The Billionaire's Defiant Acquisition

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‘Because I don’t fit the stereotype?’ He raised a pair of mocking eyebrows. ‘Because my suit isn’t pinstriped and I don’t have a title?’

‘Careful, Mr Devlin—that chip on your shoulder seems like it’s getting awfully heavy.’

He laughed at this and Amber was angry with herself for the burst of pleasure which rushed through her. Why the hell feel thrilled just because she’d managed to make the overbearing Irishman laugh?

‘I deal solely in twentieth-century pieces and buy mainly for my own pleasure,’ he said. ‘But occasionally I procure pieces for clients or friends or for business acquaintances. I act as a middle man.’

‘Why do they need you as a middle man?’

He stared briefly at the postcard of the Taj Mahal. ‘Because buying art is not just about negotiation—it’s about being able to close the deal. And that’s something I’m good at. Some of the people I buy for are very wealthy, with vast amounts of money at their disposal. Sometimes they prefer to buy anonymously—in order to avoid being ripped off by unscrupulous sellers who want to charge them an astronomical amount.’ He smiled. ‘Or sometimes people want to sell anonymously and they come to me to help them get the highest possible price.’

Amber’s eyes narrowed as she tried not to react to the undeniable impact of that smile. Somehow he had managed to make himself sound incredibly fascinating. As if powerful people were keen to do business with him. Had that been his intention, to show her there was more to him than met the eye?

She folded her hands together on her lap. How hard could it be to work for him? The only disadvantage would be having to deal with him, but the property side would be a piece of cake. Presumably you just took a prospective buyer along to a house and told them a famous actress had just moved in along the road and prices had rocketed as a result, and they’d be signing on the dotted line quicker than you could say bingo.

‘I can do that,’ she said confidently.

His eyes narrowed. ‘Do what?’

‘Sell houses. Or apartments. Whatever you want.’

He sat up very straight. ‘Just like that?’ he said silkily.

‘Sure. How hard can it be?’

‘You think I’m going to let someone like you loose in a business I’ve spent the last fifteen years building up?’ he questioned, raking his fingers back through his thick black hair with an unmistakable gesture of irritation. ‘You think that selling the most expensive commodity a person will ever buy should be entrusted to someone who hasn’t ever held down a proper job, and has spent most of her adult life falling out of nightclubs?’

Amber bristled at his damning assessment and a flare of fury fizzed through her as she listened to his disparaging words. She wanted to do a number of things in retaliation, starting with taking that jug of water from his desk and upending the contents all over his now ruffled dark hair. And then she would have liked to have marched out of his office and slammed the door very firmly behind her and never set eyes on his handsome face ever again. But that wouldn’t exactly help foster the brand-new image she was trying to convey, would it? She wanted him to believe she could be calm and unruffled. She would give him a glimpse of the new and efficient Amber who wasn’t going to rise to the insults of a man who meant nothing to her, other than as a means to an end.

‘I can always learn,’ she said. ‘But if you think I’d be better suited to shifting a few paintings, I’ll happily give that a go. I...I like art.’

He made a small sound at the back of his throat, which sounded almost like a growl, and seemed to be having difficulty holding on to his temper—she could tell that by the way he had suddenly started drumming his fingertips against the desk, as if he were sending out an urgent message in Morse code.

But when he looked up at her again, she thought she saw the glint of something in his dark blue eyes which made her feel slightly nervous. Was it anticipation she could read there, or simply sheer devilment?

‘I think you’ll find that selling art involves slightly more of a skill set than one described as shifting a few paintings,’ he said drily. ‘And besides, my plans for you are very different.’ He glanced down at the sheet of paper which lay on the desk before him. ‘I understand that you speak several languages.’

‘Now it’s your turn to sound surprised, Mr Devlin.’

He shrugged his broad shoulders and sat back in his seat. ‘I guess I am. I didn’t have you down as a linguist, with all the hours of study that must have involved.’

Amber’s lips flattened. ‘There is more than one way to learn a language,’ she said. ‘My skill comes not from hours sitting at a desk—but from the fact that my mother had a penchant for Mediterranean men. And as a child I often found myself living in whichever new country was the home of her latest love interest.’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘And, believe me, there were plenty of those. Consequently, I learnt to speak the local language. It was a question of survival.’

His eyes narrowed as he looked at her thoughtfully. ‘That must have been...hard.’

Amber shook her head, more out of habit than anything else. Because sympathy or compassion—or whatever you wanted to call it—made her feel uncomfortable. It started making her remember people like Marco or Stavros or Pierre—all those men who had broken her mother’s heart so conclusively and left Amber to deal with the mess they’d left behind. It made her wish for the impossible—that she’d been like other people and lived a normal, quiet life without a mother who seemed to think that the answer to all their problems was being in love. And remembering all that stuff ran the risk of making you feel vulnerable. It left you open to pain—and she’d had more than her fair share of pain.

‘It was okay,’ she said, in a bored tone which came easily after so many years of practice. ‘I certainly know how to say “my darling” in Italian, Greek and French. And I can do plenty of variations on the line “You complete and utter bastard”.’

Had her flippant tone shocked him? Was that why a faintly disapproving note had entered his voice?

‘Well, you certainly won’t be needed to relay any of those sentiments, be very clear about that.’ He glanced down at the sheet of paper again. ‘But before I lay down the terms of any job I might be prepared to offer—I need some assurances from you.’

‘What kind of assurances?’

‘Just that I don’t have any room in my organisation for loose cannons, or petulant princesses who say the first thing which comes into their head. I deal with people who need careful handling and I need to know that you can demonstrate judgement and tact before I put my proposition to you.’ His midnight eyes grew shadowed. ‘Because frankly, right now, I’m finding it hard to imagine you being anything other than...difficult.’

His words hurt. More than they should have done. More than she’d expected them to—or perhaps that had something to do with the way he was looking at her. As if he couldn’t quite believe the person she was. As if someone like her had no right to exist. And yet all this was complicated by the fact that he looked so spectacular, with his black sweater hugging his magnificent body and his sensual lips making all kinds of complicated thoughts that began to nudge themselves into her mind. Because her body was reacting to him in a way she wasn’t used to. A way she couldn’t seem to control. She could feel herself growing restless beneath that searing sapphire stare—and yet she didn’t even like him.