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 They’d all withdrawn from her.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
