“Marcus, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

He looked steadily back at her and she saw the exact moment the irritation he’d been bristling with left him. He raised one hand to her cheek, his fingertips a featherlight touch on her skin. A touch that left her wanting more, wanting him.

“No, it’s my fault,” he said. “You were right. I did have an ulterior motive when I suggested we go out together. I didn’t expect it to change into something else, that’s all.”

“S-something else?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, leaning forward to close the distance between them. “This.”

The hand that had been touching her cheek slid around to cup the back of her neck before his lips gently descended. The instant his mouth touched hers she gasped a soft sound of surrender. His kiss was sweet, almost over before it had begun but it was enough to leave her senses reeling, her breath uneven in a chest that suddenly felt constricted.

“I want to see you again, Avery,” he whispered, resting his forehead against hers, his warm hand still cupping the back of her head, his fingers gently massaging her sensitized skin.

Everything inside her screamed yes! But caution urged her to refuse him. She’d sworn she wouldn’t allow herself to be used again, to be surrounded by fair-weather friends who only wanted whatever she could provide without giving anything, not even loyalty, in return. She thought carefully about how Marcus had been at dinner. Entertaining, solicitous, kind, even. Pushy? No. Nor did he badger her about the collection. Maybe he was different than the others. Maybe he genuinely wanted her. Hopefully about as much as she wanted him—as much as she had, in all honesty, since the first time she laid eyes on him. There was only one way she’d find out. Was she prepared to take that risk?

Avery drew in a shaky breath before replying. “I’d like that. Tomorrow?”

“Sure, tomorrow it is. I have some gallery visits scheduled for the morning but how about I stop by after lunch?”

“Perfect. I’ll be here.”

He waited in the car as she ascended the stairs and let herself in the front door, waving back briefly in response to her salute as she stood illuminated by the overhead light. And as he started the car and headed back down the driveway, Avery wondered whether she’d done the right thing. Was she setting herself up for failure? Or could he turn out to be the best thing that had happened to her in a very, very long time?

Four

Sleep remained elusive all night long and by the time the sun began to show its face, in all its golden splendor, Avery was relieved to be able to push back her tumbled sheets and head for the pool downstairs. A set of punishing laps would clear her head, and maybe go some way to ridding her body of the nervous tension that held her in its grip.

What had she been thinking last night? She’d had one glass of wine—one!—and yet she’d been putty in his hands. Worse, she had wanted to be putty in his hands.

Avery slipped on a jewel-blue one-piece suit and raced down the stairs to the basement lap pool her father had had installed several years ago. She dove immediately into the water and powered straight to the end, flipping neatly and heading back the way she’d come. Again and again, end over end, until her muscles were screaming for surcease. Even then, she pushed herself another four laps before dragging herself from the water and lying on the tiled edge, her chest heaving with the need for more oxygen. Eventually her body calmed, but her mind was not as acquiescent. She still couldn’t get Marcus Price out of her thoughts, and with those thoughts came that tension all over again.

She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her before heading back to her room to shower and change. Once dressed in her habitual jeans and a clean T-shirt, she went to her studio and gathered her things. The day had dawned bright and clear and she was determined to make the most of the light that Marcus had pointed out was so lacking in her painting. Never one for breakfast, she knew Mrs. Jackson would bring out fresh coffee and a muffin or scone to her later in the morning and she wanted to get a good start before then.

After yesterday’s gloom and cloud, today’s sunshine was a delightful contrast and the warmth filled her with a new vigor. The new gardener was busy already, thinning out the spent roses, and Avery could already see the progress he’d made on the weeds that tenaciously asserted their presence. Seeing her father’s favorite garden being restored to its former glory filled her with happiness although, even here, he hadn’t allowed Avery too close.

She didn’t remember her mother ever working out here—she’d died when Avery was only five. But her father had told her of her mother’s joy in planning the garden, how hands-on she’d been in its planting, how closely she’d supervised the garden staff to ensure her precious plants received the care she knew they deserved. Those memories had driven him out here again and again, striving perhaps to rediscover the closeness he’d shared with his dead wife for far too short a time.

Avery’s favorite memories of this garden had included a small but perfect marble-angel statue—one to which she’d poured her child’s heart out to as her mother grew less and less accessible. Diagnosed with cancer during her pregnancy with Avery, Sybil Cullen had eschewed treatment until her baby girl had been born, only then embracing all that the medical professionals could offer her. It had given her five years with her treasured daughter and Avery had always associated the statue with her mother. She’d been devastated to come to the garden a few weeks after her mother’s funeral to find the statue gone.

Apparently, deeply depressed after his wife’s death, Forrest Cullen had found its presence to be an angelic reminder of his own personal tragedy and that nothing ever remained the same. He’d sold it with no compunction. On finding his daughter desolately sobbing in the garden when she should have been safely tucked up in bed, he had been shaken to learn just how fond of the statue Avery had been. He’d done his best to buy it back but had eventually given up as it appeared to have disappeared from the art world without a trace. Avery had recently set up a message board on the internet to try to discover the statue. She was prepared to pay just about anything to get it back where it belonged.

Strangely enough that had been how she’d met her new gardener—through the forum, created specifically for tracing art and antiquities, where she’d established her message board. When he’d first made contact with her, he’d apparently been working on a ranch back in the States. It was only after she’d posted photos of the garden from her mother’s time, and then from today, that he’d mentioned he was planning to travel to London and offered a few weeks of his time to help her get the garden back in order.

Frustrated by her own lack of progress in the garden, Avery had gone out on a limb and hired him as a casual gardener without checking references or credentials or anything. From what she could tell so far, his only fault was the fact he was a bit of a drifter, but then establishing a home and hearth wasn’t for everyone. Being a homebody herself, she couldn’t imagine a life like his. She shook her head and wondered how strange it would feel to come from all that glorious space on a ranch to something as enclosed as a Kensington garden. Either way, she was grateful he’d made the transition. He’d already made great inroads.

She set up her easel and set to work, humming a tune while she did so.

“You sound happy,” a deep male voice drawled from the shrubbery. “Always good to hear.”

Avery watched as her newest employee straightened from beneath the foliage and rose to his full height. Astonishing clear blue eyes met hers out from under a thoroughly disreputable hat that should probably have been confiscated by border control. He looked to be in his sixties and his rangy, fit build spoke of a man who’d done some hard physical labor in his time.

He wiped one hand on a pair of well-worn denims and tipped his hat to her.

“Good morning, Miss Cullen. She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

“Good morning to you, too, Mr. Wells. It looks as if it will be a lovely day. I see you’ve been busy already.”

“Please, call me Ted,” he corrected her with a smile that made her suddenly think of silver-screen stars from the fifties. Persuasive, perfectly handsome, yet with that edge of devil-may-care lurking about the edges. “So,” he said, rocking back on his heels, “are you always this happy when you work?”

She felt the uncomfortable heat of a blush stain her cheeks. It really was none of his business but for some reason she felt compelled to confide in him. Goodness knew she didn’t really have anyone else. She didn’t want to impose on Macy, who was busy planning her wedding and, with renovations on the inn she’d converted into a drama school complete, she was now looking at opening the school. Macy’s days were busy enough without being worried by what might or might not happen between Avery and Marcus. Avery’s only other potential confidante, Mrs. Jackson, was so protective of her she was just as likely to scold Avery for even thinking of spending time with Marcus, and she definitely wasn’t in the mood for that.

From their first meeting online in the art forum and during their subsequent discussions over the past couple of months, and then in person a few days ago when he’d arrived for his first day of work, he’d struck her as the type of guy who’d hold a confidence close to his chest.

“I’ve met someone,” she said, almost shyly. “I don’t really know if it’ll go anywhere.”

“What’s he like? Do you trust him?”

She shrugged. “Good question. I barely know him except for the fact he’s tenacious.”

“That can be a good thing.”

“And a bad one, too. He wants to represent my father’s art collection at sale, and he won’t listen when I say it’s definitely not for sale.”

“You have your father’s collection here?” Ted asked, tilting his hat back a bit off his forehead.

“No, it’s back in L.A.”

“Any particular reason you don’t want to sell it? Don’t you think he’ll do a good enough job?”

Avery pressed her lips together before answering. Why did everyone think she should just let the collection go? Didn’t they understand what it had meant to her dad?

“He’s with Waverly’s. I don’t doubt they’d do a very professional job, but as to my reason for not wanting to sell, it’s personal,” she answered, not bothering to hide the note of irritation that tainted her words.

Ted Wells cracked a half smile and nodded. “Personal is good enough. I’ve heard of Waverly’s, they seem to know their stuff. You know, if this guy is with them, maybe you should ask him to help you track down that statue you’ve been looking for. With his contacts he might be able to succeed where you’ve struggled to find information in the past. Plus, if he’s willing to help you, it might show whether his character is true.”

Avery considered his words. As old-fashioned as the term character was, Ted very well might be right. She suddenly felt churlish for sounding so annoyed just a moment ago.

“Look, I’m sorry if I sounded rude.”

“No problem, you don’t want to let the collection go. That’s fine.”

“Sometimes I feel like it’s all I have left of my father, y’know? He loved it so much,” she found herself blurting out.

Compassion filled the older man’s eyes. “You think he didn’t love you as much?”

His words pulled no punches, they forced Avery to search deep into her heart for the truth. Sure, there’d been times when she’d felt unloved, what child didn’t at one stage or another? Perhaps her father hadn’t been as demonstrative as she would have liked, perhaps he’d been distant but he’d still been her father. Deep down, she knew he had loved her.

Ted bent to clear a section of weeds that poked through a herbaceous border and continued talking without waiting for her reply. “Paintings are only things. I’m pretty sure that your dad’s love for you was more than just a thing. I was never lucky enough to have kids, but I’d hope that if I had they’d know that no matter what, my love was something they could hold in their hearts and minds forever. Love’s like that, y’know?”

There was more than a grain of truth in what Ted said.

“So you think I should let them go?”

Ted shrugged and reached for the shears hanging on his belt loop, taking his time to snip a couple of dead stems off a nearby hydrangea. “That’s not for me to say. From what you’ve told me before, I’d hazard a guess that your father’d be sorry if he knew the paintings weren’t able to be appreciated by people who’d enjoy them like he had.”

There was something soothing in the measured way Ted spoke. Even though they’d only met online before today, and shared the briefest of phone calls establishing when he could start work in the garden, she felt as if he’d been around for a whole lot longer.

Avery sighed. “You’re probably right. I just don’t know if I’m ready.”

Ted nodded. “You’ll know when, or even if, it’s the right time. They say Waverly’s is supposed to be one of the best so, if you do decide to sell, the collection will be in the right hands when the time comes. In the meantime, think about getting that young man of yours to find the angel for you.”

“Oh, he’s not my young man,” she protested. Not yet, anyway, a tiny voice whispered inside her mind. “But I’ll think about your suggestion. Thanks.”

“Anytime,” he said, gathering up the weeds and cuttings and loading them into a wheelbarrow. “If you need me I’ll be working around the front of the house for a few hours.”

When he was gone, Avery turned to her painting, giving it her most critical eye. Marcus had been one hundred percent right about what was wrong with it. Not to mention his observation that her heart wasn’t fully invested in the rendition of the garden. She let her gaze wander to the spot where the angel statue had once stood, seeing it as clearly in her mind’s eye as if it hadn’t been gone for the past nineteen years. The soft, almost fleshlike tones of the marble, the graceful sweep of the angel’s wings, the way the arms had curved gently in the air as if plucking some precious unseen thing from the sky.

Without thought she reached for her palette and her paintbrushes, hooking them both deftly with her thumb as with her other hand she squeezed tubes of paint onto the scarred and paint-stained wooden surface of her palette. Time lost all meaning as she started to paint, putting back what should never have been lost all those years ago. Vaguely she was aware of Mrs. Jackson’s call that her morning tea was on the terrace, but she continued to work, oblivious to time and the gnawing ache that started to grow in her stomach.

* * *

Marcus strolled along the path toward the garden where the housekeeper had told him Avery had been painting all morning. He sensed he’d made an ally when, after hearing her muttered comment about Avery not eating yet today, he’d said he’d make sure she came in for lunch.

Bees buzzed from bloom to bloom along the path, collecting the last of the pollen. Marcus had never really stopped to consider the seasons before. His life in New York was busy, sometimes even frenetic, and the change of seasons was, for him, marked by how heavy his coat was and how disrupted, or not, traffic was by snow. Stepping into this garden made him more aware of time passing, of how some things such as the spent annual plantings were at their end and of how other plants would continue on, forever green no matter the season.

It was philosophical thought of the type he didn’t usually indulge in, but with it came the strong reminder that nothing remained the same—ever. If life could be defined by seasons, his grandfather was well into his autumnal years. Which didn’t leave Marcus a great deal of time to restore Lovely Woman to where it belonged.

He’d been honest with Avery last night when he’d said that he’d started the evening with a specific motive but that motive had faded into obscurity when he found himself purely enjoying her company. But he couldn’t afford to be so distracted, not again.

Avery paused in her work as he drew near and, still unaware of his approach, stepped back to gain a fresh perspective on what she was doing. He could see she’d been busy on the painting, and her skill was apparent in the improvements he could see even from this distance.

“That’s looking great,” he commented as he drew alongside her.

She turned to him with a happy smile on her face. “It just feels right now. Thanks for your suggestions yesterday.”

“I don’t remember suggesting this,” he said, pointing to the angel statue that now formed the focal point of the canvas. “It’s not a part of the garden, but it seems to belong here in the picture.”

“That’s the point.” She sighed. “It does belong there.”

Her face took on a melancholy expression that saw his protective instincts rise firmly to the fore again. “It makes you sad—why?”

“The angel statue was a wedding gift to my parents from my mother’s family. I don’t know exactly how old the statue was, or where it came from originally. My father sold it after my mother died. Too many painful memories for him, I guess. I was five then, and I got really upset when I realized it was gone.”

“Unusual for a five-year-old to get so upset about a statue,” Marcus commented, struck by her sudden vulnerability.

She shrugged. “I suppose I was a bit unusual. I know I was a lonely child, except when I was out here, in the garden, with my imagination. My mother was ill for most of the time I knew her and in the six months before she died I was pretty much left to my own devices.”

His indignation must have shown on his face because she hastened to elaborate.

“Don’t get me wrong. There were plenty of staff assigned to my care. I had a nanny, and Mrs. Jackson was already the housekeeper here back then and she used to look out for me all the time.”

“What about your father?”

“He spent as much time as he could with my mother. They were devoted to each other.”

Marcus turned away. He found it a stretch of the imagination that a couple could be so devoted to one another that they neglected their only child. It was no better than his own parents, who’d been so selfish and enslaved by drugs, needing his grandfather to take care of him. Either way, it wasn’t right.

“You spent a lot of time in the garden?” he forced himself to ask.

Avery nodded, a nostalgic smile on her face. “It was my wonderland. I could hide with my coloring pencils and my paper under the tree over there, and when I needed to talk to someone, the angel was always there to listen.”

Suddenly he understood why she had been so distraught when the statue had been taken away. She was an only child and, obviously, a very solitary one. It had been her friend.

“What happened to it?”

“Dad put it in the hands of his broker who found a buyer for it straightaway. By the time he found out how upset I was about it being gone, it had already changed hands again, and the seller didn’t have the contact details for whomever purchased it. I have no idea where it is now, or even if it still exists.”

She put her palette and brushes down then stretched her neck and rotated her shoulders, as if working out the kinks. His hands itched to reach out and massage them for her, to ease the taut muscles and replace her tension with something else. He fisted his hands and pushed them into his trouser pockets.

“Have you looked for it?”

“Oh, yes.” She nodded vigorously. “Dad kept the bills of sale for everything that he bought or sold over the years, together with full descriptions of each item—it makes up quite a history when you go through them all. But even with copies of the identifying marks and old photos, I haven’t been able to find a trace of it. I even set up message boards on several art and antiquities sites asking for help, but no luck.” She laughed. “Oh, except in finding a new gardener!”

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