A Silken Seduction

by Yvonne Lindsay

  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 naïveté, 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

  Yvonne Lindsay

  A Silken

  Seduction

  Books by Yvonne Lindsay

  Harlequin Desire

  Bought: His Temporary Fiancée #2078

  The Pregnancy Contract #2117

  ††The Wayward Son #2141

  ††A Forbidden Affair #2147

  A Silken Seduction #2180

  Silhouette Desire

  *The Boss’s Christmas Seduction #1758

  *The CEO’s Contract Bride #1776

  *The Tycoon’s Hidden Heir #1788

  Rossellini’s Revenge Affair #1811

  Tycoon’s Valentine Vendetta #1854

  Jealousy & A Jewelled Proposition #1873

  Claiming His Runaway Bride #1890

  †Convenient Marriage, Inconvenient Husband #1923

  †Secret Baby, Public Affair #1930

  †Pretend Mistress, Bona Fide Boss #1937

  Defiant Mistress, Ruthless Millionaire #1986

  **Honor-Bound Groom #2029

  **Stand-In Bride’s Seduction #2038

  **For the Sake of the Secret Child #2044

  *New Zealand Knights

  †Rogue Diamonds

  **Wed at Any Price

  ††The Master Vintners

  Other titles by this author available in ebook format.

  YVONNE LINDSAY

  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.

  * * *

  The Highest Bidder

  At this high-stakes auction house,

  where everything is for sale,

  true love is priceless.

  Don’t miss a single story in this new continuity

  from Harlequin Desire!

  Gilded Secrets by Maureen Child

  Exquisite Acquistions by Charlene Sands

  A Silken Seduction by Yvonne Lindsay

  A Precious Inheritance by Paula Roe

  The Rogue’s Fortune by Cat Schield

  A Golden Betrayal by Barbara Dunlop

  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

  The Gold Heart Part-3

  Excerpt

  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 abou
t 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 i
n 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.