His Christmas Virgin. Кэрол Мортимер

      Jeremy’s partner—in more ways than one—Magnus Laywood, a tall, blond giant in his forties, was at the door to ‘meet and greet’ as more of those guests began to arrive; mainly art critics and serious collectors, but also some other individuals who were just seriously rich.

      There were twenty of Mac’s paintings on show this evening, and all of them expertly displayed by Jeremy and Magnus, on walls of muted cream with their own individual lighting so that they showed to their best advantage.

      It was the first individual exhibition of its kind that Mac had ever agreed to do—and now that the evening had finally arrived she was so nervous her knees were knocking together!

      ‘Here, drink this.’ Jeremy picked up a glass of champagne from one of the waiters who were starting to circulate amongst the guests in the rapidly filling room, and handed it to her. ‘Your face just went green!’ he explained with a chuckle.

      Mac took a restorative sip of the bubbly alcohol. ‘I’ve never been so nervous in my entire life.’

      ‘Oh, to be twenty-seven again,’ Jeremy murmured mournfully.

      Mac took another sip of the delicious champagne. ‘What if they don’t like my work?’ she wailed.

      ‘They can’t all be idiots, darling,’ Jeremy drawled. ‘It’s going to be a wonderful evening, Mac,’ he reassured her seriously as she still looked unconvinced. ‘I know how hard this is for you, love, but just try to enjoy it, hmm?’

      The problem was that Mac had never been particularly fond of exhibiting her work. Selling it, yes. Showing it to other people, and being ‘socially polite’ to those people, no. Unfortunately, as Mac was well aware, she couldn’t make a living from her paintings if she didn’t sell them.

      ‘I’ll try—Oh. My. God!’ she gasped weakly as she saw, and easily recognised, the man now standing beside the door engaged in conversation with Magnus.

      Jonas Buchanan!

      He was as tall as Magnus, and dark and dangerous where the other man was blond and amiable, there was no mistaking that overlong dark hair and those hard and chiselled features dominated by piercing blue eyes that now swept coldly over the other guests.

      Mac’s heart hammered loudly in her chest as she took in the rest of his appearance. Dressed like every other man in the room, in a tailored black evening suit and snowy white shirt with a perfectly arranged black bowtie at his throat, Jonas nevertheless somehow managed to look so much more compellingly handsome than any other man in the room.

      ‘What is it?’ Jeremy followed her line of vision. ‘Who is that?’ he murmured appreciatively, his longstanding relationship with Magnus not rendering him immune to the attractions of other men.

      Mac dragged her gaze away from Jonas to look accusingly at the co-owner of the Lyndwood Gallery. ‘You should know—you invited him!’

      ‘I don’t think so.’ Jeremy’s eyes were narrowed as he continued to look across at Jonas. ‘Who is he?’

      Mac swallowed hard before answering. ‘Jonas Buchanan.’

      Jeremy looked impressed. ‘The Jonas Buchanan?’

      As far as Mac was aware there was only one Jonas Buchanan, yes!

      ‘Ah, I understand now.’ Jeremy nodded his satisfaction as a puzzle was obviously solved. ‘He’s with Amy Walters.’

      Mac turned back in time to see Jonas Buchanan placing a proprietary hand beneath the elbow of a tall and beautiful redhead, the two of them talking softly together as they crossed the room to join a group of guests, Jonas easily standing several inches taller than the other men. Mac turned away abruptly.

      ‘Amy’s the art critic for The Individual,’ Jeremy supplied dryly as he saw the blankness of Mac’s expression.

      A completely unnecessary explanation as far as Mac was concerned; she knew exactly who Amy Walters was. It was the fact that the other woman had brought Jonas with her this evening, a man Mac was predisposed to dislike, that made things more than a little awkward; Mac was only too aware that she would have to be polite to the beautiful art critic if the two of them were introduced. Something that might be a little difficult for her to do with the arrogantly self-assured Jonas Buchanan standing at Amy’s side!

      The reason for that current self-assurance was obvious; invitations to this exhibition had been sent out weeks ago to ensure maximum attendance. Meaning that Jonas Buchanan had to have known, when they had met and spoken so briefly together two evenings ago, that he was going to be at her exhibition at the Lyndwood Gallery this evening.

      Rat!

      If he thought he could intimidate her by practically gatecrashing her exhibition, then he could—

      ‘How nice to see you again so soon, Mac.’

      Mac stiffened, her earlier nervousness completely evaporating and being replaced by indignation as she recognised Jonas Buchanan’s silkily sarcastic tone as he spoke softly behind her.

      Double rat!

      Jonas kept his expression deliberately neutral as Mary ‘Mac’ McGuire slowly turned to face him.

      To say that he had been surprised by her appearance this evening would be a complete understatement! In fact, if Amy hadn’t teasingly assured him that the delicately lovely woman with her ebony hair secured on top of her head to reveal the slender loveliness of her neck, and wearing a red Chinese-style knee-length silk dress with matching red high-heeled sandals that showed off her shapely legs to perfection, was indeed the artist herself, then Jonas wasn’t sure he would have even recognised her!

      She looked totally different with her hair up, older, more sophisticated, those mysterious smoky-grey eyes surrounded by long and thick dark lashes, the paleness of her cheeks highlighted with blusher, those full and sensuous lips outlined with a lip gloss the same vibrant red as that figure-hugging red silk gown and three-inch sandals.

      In a word, she looked exquisite!

      Whoever would have thought it? Jonas mused ruefully. From bag-lady to femme fatale with the donning of a red silk dress.

      Although the challenging glitter in those smoky grey eyes as she glared up at him was certainly familiar enough. ‘Mr Buchanan,’ she greeted dryly. ‘Jeremy, this is Jonas Buchanan. Jonas, one of the gallery owners, Jeremy Lyndhurst.’

      Mac watched through narrowed lashes as the two men shook hands, finding Jonas’s appearance even more disturbing tonight than she had two evenings ago. He was one of the few men she had met who wore the elegance of a black evening suit rather than the clothes wearing him, the power of his personality such that it was definitely the man one noticed rather than the superb tailoring of the clothing he wore.

      ‘Have you managed to lose Miss Walters already?’ Mac asked sweetly as she saw that the other woman was talking animatedly to another man across the room.

      Those electric-blue eyes darkened with sudden humour. ‘Amy pretty much does her own thing,’ Jonas Buchanan replied with a singular lack of concern.

      ‘How…understanding, of you,’ Mac taunted. Really, she was nervous enough about this evening already, without having to suffer this particular man’s presence!

      ‘Not at all,’ Jonas drawled with deepening amusement.

      ‘I do hope you will both excuse me…?’ Jeremy cut in apologetically. ‘Someone has just arrived that I absolutely have to go and talk to.’

      ‘Of course,’ Jonas Buchanan accepted smoothly. ‘I assure you, I’m only too happy to stay and keep Mac company,’ he added as he took a deliberate step closer to her.

      A close proximity that Mac instantly took exception to!

      One or other of this man’s associates had been hounding her for months now in an effort to buy her home—but only so that it could be knocked down to become