was! ‘Will a credit card do?’ he snapped as he reached into the breast pocket of his overcoat for his wallet.
‘I’m afraid not.’
Jonas’s hand stilled. ‘Why not?’
She shrugged in that ridiculously baggy pink cardigan. ‘I need something with a photograph. Anyone could have a credit card with the name Jonas Buchanan printed on it.’
‘You think I forged a credit card with Jonas Buchanan’s name on it?’ Jonas was incredulous.
‘Or stole it.’ She nodded. ‘I would much rather see a passport or a driver’s licence with a photograph on,’ she stubbornly stuck to her guns.
Jonas’s mouth compressed. ‘On the basis, one supposes, that I haven’t had either one of those forged in the name of Jonas Buchanan, too?’
She frowned. ‘Hmm, I hadn’t thought of that…’
No, he definitely shouldn’t have given into impulse and come here this evening, Jonas acknowledged with ever-growing frustration as he pulled out the passport that he hadn’t yet had the chance to remove from his pocket following his flight back from Sydney yesterday. He had stupidly allowed his success in Australia to convince him, after months of getting nowhere with the woman, that talking personally to Miss McGuire was the right way to handle this delicate situation!
‘Here.’ He thrust the passport at her.
Mac carefully avoided her fingers coming into contact with his as she took the passport and turned to the laminated photo page. Unlike her own passport photo, where she looked about sixteen and as if she ought to have a prisoner number printed beneath, this man’s photograph showed him as exactly the lethally attractive and powerful man that he appeared in the flesh.
She quickly checked the details beside that photograph. Jonas Edward Buchanan. British citizen. His date of birth telling Mac that he had recently turned thirty-five.
She thought quickly as she slowly closed the passport before handing it back to him, knowing she could continue this game, and so annoy the hell out of this man, or…‘What can I do for you, Mr Buchanan?’ she asked politely.
‘Better,’ he rasped impatiently as he stashed the passport back in his breast pocket. ‘Obviously you and I need to talk, Miss McGuire—’
‘I don’t see why.’ Mac brushed past him and began to ascend the stairs back up to her home, seeing no reason for her to linger out here in the cold now that she knew—or, at least, assumed—that this man wasn’t about to mug her, after all. ‘I’ll be turning the light out at the top of the stairs in a minute or so; before I do, you might want to get back to the main streets where it’s more brightly lit,’ she advised without turning as she took the key from the pocket of her dungarees to unlock the door.
Jonas continued to look up at her in seething annoyance for a mere fraction of a second before following her, taking the stairs two at a time until he stood directly behind her. ‘You and I need to talk,’ he bit out between gritted teeth.
‘Write me a letter,’ she advised as she unlocked the door before stepping inside and turning to face him, her expression one of open challenge.
Jonas placed his hands on either side of the doorframe. ‘I’ve already written you half a dozen letters. Letters you haven’t bothered to reply to.’
She grimaced. ‘There’s always the possibility that I’ll reply to the seventh.’
‘I doubt that somehow,’ Jonas accepted grimly. ‘I don’t think so!’ He put his booted foot between the door and the frame as she would have closed that door in his face.
She opened it again to glare at him, those smoky grey eyes glittering darkly, bright colour in her normally pale cheeks. ‘Remove your foot, Mr Buchanan, or you’ll leave me with no choice but to call the police and have you forcibly removed from the premises!’
It was all too easy for Jonas to see that she was more angry than alarmed by his persistence. ‘I only want the two of us to sit down and have a sensible conversation—’
‘I’m busy.’
‘I’m asking for two minutes of your time, damn it!’ Jonas exclaimed.
Mac really wasn’t being difficult when she said she was busy; she had a major exhibition at a gallery on Saturday, only two days away, and she had one more painting to finish before then. Besides, no amount of talking to Jonas Buchanan was going to make her change her mind about selling the warehouse she had so lovingly worked on to make into her home.
Her grandfather had left this property to Mac when he died five years ago. It had been one of many warehouses by the river that had fallen into disuse as the trade into the London dock had fallen foul of other, more convenient transportation. Three floors high, it had been the perfect place for Mac to make into her home as well as her working studio. From the outside it still looked like an old warehouse, but inside the ground floor consisted of a garage and utility room, the second floor was her living quarters, and the third floor made a spacious studio.
Unfortunately, the area where the warehouse stood had recently become very attractive to property developers such as Jonas Buchanan, as they bought up the rundown riverside properties to put up blocks of luxurious apartments that had the added allure of a magnificent and uninterrupted view of the river.
It was this man’s bad luck that Mac’s own warehouse home stood on one of those sites.
She sighed. ‘I’ve already given my answer to your lawyer, your personal assistant, and your builder,’ she reminded him pointedly. ‘I don’t want to sell. Not now. Not in the future. Not ever. Is that clear enough for you?’
Jonas Buchanan’s expression was one of pure exasperation as he gave an impatient shake of his head. ‘You must realise that the area around you is going to become a noisy building site over the winter months?’
She shrugged. ‘You’ve fenced off this area for that purpose.’
He frowned. ‘That isn’t going to lessen the noise of lorries arriving with supplies. Workmen constantly hammering and banging as the buildings start to go up, followed by huge cranes being erected on site. Exactly how do you expect to still be able to work with all that going on?’
Mac’s eyes narrowed. ‘The same way I’ve continued to work the last few months as you’ve systematically pulled down all the buildings around this one.’
Jonas’s mouth firmed at the implied criticism. ‘I offered several times to relocate you—’
‘I have no wish to be “relocated”, Mr Buchanan,’ Mary McGuire growled out between clenched teeth. ‘This is my home. It will remain my home still, even once you’ve built and sold your luxurious apartments.’
And, as Jonas was only too aware, be a complete eyesore to the people who lived in those exclusive multimillion-pound apartments! ‘In my experience, everyone has a price, Mary—’
‘Mac.’
He frowned. ‘Sorry?’
‘Everyone who actually knows me calls me Mac, not Mary,’ she explained. ‘And maybe the people you’re acquainted with
