He gave a humourless smile in recognition of that mockery.
‘I doubt very much that you’ve seen the last of me, Mac.’
She raised dark brows. ‘I sincerely hope that you’re wrong about that.’
His smile deepened. ‘I rarely am when it comes to matters of business.’
‘Modest too,’ Mac scorned. ‘Is there no end to your list of talents?’ She snorted delicately. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Mr Buchanan.’ She didn’t wait for his reply to her statement but moved to cross the room to where she realised Magnus had discreetly been trying to attract her attention for the past few minutes.
Jonas stood unmoving as he watched her progress slowly across the room, stopping occasionally to greet people she knew. Unlike her behaviour towards him, the smiles Mac bestowed on the other guests were warm and relaxed, the huskiness of her laugh a soft caress to the senses, and revealing small, even white teeth against those full and red-glossed lips.
The tight-fitting silk dress emphasised the rounded curve of her bottom as she moved, and the slit up the side of the gown revealed the shapely length of her thigh. Jonas scowled his disapproval as he saw that most of the men in the room were also watching her, with one persistent man even grasping her wrist and trying to engage her in conversation before she laughingly managed to extricate herself and walked away to join Magnus Laywood.
‘So what did you make of our little artist…?’
Jonas turned to look at Amy, compressing his mouth in irritation as he realised he had been so engrossed in watching Mac that he hadn’t noticed his cousin’s approach. A tall and beautiful redhead, with a temper to match, Jonas’s maternal cousin wasn’t a woman men usually overlooked!
‘What did I think of Mary McGuire?’ Jonas played for time as he was still too surprised at his reaction to the artist’s change in appearance to be able to formulate a satisfactory answer to Amy’s archly voiced question. ‘She seems…a little young, to have engendered all this interest,’ he drawled with bored lack of interest as he took two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and handed one of them to his cousin.
‘Young but brilliant,’ Amy assured him unreservedly as she sipped the chilled wine.
‘High praise indeed,’ Jonas mused; his cousin wasn’t known for her effusiveness when it came to her job as art critic for The Individual.
Amy linked her arm with his encouragingly. ‘Come and look at some of her paintings.’
Mac continued to chat lightly with a collector who had expressed a serious interest in buying one of the paintings on display, at the same time completely aware of Jonas Buchanan and his cousin as they moved slowly through the two-roomed gallery to view her work.
It was impossible to tell from Jonas’s expression what he thought of her paintings, those blue eyes hooded as he studied each canvas, his mouth unsmiling as he murmured in soft reply to Amy Walters’s comments.
He probably hated them, Mac accepted heavily as she politely tried to refer the flirtatious collector to Jeremy for the more serious discussion over price. No doubt Jonas preferred modern art as opposed to her more ethereal style and bright but slightly muted use of colour. No doubt he had only agreed to accompany his cousin this evening in the first place because he had known that by doing so he would undermine Mac’s confidence.
He needn’t have bothered—Mac already hated all of this! She disliked the artificiality. Found the inane chatter tiresome. And she found herself especially irritated by the opportunistic collector she now realised was unobtrusively trying to place his hand on her bottom…
Mac moved sharply away from him, her eyes snapping with indignation at the uninvited familiarity. ‘I’m sure that you’ll find Jeremy will be only too happy to help with any further questions you might have.’
The middle-aged man chuckled meaningfully as he moved closer. ‘He isn’t my type!’
Mac frowned her discomfort, at a complete loss as to how to deal with this situation without causing a scene. Something she knew was out of the question with a dozen or so reporters also present in the room.
In their own individual ways Jeremy and Magnus had worked as hard on producing this exhibition this evening as Mac had. If she were to slap this obnoxious man’s face, as she was so tempted to do, then the headlines in some of tomorrow’s newspapers would read ‘Artist slaps buyer’s face!’ instead of any praise or constructive criticism on her actual work.
She gave a shake of her head. ‘I really don’t think—’
‘Sorry to have been gone so long, darling,’ Jonas Buchanan interrupted smoothly as his arm moved firmly about Mac’s waist to pull her securely against his side. He gave the other man a challenging smile, those compelling blue eyes as hard as the sapphires they resembled. ‘It’s rather crowded in here, isn’t it?’
‘I—yes.’ The older and shorter man looked disconcerted by this unmistakable show of possessiveness. ‘I—If you will both excuse me? I’ll take your advice, Mac, and go and discuss the details with Jeremy.’ He turned to hurriedly disappear into the crowd.
Mac found that she was trembling in reaction—and was totally at a loss to know if it was caused by the unpleasantness of the last minute or so, or because Jonas still held her so firmly against him that she was totally aware of the hard warmth of his powerful body…
Jonas took one look down at Mac’s white face before his arm tightened about her waist and he turned her towards the entrance to the gallery. ‘Let’s get some air,’ he suggested as he all but lifted her off the floor to carry her across the room and out of the door into the icy cold night. Something he instantly realised was a mistake as he could see by the street-lamp how Mac had begun to shiver in the thin silk dress. ‘Here.’ He slipped off his jacket to place it about her shoulders, his thumbs brushing lightly against the warm swell of her breasts as he stood in front of her to pull the lapels together.
Her eyes were huge as she looked up at him. ‘Now you’re going to be cold.’
She looked like a little girl playing dress-up with the shoulders of Jonas’s jacket drooping down at the sides and the bulky garment reaching almost down to her knees. Except there was nothing childlike about the sudden awareness that darkened those smoky-grey eyes, or the temptation of those parted red-glossed lips as she breathed shallowly.
‘How old are you really?’ Jonas rasped harshly.
She blinked. ‘I—What does that have to do with anything?’
He gave an impatient shrug of his shoulders. ‘When I met you the other night you looked like someone’s little sister. Tonight you look—well, tonight you look more like most men wished their best friend’s little sister looked!’
She tilted that long elegant neck as she looked up at him. ‘And how is that?’ she prompted huskily.
This is a bad idea, Buchanan, Jonas cautioned himself. A very, very bad idea, he warned firmly even as his fascinated gaze remained fixed on those moist and parted lips.
A taste. He just wanted a taste of those sexy red lips—
Hell, no!
He was trying to transact a business deal with this woman, and he made a point of never mixing business with pleasure. And Jonas had no doubts it would have been very pleasurable to touch and taste those full and pouting lips with his own…
His expression was deliberately taunting as he looked down at her. ‘In that dress you look like a woman who’s ready for hot and wild sex.’
Mac’s eyes widened as she gasped at the insult. ‘I’ll wear what I damn well please!’
That blue gaze moved deliberately down to the split in the side of her dress that revealed the long, bare length of her silky thigh. ‘Obviously.’
‘You’re no better than the idiot whose attentions you just appeared to save me from,’ she accused furiously as she pulled his jacket from about her shoulders and almost threw it back at him before turning on her heel and marching back into the gallery without so much as a second glance.
Rude. Obnoxious. Insulting. Rat!
‘I DON’T give a damn whether Mr Buchanan is busy or not,’ an angry voice—that unfortunately Jonas recognised only too well!—snapped in the outer office of his London headquarters at nine-thirty on Monday morning. ‘No, I have no intention of making an appointment. I want to talk to him now!’ The door between the two rooms was flung open as Mac burst into Jonas’s office.
Jonas barely had time to register her appearance, in a fitted black jumper and faded hipster blue denims, her hair a silken ebony curtain over her shoulders and down the length of her spine, before she marched over to stand in front of his desk, her cheeks flushed and eyes fever bright as she glared across at him.
She looked like a feral cat—and just as ready to spit and claw!
Jonas tilted his head sideways in order to look over at his secretary as she stood hesitantly in the doorway. ‘There’s no need to call Security, Mandy,’ he drawled. ‘I’m sure Miss McGuire won’t be staying long…’ He looked up enquiringly at Mac as he added that last statement.
Her eyes narrowed menacingly and she seemed to literally breathe fire at him. ‘Long enough to tell you exactly what I think of you and your strong-arm tactics, at least!’ she snarled.
‘Thanks, Mandy,’ Jonas dismissed his secretary, waiting until she had quietly left the room before looking back at Mac. ‘You appear to be a little…distraught, this morning?’
‘Distraught!’ she echoed incredulously. ‘I’m furious!’
Jonas could clearly see that. He just had no idea why that was.
Thankfully Amy had been ready to leave the gallery on Saturday evening when Jonas returned, allowing no opportunity for him and Mac to engage in any more arguments. Or to tempt Jonas into wanting to kiss her…
In the thirty-six hours since Jonas had last seen Mac, he had managed to convince himself that temptation had been an aberration on his part, a purely male reaction to the fact that she had looked as sexy as hell in that red silk dress.
Except that he now found himself facing the same temptation!
Mac wasn’t wearing any make-up today, and her hair was windblown, her clothes casual in the extreme—and yet he still found his gaze drawn again and again to the fullness of her tempting lips.
Jonas’s fingers tightened about the pen he was holding. ‘Perhaps you would care to tell me why you’re so furious?’ he asked harshly. ‘And what it has to do with me,’ he added.
‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m going to tell you exactly why,’ Mac promised. ‘And you know damn well what it has to do with you!’ she said accusingly.
Jonas raised his palms. ‘I really am very busy this morning, Mac—’
‘Do you have someone else you need to go and intimidate?’ she scorned. ‘Oh, I forgot—you usually leave that sort of thing to your underlings!’ She snorted disgustedly. ‘Well, let me assure you that I don’t scare that easily—’
‘Would you just calm down and tell me what the hell you’re talking about?’ he cut in coldly, those blue eyes glacial.
Mac was breathing hard, too upset still to heed the warning she could see in that chilling gaze. ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about—’
‘If I did, I would hardly be asking you to explain, now, would I?’ Jonas retorted.
Mac’s gaze narrowed. ‘You knew I wouldn’t be at home on Saturday evening because of the exhibition, and you shamelessly took advantage of that fact. You—’
He threw his pen down on the desktop before standing up impatiently. ‘Mac, if you don’t stop throwing out accusations, and just explain yourself, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’
The anger Mac was feeling had been brewing, growing, since she’d returned home on Saturday evening. Having no idea where Jonas Buchanan actually lived, she’d had to spend all of Sunday brooding too, with only the promise of being able to visit Jonas at his office first thing on Monday morning to sustain her. Having his secretary try to stonewall her had done nothing to improve Mac’s mood.
She drew in a controlling breath. ‘My studio was broken into on Saturday evening. But, then, you already knew that, didn’t you?’ she said pointedly. ‘You—’
‘Stop right there!’ Jonas thundered as he stepped out from behind his desk.
Mac instinctively took a step backwards as he towered over her, appearing very dark and threatening in a charcoal-grey suit, pale grey shirt and grey silk tie, with that overlong dark hair styled back from the chiselled perfection of his face.
Those sculptured lips firmed to a livid thin line. ‘You’re telling me that your studio was broken into while you were out at the exhibition on Saturday evening?’
‘You know that it was—’
‘Mac, if you’re going to continue to accuse me like this then I would seriously suggest that you have the evidence to back it up!’ he warned harshly. ‘Do you have that evidence?’ he pressed.
She shook her head. ‘The police didn’t find anything that would directly implicate you, no,’ she admitted grudgingly. ‘But then, they wouldn’t have done, would they?’ she rallied. ‘You’re much more clever—’
‘Mac!’
She blinked at the steely coldness Jonas managed to project into just that one word. Shivered slightly at the icy warning she could read in his expression.
But she didn’t care how cold and steely Jonas was, the break-in had to have been carried out by someone who worked for him. Who else would have bothered, would have a reason to break into a building that, from the outside, appeared almost derelict?
Jonas was hanging onto his own temper by a thread. Angered as much by the thought of someone having broken into Mac’s home at all, as at the accusations she was making about him being responsible for that break-in. She could so easily have been at home on Saturday evening. Could have been seriously hurt if she had disturbed the intruder.
He frowned. ‘Did they take anything?’
‘Not that I can see, no. But—’
‘Let’s just stick to the facts, shall we, Mac?’ Jonas bit out, a nerve pulsing in his tightly clenched jaw.
She eyed him warily. ‘The facts are that I arrived home late on Saturday evening to find my studio completely wrecked. The only consolation—if it can be called that!—is that at least all of my most recent work was at the gallery that evening.’
Jonas nodded. ‘So there was no real damage done?’
Mac’s eyes widened indignantly. ‘My home, my privacy, was invaded!’
And he could understand how upsetting that must have been for her. Must still be. But the facts were that neither Mac nor her property had actually come to any real harm.
He moved to sit on the side of his desk. ‘At least you had the sense to call the police.’
‘I’m not a complete moron!’
Jonas didn’t think that Mac was a moron at all. All evidence was to the contrary. ‘I don’t recall ever saying otherwise,’ he commented dryly.
‘You implied it, with your “at least” comment!’ She thrust her hands into the hip pockets of her denims, instantly drawing Jonas’s attention to the full and mature curve of her breasts beneath the fitted black sweater. Making a complete nonsense of how he had mistaken her for a young girl at their first meeting two days ago.
She was different again today, he realised ruefully. No longer the waif or the femme fatale, but a beautiful and attractive woman in her late twenties. A man could never become bored with Mac McGuire when he would never know on any given day which woman he was going to meet!
He sighed. ‘What conclusions did the police come to?’
She shrugged those narrow shoulders. ‘They seem to think it was kids having fun.’
Jonas grimaced. ‘Maybe they’re right—’
‘Kids don’t just break in, they steal things,’ Mac disagreed impatiently. ‘I have a forty-two-inch flat-screen television set, a new Blu-ray Disc player, a state-of-theart music system and dozens of CDs, and none of them were even touched.’
Jonas looked
intrigued. ‘So it was just your studio that was targeted?’
‘Just my studio?’ she repeated indignantly. ‘You just don’t understand, do you?’ she added as she turned away in disgust.
The problem for Jonas was that he did understand. He understood only too well. Having seen Mac’s work for himself on Saturday evening, he knew exactly how important her studio was to her. It was the place where she created beauty deep from within her. Where she poured out her soul onto canvas. To have that vandalised, wrecked, was the equivalent of attacking the inner, deeply emotional Mac.
His mouth firmed. ‘But you believe I’m responsible for what happened?’
Mac turned to eye him warily as she once again heard that underlying chill in Jonas’s tone, the warning against repeating her earlier accusations.
If Jonas wasn’t responsible, then who was? Not just who, but why? Nothing of value had been taken. In fact, the living-area part of her home hadn’t been touched. Only her studio had been vandalised. Surely whoever had done that would have to know her to realise that the studio was her heart and soul?
Which, as he didn’t know her, surely ruled out Jonas Buchanan as being the person responsible for the damage? After all, they had only met twice before this morning, and neither of those occasions had been in the least conducive to them gaining any personal insights about each other. Jonas certainly couldn’t know how much Mac’s studio meant to her.
She gave a weary shake of her head. ‘I don’t know what to believe any more…’
‘That’s something, I suppose,’ Jonas commented dryly. ‘Why don’t we start with the premise that neither I nor anyone I employ had anything to do with the break-in, and go from there?’ he suggested. ‘Who else could have reason for wanting to cause you this personal distress? Perhaps an artist rival, jealous of your success? Or maybe an ex-lover who didn’t go quietly?’ he added.
Mac’s eyes narrowed. ‘Very funny!’
Strangely, Jonas didn’t find his last suggestion in the least amusing. Especially when it was accompanied by vivid images of this woman’s naked body intimately entwined with another man, that ebony hair falling about the two of them like a silken curtain…
His Christmas Virgin Page 3
