Making Mina Strings Attached(9)

“Tell me you don’t think about that night,” he said, almost as if he could read her mind. His hand rested, dark against the white tablecloth, and Mina’s eyes were drawn to it, watching the patterns he drew on the smooth surface, remembering how those same fingers drew tracer-fire laced patterns on her skin. He lowered his voice, “Tell me that right this minute you aren’t wet from the idea of me bending you over this table right now and taking you. Don’t try to lie, either,” his lips twisted in a mockery of a smile, “I can practically smell you—your need, and your desire. It’s as plain as the nose on your beautiful face.”

Mina whimpered as images of him doing just that raced through her mind, liquid heat pooling between her legs.

“I told you before, very plainly if I remember correctly, that I regretted letting you go that first night we met.” A look of polite disinterest covered his face, but his voice gave him away. “I could have pushed—pried you away from that limpet you called your fiancé—but you would have always blamed yourself and I didn’t want that.”

Mina nodded absently, his words too true to deny. He was right; if she’d cheated on Ethan she’d never have been able to live with herself. It was almost disturbing that Marco understood her so clearly, so quickly.

“But now,” a smile began to show, “you have no ties, no obligations. There is no one standing between me and what I want.” The smile became predatory, white teeth gleaming in the low light. “I want you, Mina mia, and I intend to have you.”

Mina tried to feel offended—his arrogance was astounding—but she couldn’t. Ivy was right: she was the one who took what she wanted and then walked away. Marco still wanted her, for whatever reason, and it was only her own insecurity standing in their way.

“So this exhibit,” she said, forcing moisture into her mouth, “is what? Leverage? Something to keep me in line?” Mina didn’t want to hear the answer, but she had to ask.

Marco snorted. “I somehow doubt that even the Crown Jewels would be enough to keep you in line.” He shook his head. “No, the exhibit is yours no matter what happens. You had a promising future—a real talent—and you made one foolhardy choice that ruined those chances. When your engagement fell through I decided you should have that chance again. I couldn’t give you back the time you’d lost, but I could give you an opportunity. If that opportunity happened to require that you spend time with me… Well, let’s just say that I’d be a terrible businessman if I didn’t keep an eye on my own interests.” He tilted his head to one side, watching her.

At least he’s honest, she thought.

“What if I don’t want,” Mina stumbled, “what you want?” Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment—she couldn’t even say the words! How could he want someone who was so naïve? So inexperienced?

A rumbling laugh caught her by surprise and she looked up quickly.

“I don’t think you know what you want,” he said, “but, tonight I am laying all of my cards on the table.” He quirked an eyebrow at her, “That is how you say it, yes?”

“Yes,” she nodded. She was light-headed from trying to follow his reasoning and remembering to breathe.

“The contracts are signed. The exhibit is yours. Your time, as of tomorrow, will be divided between the Oppen and my houses, both here in the U.S. and in Italy. You will need to organize and catalog items from several different estates. If,” he met her eyes, “after the time we spend together you decide that you do not wish to further our relationship, you will be free to leave at any time. I will never force you, but I will use every tool at my disposal to convince you that here,” he waved a hand to indicate the small space between them, “is both where you should be, and where you want to be.”

He leaned in suddenly, the rapid closing of distance taking Mina’s breath away.

“I promise.”





Chapter Four



“No, no, NO! That has to be carried with the arrows pointing UP! That’s why the label reads ‘This End Up!’”

Mina rubbed her forehead trying to ease the headache growing there. A tropical storm was moving in from the Atlantic and she was desperately trying to get the last of the items from Marco’s Miami residence transported—intact—to the Oppen. He only had a tiny fraction of the collection there, but it contained some of the smallest and most delicate pieces, and after hearing some of the horror stories Santiago Valdes had told her—broken burial urns, combined pottery fragments, and straightforward theft—she’d watched the moving team like a broody hen. The Head Curator had surprised her with how supportive he’d been, giving her step by step instructions for every eventuality, and she was finally getting comfortable in her role as Curator of the Genovese Collection.