had to get the portrait from him.
She couldn’t believe, now, that she’d been stupid enough to pose for it. Naked. She pressed her hands to her cheeks, which were burning with mortification.
If he was desperate enough for security to ask her to marry him, he’d have no compunction about selling it if she left it behind in Paris. Or deliberately displaying it somewhere if he decided to take a more humiliating revenge for her refusal. He had a reputation for not being particularly kind to former lovers. And she had turned him down in the most insulting terms. She’d called him a slow-top, she’d accused him of being shallow and marrying his first wife for her money, of being faithless and worthless and she didn’t know what else.
Oh, yes. She’d told him she hated him, and then, when ten years of repressed rage had swelled up, the dam had burst and she’d physically attacked him.
Not that he didn’t deserve every name she’d called him, but it hadn’t been a wise move to make an enemy of him all over again. Only look what lengths he’d gone to the last time, when he’d only thought she’d betrayed him. He’d coldly, deliberately done the very worst thing he could have done to her. He’d flaunted another woman—a rich, titled woman—in her face. Even gone so far as to marry her to make doubly sure he inflicted the maximum hurt he possibly could.
Not only that, but he’d held on to his anger for ten years. He’d admitted he started up their affair because he wanted revenge.
No. Nathan Harcourt wasn’t a man to cross with impunity. He’d get his own back on her somehow.
Well then. Her mouth compressed into a hard line. She’d just have to force herself to go and see him, one last time, before she left Paris. Offer him whatever he wanted to release the portrait to her.
Any sum of money, that was, no matter how steep. She would pay it.
And if his demands were not of the financial kind?
Well, he would be wasting his time trying to blackmail her into anything other than monetary payment. Marry him she would not. Nor let him touch her again.
Anything but that!
She’d just risen from her chair to get ready to go and tell him so when Fenella knocked timidly on her door.
‘I know you said you wanted to be alone this morning, but I thought I’d better let you know...that is...he’s here. Mr Harcourt.’
Amethyst dropped back down into her chair.
‘I tried to turn him away,’ Fenella continued apologetically, ‘but he’s most insistent...’
She’d just bet he was. He’d already worked out that he had a valuable bargaining chip in that portrait and was clearly determined to start negotiations for it before she left.
Her fingers clawed round the arms of her chair
‘Show him in.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. His visit has saved me the bother of going out and seeing him, actually, which I had planned to do later on. He and I have a few matters we need to settle before I leave France. Private matters,’ she added, giving Fenella a stern look that sent her scuttling away just like the mouse Nathan had so disparagingly likened her to.
She took a deep breath as soon as the door shut behind her companion, suddenly wishing she’d taken a bit of care over her appearance when Fenella had persuaded her to roll out of bed this morning. She hadn’t bothered looking in a mirror, but since she’d scarcely slept last night, and spent most of the day before weeping, she must look a fright. Had she even brushed her hair? She raised a shaky hand to her head and confirmed her suspicion that she had not, when they met with a riot of tangled curls.
She let her hand drop to her lap where she clenched it into an impotent fist. She should have told Fenella to make him wait while she tidied herself up. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing how low he’d managed to bring her.
For the second time in her life.
But it was too late to do so much as reach for a comb. There was a scuffling sound from just outside the door, then it swung open and Nathan slid in sideways, his movements hampered by a huge, square package done up in brown paper.
A package that was the exact size of the portrait.
She shot to her feet. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
He propped up the package against the wall to the right of the door before looking her way. He seemed tense, but defiant, turning his hat round and round in his hands.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ he began.
‘Never mind all that.’ She made a dismissive gesture with her hand as she strode across to what might be her portrait.
‘I was hoping you would want to keep it,’ he said. ‘So I took the chance that it might be my ticket in to see you.’
She shot him just one suspiciously wary glance before tearing at the wrapping with her fingers to find out exactly what it was he’d brought with him. Who knew what kind of trick he might be trying to play on her? She cursed under her breath when she broke a fingernail. Where were the scissors when she needed them?
‘Here,’ he said, handing her a pocketknife.
She took it from him with an indefinable noise, halfway between the words thank you and a snarl, and severed the string.
It was the picture. Of her. Half-naked and looking at the artist as though she wanted to devour him.
With a shiver, she twitched the slashed wrappings back in place, then dragged the whole thing across the room and tucked it safely behind a sofa.
‘You may be able to hide that away,’ he observed, ‘but you can’t hide from what has passed between us this past month.’
‘Can you blame me for wanting to?’
‘Not if this was just some tawdry affair, no. But it is so much more. I’ve asked you to marry me, Amy—’
‘And I have said no.’
‘You said it when you were angry with me for discovering what an idiot I’d been before.’ The corners of his mouth tilted into a rueful, yet hopeful smile. ‘I was hoping your temper might have cooled somewhat since then.’
‘Oh, I’m perfectly cool today,’ she assured him haughtily. ‘You might say, to the point of chilliness. Why, towards you, I feel...positively frigid.’
‘Do you, though?’
He tossed the hat aside, strode across the room, hauled her into his arms and kissed her.
And even though she was still furious with him, especially since he had the nerve to try smiling at her, her body melted into him the moment he took her in his arms. Her own arms went round his neck. Her foolish lips parted for his and kissed him back. Only her pride stood apart, shaking its head in reproof.
‘You want me, Amy,’ he breathed, breaking their kiss. ‘Even though
