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As usual, Colin was cool and self-possessed. There wasn’t a trace of the cat who ate the canary, though she supposed he was entitled to the feeling right now.
“Returning to the scene of the crime?” she asked, desperate to mask how he had rattled her.
She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of immediately launching into an angry polemic about how he had tricked and cornered her.
His eyes gleamed. “The wedding, you mean? It’s our third anniversary, you know.”
She tossed her hair and feigned indifference. “Really? I didn’t recall. All I’m waiting for is the chance to celebrate our annulment.”
Colin sauntered farther into the room. “So that’s why you’re back in Las Vegas?”
“Whether you cooperate or not,” she stated unequivocally.
Colin continued to look unperturbed. In her dreams, he wouldn’t respond to the service of annulment papers on him. There’d be an uncontested dissolution of their marriage. Of course, in her dreams, she also regularly had a disturbing replay of their passionate night in Vegas.
He gestured around them. “I hope you enjoy examining these works of art.”
She regarded him suspiciously. “What are you up to?”
He gave her a small smile. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“You lured me here.”
“On the contrary, you came willingly in order to obtain an annulment.” He regarded her. “I will admit to guessing that you’d probably make your way back to Vegas sooner or later. I thought I’d make the trip worth your while.”
“And so you’re having some impressionist art work appraised?” she mocked. “Are you planning to sell them?”
Despite herself, she felt sad that he might sell and split up these beautiful paintings. If only she had the means to offer to buy them herself.
Colin tilted his head. “No, I have no intention of selling. At the moment, I’m far more interested in cultivating my investments.”
She felt palpable relief, even though she told herself again that what he did, or didn’t do, was of no matter to her. “You recently bought these paintings. Why would you want them appraised? There hasn’t been enough time for any significant appreciation.” She pursued her lips. “They are authentic, you know. I can personally vouch for it.”
“Ah, authenticity,” he murmured. “It’s what I look for.”
She shifted, aware that he might be talking about something other than the paintings.
Colin tilted his head. “As I said, I wanted confirmation that I paid a good price. Like most of my investments, I think they’re worth more than I bought them for—at least, now.”
Again, Belinda experienced the uncomfortable feeling that there was a subtext to his words that she didn’t wholly understand.
“You can’t put a precise number on art, though many people try to,” she responded. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder after all.”
“So I’ve understood,” he responded, his tone soft.
She watched him look her over, down to the tips of her toes. His gaze started with her face—she only wore light makeup—traveled down to her dress, lingered at her bust and ended with her peep-toe floral-print sandals.
She felt the weight of that look on her breasts and at the juncture of her thighs, even before it made her strangely unstable on her legs.
It was an appreciative look—and enough to belatedly bring out her combative instinct.
“Why are you doing this?” It was time to drop all pretense.
“Perhaps I would like to lay claim to being the one who finally buried the Wentworth-Granville feud.” To his credit, he didn’t pretend to misunderstand her meaning, but his gaze remained enigmatic.
“If you want to end this feuding between us, all you have to do is sign the dissolution papers.”
“Hardly any valor to lay claim to in that—it’s far too passive.”
