His Christmas Virgin. Carole Mortimer

don’t worry, I’m going to tell you exactly why,’ Mac promised. ‘And you know damn well what it has to do with you!’ she said accusingly.

      Jonas raised his palms. ‘I really am very busy this morning, Mac—’

      ‘Do you have someone else you need to go and intimidate?’ she scorned. ‘Oh, I forgot—you usually leave that sort of thing to your underlings!’ She snorted disgustedly. ‘Well, let me assure you that I don’t scare that easily—’

      ‘Would you just calm down and tell me what the hell you’re talking about?’ he cut in coldly, those blue eyes glacial.

      Mac was breathing hard, too upset still to heed the warning she could see in that chilling gaze. ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about—’

      ‘If I did, I would hardly be asking you to explain, now, would I?’ Jonas retorted.

      Mac’s gaze narrowed. ‘You knew I wouldn’t be at home on Saturday evening because of the exhibition, and you shamelessly took advantage of that fact. You—’

      He threw his pen down on the desktop before standing up impatiently. ‘Mac, if you don’t stop throwing out accusations, and just explain yourself, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

      The anger Mac was feeling had been brewing, growing, since she’d returned home on Saturday evening. Having no idea where Jonas Buchanan actually lived, she’d had to spend all of Sunday brooding too, with only the promise of being able to visit Jonas at his office first thing on Monday morning to sustain her. Having his secretary try to stonewall her had done nothing to improve Mac’s mood.

      She drew in a controlling breath. ‘My studio was broken into on Saturday evening. But, then, you already knew that, didn’t you?’ she said pointedly. ‘You—’

      ‘Stop right there!’ Jonas thundered as he stepped out from behind his desk.

      Mac instinctively took a step backwards as he towered over her, appearing very dark and threatening in a charcoal-grey suit, pale grey shirt and grey silk tie, with that overlong dark hair styled back from the chiselled perfection of his face.

      Those sculptured lips firmed to a livid thin line. ‘You’re telling me that your studio was broken into while you were out at the exhibition on Saturday evening?’

      ‘You know that it was—’

      ‘Mac, if you’re going to continue to accuse me like this then I would seriously suggest that you have the evidence to back it up!’ he warned harshly. ‘Do you have that evidence?’ he pressed.

      She shook her head. ‘The police didn’t find anything that would directly implicate you, no,’ she admitted grudgingly. ‘But then, they wouldn’t have done, would they?’ she rallied. ‘You’re much more clever—’

       ‘Mac!’

      She blinked at the steely coldness Jonas managed to project into just that one word. Shivered slightly at the icy warning she could read in his expression.

      But she didn’t care how cold and steely Jonas was, the break-in had to have been carried out by someone who worked for him. Who else would have bothered, would have a reason to break into a building that, from the outside, appeared almost derelict?

      Jonas was hanging onto his own temper by a thread. Angered as much by the thought of someone having broken into Mac’s home at all, as at the accusations she was making about him being responsible for that break-in. She could so easily have been at home on Saturday evening. Could have been seriously hurt if she had disturbed the intruder.

      He frowned. ‘Did they take anything?’

      ‘Not that I can see, no. But—’

      ‘Let’s just stick to the facts, shall we, Mac?’ Jonas bit out, a nerve pulsing in his tightly clenched jaw.

      She eyed him warily. ‘The facts are that I arrived home late on Saturday evening to find my studio completely wrecked. The only consolation—if it can be called that!—is that at least all of my most recent work was at the gallery that evening.’

      Jonas nodded. ‘So there was no real damage done?’

      Mac’s eyes widened indignantly. ‘My home, my privacy, was invaded!’

      And he could understand how upsetting that must have been for her. Must still be. But the facts were that neither Mac nor her property had actually come to any real harm.

      He moved to sit on the side of his desk. ‘At least you had the sense to call the police.’

      ‘I’m not a complete moron!’

      Jonas didn’t think that Mac was a moron at all. All evidence was to the contrary. ‘I don’t recall ever saying otherwise,’ he commented dryly.

      ‘You implied it, with your “at least” comment!’ She thrust her hands into the hip pockets of her denims, instantly drawing Jonas’s attention to the full and mature curve of her breasts beneath the fitted black sweater. Making a complete nonsense of how he had mistaken her for a young girl at their first meeting two days ago.

      She was different again today, he realised ruefully. No longer the waif or the femme fatale, but a beautiful and attractive woman in her late twenties. A man could never become bored with Mac McGuire when he would never know on any given day which woman he was going to meet!

      He sighed. ‘What conclusions did the police come to?’

      She shrugged those narrow shoulders. ‘They seem to think it was kids having fun.’

      Jonas grimaced. ‘Maybe they’re right—’

      ‘Kids don’t just break in, they steal things,’ Mac disagreed impatiently. ‘I have a forty-two-inch flat-screen television set, a new Blu-ray Disc player, a state-of-theart music system and dozens of CDs, and none of them were even touched.’

      Jonas looked intrigued. ‘So it was just your studio that was targeted?’

      ‘Just my studio?’ she repeated indignantly. ‘You just don’t understand, do you?’ she added as she turned away in disgust.

      The problem for Jonas was that he did understand. He understood only too well. Having seen Mac’s work for himself on Saturday evening, he knew exactly how important her studio was to her. It was the place where she created beauty deep from within her. Where she poured out her soul onto canvas. To have that vandalised, wrecked, was the equivalent of attacking the inner, deeply emotional Mac.

      His mouth firmed. ‘But you believe I’m responsible for what happened?’

      Mac turned to eye him warily as she once again heard that underlying chill in Jonas’s tone, the warning against repeating her earlier accusations.

      If Jonas wasn’t responsible, then who was? Not just who, but why? Nothing of value had been taken. In fact, the living-area part of her home hadn’t been touched. Only her studio had been vandalised. Surely whoever had done that would have to know her to realise that the studio was her heart and soul?

      Which, as he didn’t know her, surely ruled out Jonas Buchanan as being the person responsible for the damage? After all, they had only met twice before this morning, and neither of those occasions had been in the least conducive to them gaining any personal insights about each other. Jonas certainly couldn’t know how much Mac’s studio meant to her.

      She gave a weary shake of her head. ‘I don’t know what to believe any more…’

      ‘That’s something, I suppose,’ Jonas commented dryly. ‘Why don’t we start with the premise that neither I nor anyone I employ had anything to do with the break-in, and go from there?’ he suggested. ‘Who else could have reason for wanting to cause you this personal distress? Perhaps an artist rival, jealous of your success? Or maybe an ex-lover who didn’t go quietly?’ he added.

      Mac’s