Читать книгу The Darkest of Secrets - Кейт Хьюит, Kate Hewitt - Страница 7

‘THERE it is.’

Grace craned her neck to look out of the window of the helicopter that had picked her up in Sicily and was now taking her to Alhaja Island, no more than a rocky crescent-shaped speck in the distance, off the coast of Tunisia. She swallowed, discreetly wiped her hands along the sides of her beige silk trench coat and tried to staunch the flutter of nerves in her middle.

‘Another ten minutes,’ the pilot told her, and Grace leaned back in her seat, the whine of the propeller blades loud in her ears. She was uncomfortably aware that two of Khalis Tannous’s family members had died in a helicopter crash just a little over a week ago, over these very waters. She did not wish to experience the same fate.

The pilot must have sensed something of her disquiet, for he glanced over at her and gave her what Grace supposed was meant to be a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry. It is very safe.’

‘Right.’ Grace closed her eyes as she felt the helicopter start to dip down. She might be one of the foremost appraisers of Renaissance art in Europe, but this was still far out of her professional experience. She mostly dealt with museums, inspecting and insuring paintings that hung on revered walls around the world. Her job took her to quiet back rooms and sterile laboratories, out of the public eye and away from scandal. Michel himself handled many private collections, dealt with the tricky and often tempestuous personalities that accompanied so much priceless art.

Yet this time he’d sent her. She opened her eyes, saw the ground seeming to swoop towards them. A strip of white sand beach, a rocky cove, a tangle of trees and, most noticeably of all, a high chain-link fence topped with two spiky strands of barbed wire and bits of broken glass. And Grace suspected that was the least of Tannous’s security.

The helicopter touched down on the landing pad, where a black Jeep was already waiting. Her heart still thudding, Grace stepped out onto the tarmac. A slim man in a tie-dyed T-shirt and cut-off jeans stood there, his fair hair blowing in the sea breeze.

‘Ms Turner? I’m Eric Poulson, assistant to Khalis Tannous. Welcome to Alhaja.’

Grace just nodded. He didn’t look like what she’d expected, although she hadn’t really thought of what a Tannous employee would look like. Certainly not a beach bum. He led her to the waiting Jeep, tossing her case in the back.

‘Mr Tannous is expecting me?’

‘Yes, you can refresh yourself and relax for a bit and he’ll join you shortly.’

She prickled instinctively. She hated being told what to do. ‘I thought this was urgent.’

He gave her a laughing glance. ‘We’re on a Mediterranean island, Ms Turner. What does urgent even mean?’

Grace frowned and said nothing. She didn’t like the man’s attitude. It was far from professional, and that was what she needed to be—always. Professional. Discreet.

Eric drove the Jeep down a pebbly road to the compound’s main gates, a pair of armoured doors that looked incredibly forbidding. They opened seamlessly and silently and swung just as quietly shut behind the Jeep, yet Grace still felt them clang through her. Eric seemed relaxed, but then he obviously knew the security codes to those gates. She didn’t. She had just become a prisoner. Again. Her heart raced and her palms dampened as nausea churned along with the memories inside her. Memories of feeling like a prisoner. Being a prisoner.

Why had she agreed to this?

Not just because Michel had insisted, she knew. Despite his tough talk, she could have refused. She didn’t think Michel would actually fire her. No, she’d agreed because the desire to see Tannous’s art collection—and see it, God willing, restored to museums—had been too strong to ignore. A temptation too great to resist.

And temptation was, unfortunately, something she knew all about.

As Grace slid out of the Jeep, she looked around slowly. The compound was an ugly thing of concrete, like a huge bunker, but the gardens surrounding it were lovely and lush, and she inhaled the scent of bougainvillea on the balmy air.

Eric led her towards the front doors of the building and disarmed yet another fingerprint-activated security system. Grace followed him into a huge foyer tiled in terracotta, a soaring skylight above, and then into a living room decorated with casual elegance, sofas and chairs in soothing neutral shades, a few well placed antiques and a view through the one-way window of the startling sweep of sea.

‘May I offer you something to drink?’ Eric asked, his hands dug into the pockets of his cut-off jeans. ‘Juice, wine, a pina colada?’

Grace wondered if he was amused by her buttoned-up attitude. Well, she had no intention of relaxing. ‘A glass of sparkling water, please.’

‘Sure thing.’ He left her alone, and Grace slowly circled the room. She summed up the antiques and artwork with a practised eye: all good copies, but essentially fakes. Eric returned with her water and withdrew again, promising that Tannous would be with her in a few minutes and she could just ‘go ahead and relax’. No, thanks. Grace took a sip, frowning as the minutes ticked on. If Tannous’s request really was urgent, why was he keeping her waiting like this? Was it on purpose?

She didn’t like it, but then she didn’t like anything about being here. Not the walls, not the armoured gates, not the man she was meant to meet. All of it brought back too many painful memories, like knives digging into her skull. What didn’t kill you was meant to make you stronger, wasn’t it? Grace smiled grimly. Then she must be awfully strong. Except she didn’t feel strong right now. She felt vulnerable and even exposed, and that made her tense. She worked hard to cultivate a cool, professional demeanour, and just the nature of this place was causing it to crack.

She could not allow that to happen. Quickly she went to the door and tried the handle. With a shuddering rush of relief she felt it open easily. Clearly she was acting a little paranoid. She stepped out into the empty entry hall and saw a pair of French windows at the back that led to an enclosed courtyard, and an infinity pool shaded by palms shimmering in the dusky light.

Grace slipped outside, breathing in the scents of lavender and rosemary as a dry breeze rustled the hair at the nape of her neck. She brushed a tendril away from her face, tucking it back into her professional chignon, and headed towards the pool, her heels clicking on the tiles. She could hear the water in the pool slapping against the sides, the steady sound of limbs cutting through water. Someone was swimming out here in the twilight, and she thought she knew who it was.

She came around a palm tree into the pool area and saw a man cutting through the water with sinuous ease. Even swimming he looked assured. Arrogant and utterly confident in his domain.

Khalis Tannous.

A dart of irritation—no, anger—shot through her. While she was cooling her heels, anxious and tense, he was swimming? It felt like the most obvious kind of power play. Deliberately Grace walked to the chaise where a towel had been tossed. She picked it up, then crossed over to where Khalis Tannous was finishing his lap, her four-inch heels surely in his line of vision.

He came to the edge, long lean fingers curling around the slick tile as he glanced upwards. Grace was not prepared for the jolt of—what? Alarm? Awareness? She could not even say, but something in her sizzled to life as she gazed down into those grey-green eyes, long dark lashes spiky with water. It terrified her, and she instantly suppressed it as she coolly handed him the towel.

‘Mr Tannous?’

His mouth twisted in bemusement but she took in the narrowing of his eyes, the flickering of suspicion. He was on his guard, just as she was. He hoisted himself up onto the tiles in one fluid movement and took the towel from her. ‘Thank you.’ He dried himself off with deliberate ease, and Grace could not keep her gaze from flicking downwards to the lean chest and lithe torso, muscled yet trim, his golden-brown skin now flecked with droplets of water. Tannous had a Tunisian father and a French mother, Grace knew, and his mixed ethnicity was evident in his unique colouring. He was beautiful, all burnished skin and sleek, powerful muscle. He gave off an aura of power, not from size, although he was tall, but from the whipcord strength and energy he exuded in every easy yet precise movement.

‘And you are?’ he finally said, and Grace jerked her gaze upwards.

‘Grace Turner of Axis Art Insurers.’ She reached in the pocket of her coat for her business card and handed it to him. He took it without looking. ‘I believe you were expecting me.’

‘So I was.’ He slung the towel around his hips, his shrewd gaze flicking over her in one quick yet thorough assessment.

‘I thought,’ Grace said, keeping her voice professionally level, ‘this appraisal was urgent?’

‘Fairly urgent,’ Tannous agreed. She said nothing, but something of her censure must have been evident for he smiled and said, ‘I must apologise for what appears to have been discourtesy. I assumed the appraiser would wish to refresh himself before meeting me, and I would have time to finish my swim.’

‘Herself,’ Grace corrected coolly, ‘and, I assure you, I am ready to work.’

‘Glad to hear it, Miss—’ he glanced down at her card, his eyebrows arching as he corrected himself ‘—Ms Turner.’ He looked up, his gaze assessing once more, although whether he was measuring her as a woman or a professional Grace couldn’t tell. She kept her gaze level. ‘If you care to follow me, I’ll take you to my office and we can discuss what you’ve come here for.’

Nodding her acceptance, Grace followed him through the pool area to a discreet door in the corner. They walked down another long hallway, the windows’ shutters open to the fading sunlight still bathing the courtyard in gold, and then into a large masculine office with tinted windows overlooking the landscaped gardens on the other side of the compound.

Unthinkingly Grace walked to the window, pressed one hand against the cool glass as she gazed at all that managed beauty kept behind those high walls, the jagged bits of glass on top glinting in the last of the sun’s rays. The feeling of being trapped clutched at her, made her throat close up. She forced herself to breathe evenly.

Khalis Tannous came to stand behind her and she was uncomfortably aware of his presence, and the fact that all he wore was a pair of swimming trunks and a towel. She could hear the soft sound of his breathing, feel the heat of him, and she tensed, every nerve on high alert and singing with an awareness she definitely did not want to feel.

‘Very beautiful, don’t you think?’ he murmured and Grace forced herself not to move, not to respond in any way to his nearness.

‘I find the wall quite ruins the view,’ she replied and turned away from the window. Her shoulder brushed against his chest, a few water droplets clinging to the silk of her blouse. Tension twanged through her again so she felt as if she might snap. She could not deny the physical response she had to this man, but she could suppress it. Completely. Her body stiff, her head held high, she moved past him into the centre of the room.

Tannous gazed at her, his expression turning thoughtful. ‘I quite agree with your assessment,’ he said softly. She did not reply. ‘I’ll just get dressed,’ he told her, and disappeared through another door tucked in the corner of the room.

Grace took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She could handle this. She was a professional. She’d concentrate on her job and forget about the man, the memories. For being in this glorified prison certainly brought back the memories of another island, another wall. And all the heartbreak that had followed—of her own making.

‘Ms Turner.’

Grace turned and saw Tannous standing in the doorway. He had changed into a pewter-grey silk shirt, open at the throat, and a pair of black trousers. He’d looked amazing in nothing but a towel, but he looked even better in these casually elegant clothes, his lean strength powerfully apparent in every restrained movement, the silk rippling over his muscled body. She took a slight step backwards.

‘Mr Tannous.’

‘Please, call me Khalis.’ Grace said nothing. He smiled faintly. ‘Tell me about yourself, Ms Turner. You are, I take it, experienced in the appraisal of Renaissance art?’

‘It is my speciality, Mr Tannous.’

‘Khalis.’ He sat behind the huge oak desk, steepling his fingers under his chin, clearly waiting for her to continue.

‘I have a PhD in seventeenth century da Vinci copies.’

‘Forgeries.’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t think you will be dealing with forgeries here.’

A leap of excitement pulsed through her. Despite her alarm and anxiety about being in this place, she really did want to see what was in that vault. ‘If you’d like to show me what you wish to be appraised—’

‘How long have you been with Axis Art Insurers?’

‘Four years.’

‘You are, I must confess, very young to be so experienced.’

Grace stifled a surge of annoyance. She was, unfortunately, used to clients—mainly men—casting doubt upon her abilities. Clearly Khalis Tannous was no different. ‘Monsieur Latour can vouch for my abilities, Mr Tannous—’

‘Khalis,’ he said softly.

Awareness rippled over her in a shiver, like droplets of water on bare skin. She didn’t want to call him by his first name, as ridiculous as that seemed. Keeping formal would be one way of maintaining a necessary and professional distance. ‘If you’d prefer another appraiser, please simply say so. I will be happy to oblige you.’ Leaving this island—and all the memories it churned up—would be a personal relief, if a professional disappointment.

He smiled, seeming so very relaxed. ‘Not at all, Ms Turner. I was simply making an observation.’

‘I see.’ She waited, wary, tense, trying to look as unconcerned as he did. He didn’t speak, and impatience bit at her. ‘So the collection …?’ she finally prompted.

‘Ah, yes. The collection.’ He turned to stare out of the window, his easy expression suddenly turning guarded, hooded. He seemed so urbane and assured, yet for just a moment he looked like a man in the grip of some terrible force, in the cast of an awful shadow. Then his face cleared and he turned back to her with a small smile. ‘My father had a private collection of art in the basement of this compound. A collection I knew nothing about.’ Grace refrained from comment. Tannous arched one eyebrow in gentle mockery. ‘You doubt me.’

Of course she did. ‘I am not here to make judgements, Mr Tannous.’

‘Are you ever,’ he mused, ‘going to call me Khalis?’

Not if she could help it. ‘I prefer work relationships to remain professional.’

‘And calling me by my first name is too intimate?’ There was a soft, seductive lilt to his voice that made that alarming awareness creep along Grace’s spine and curl her toes. The effect this man had on her—his voice, his smile, his body—was annoying. Unwanted. She smiled tightly.

‘Intimate is not the word I would use. But if you feel as strongly about it as you seem to, then I’m happy to oblige you and call you Khalis.’ Her tongue seemed to tangle itself on his name, and her voice turned breathy. Grace inwardly flinched. She was making a fool of herself and yet, even so, she’d seen something flare in his eyes, like silver fire, when she said his name. Whatever she was feeling—this attraction, this magnetism—he felt it, too.

Not that it mattered. Attraction, to her, was as suicidal as a moth to a flame. ‘May I see the paintings?’ she asked.

‘Of course. Perhaps that will explain things.’

In one fluid movement Khalis rose from the desk and walked out of the study, clearly expecting Grace to follow him. She suppressed the bite of irritation she felt at his arrogant attitude—he didn’t even look back—only to skid to a surprised halt when she saw him holding the door open for her.

He smiled down at her, and Grace had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly what she’d been feeling. ‘After you,’ he murmured and, fighting a flush, she walked past him down the same corridor they had used earlier. ‘Where am I going?’ she asked tersely. She could feel Khalis walking behind her, heard the whisper of his clothes as he moved. Everything about him was elegant, graceful and sinuous. Sexy.

No. She could not—would not—think that way. She hadn’t looked at a man in a sexual or romantic way in four years. She’d trained herself not to, suppressed those longings because she’d had to. One misstep would cost her if not her life, then her very soul. It was insane to feel anything now—and especially for a man like Khalis Tannous, a man who was now the CEO of a terrible and corrupt empire, a man she could never trust.

Instinctively she walked a little faster, as if she could distance herself from him, but he kept pace with ease.

‘Turn right,’ he murmured, and she heard humour in his voice. ‘You are amazingly adept in those very high heels, Ms Turner. But it’s not a race.’

Grace didn’t answer, but she forced herself to slow down. A little. She turned and walked down another long corridor, the shutters open to a different side of the villa’s interior courtyard.

‘And now left,’ he said, his voice a soft caress, raising the tiny hairs on the back of Grace’s neck. He’d come close again, too close. She turned left and came to a forbidding-looking lift with steel doors and a complex security pad.

Khalis activated the security with a fingerprint and a numbered code while Grace averted her eyes. ‘I’ll have to give you access,’ he said, ‘as all the art will need to stay on the basement level.’

‘To be honest, Mr Tannous—’

‘Khalis.’

‘I’m not sure how much can be accomplished here,’ Grace continued, undeterred. ‘Most appraisals need to be done in a laboratory, with the proper equipment—’

Khalis flashed her a quick and rather grim smile. ‘It appears my father had the same concerns you do, Ms Turner. I think you will find all the equipment and tools you need.’

The lift doors opened and Khalis ushered her inside before stepping into the lift himself. The doors swooshed closed, and Grace fought a sudden sense of claustrophobia. The lift was spacious enough, and there were only two of them in there, but she still felt as if she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. She was conscious of Khalis next to her, seeming so loose-limbed and relaxed, and the lift plunging downwards, deep below the earth, to the evil heart of this awful compound. She felt both trapped and tempted—two things she hated feeling.

‘Just a few more seconds,’ Khalis said softly, and she knew he was aware of how she felt. She was used to hiding her emotions, and being good at it, and it amazed and alarmed her that this stranger seemed to read her so quickly and easily. No one else ever had.

The doors opened and he swept out one arm, indicating she could go first. Cautiously Grace stepped out into a nondescript hallway, the concrete floor and walls the same as those in any basement. To the right she saw a thick steel door, sawn off its hinges and now propped to the side. Balkri Tannous’s vault. Her heart began to beat with heavy thuds of anticipation and a little fear.

‘Here we are.’ Khalis moved past her to switch on the light. Grace saw the interior of the vault was fashioned like a living room or study and, with her heart still beating hard, she stepped into that secret room.

It was almost too much to take in at once. Paintings jostled for space on every wall, frames nearly touching each other. She recognised at least a dozen stolen paintings right off the bat—Klimt, Monet, Picasso. Millions and millions of dollars’ worth of stolen art.

Her breath came out in a shudder and Khalis laughed softly, the sound somehow bleak. ‘I’m no expert, but even I could tell this was something else.’

She stopped in front of a Picasso that hadn’t been seen in a museum in over twenty years. She wasn’t that experienced with contemporary art, but she doubted it was a forgery. ‘Why,’ she asked, studying the painting’s clean geometric shape and different shades of blue, ‘did you ask for a Renaissance expert? There’s art from every period here.’

‘True,’ Khalis said. He came to stand by her shoulder, gazing at the Picasso as well. ‘Although, frankly, that looks like something my five-year-old god-daughter might paint in Nursery.’

‘That’s enough to make Picasso roll in his grave.’

‘Well, she is very clever.’

Grace gave a little laugh, surprising herself. She rarely laughed. She rarely let a man make her laugh. ‘Is your god-daughter in California?’

‘Yes, she’s the daughter of one of my shareholders.’

Grace gazed at the painting. ‘Clever she may be, but most art historians would shudder to compare Picasso with a child and a box of finger paints.’

‘Oh, she has a paintbrush.’

Grace laughed again, softly, a little breath of sound. ‘Maybe she’ll be famous one day.’ She half-turned and, with a somersault of her heart, realised just how close he had come. His face—his lips—were mere inches away. She could see their mobile fullness, amazed at how such a masculine man could have such lush, kissable, sexy lips. She felt a shaft of longing pierce her and quickly she moved onto the next painting. ‘So why me? Why a Renaissance specialist?’

‘Because of these.’

He took her hand in his own and shock jolted through her with the force of an electric current, short-circuiting her senses. Grace jerked her hand away from his too hard, her breath coming out in an outraged gasp.

Khalis stopped, an eyebrow arched. Grace knew her reaction had been ridiculously extreme. How could she explain it? She could not, not easily at any rate. She decided to ignore the whole sorry little episode and raised her chin a notch. ‘Show me, please.’

‘Very well.’ With one last considering look he led her to a door she hadn’t noticed in the back of the room. He opened it and switched on an electric light before ushering her inside.

The room was small and round, and it felt like being inside a tower, or perhaps a shrine. Grace saw only two artworks on the walls, and they stole the breath right from her lungs.

‘What—’ She stepped closer, stared hard at the wood panels with their thick brushstrokes of oil paint. ‘Do you know what these are?’ she whispered.

‘Not precisely,’ Khalis told her, ‘but they definitely aren’t something my god-daughter could paint.’

Grace smiled and shook her head. ‘No, indeed.’ She stepped closer, her gaze roving over the painted wood panels. ‘Leonardo da Vinci.’

‘Yes, he’s quite famous, isn’t he?’

Her smile widened, to her own amazement. She hadn’t expected Khalis Tannous to amuse her. ‘He is, rather. But they could be forgeries, you know.’

‘I doubt they are,’ Khalis answered. ‘Simply by the fact they’re in their own little room.’ He paused, his tone turning grim. ‘And I know my father. He didn’t like to be tricked.’

‘Forgeries can be of exceptional quality,’ Grace told him. ‘And they even have their own value—’

‘My father—’ Khalis cut her off ‘—liked the best.’

She turned back to the paintings, drinking them in. If these were real … how many people had seen these ever? ‘How on earth did he find them?’

‘I have no idea. I don’t really want to know.’

‘They weren’t stolen, at least not from a museum.’

‘No?’

‘These have never been in a museum.’

‘Then they are rather special, aren’t they?’

She gave a little laugh. ‘You could say that.’ She shook her head slowly, still trying to take it in. Two original Leonardo paintings never seen in a museum. Never known to exist, beyond rumours. ‘If these are real, they would comprise the most significant find of the art world in the last century.’

Khalis sighed heavily, almost as if he were disappointed by such news. ‘I suspected as much,’ he said, and flicked out the lights. ‘You can examine them at length later. But right now I think we both deserve some refreshment.’

Her mind still spinning, Grace barely took in his words. ‘Refreshment?’

‘Dinner, Ms Turner. I’m starving.’ And with an almost wolfish smile he led her out of the vault.