Читать книгу The Sinful Art of Revenge - Maya Blake - Страница 8

THE DREAMS CAME AGAIN … She was laughing as she pulled her father’s resistant hand, telling him he had nothing to worry about, that there was space on the crowded train. No, she didn’t want to wait for the next train. His hastily concealed concern … his familiar embrace … his strong arms around her.

Then nothing … only the heavy weight of blackness.

And screams—horrible, heart-rending screams—as carnage reigned all round her. Her father’s warm hand was clutching hers, then gradually growing cold.

But this time her dreams were interspersed with other images.

Within the chaos Reiko dreamed of dancing with the Baron de St Valoire. And not just any dance. She dreamt of the Argentine frickin’ tango.

Reiko woke with her mind filled with vivid images of train wrecks, scarred bodies … and Damion’s long, muscular legs tangling with scissor-like precision and skill against her much shorter ones, his hands guiding her with exquisite mastery.

She dreamt of short, shockingly sexy dresses, stratospheric red-soled shoes.

In her dreams the disparity between their heights didn’t matter. They fitted perfectly. And when a particular move wasn’t possible, her dark-haired, stormy-eyed partner merely lifted her up against his strong, virile body and continued dancing, their heated breaths mingling, his movements getting increasingly faster, headier, sexier—

‘What the hell, Reiko?’

Shoving off the offending hot sheets, she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She had just over an hour to get ready before Damion returned.

Recalling the incandescent rage that had filled his face after her revelation last night, she swallowed. Weirdly, he’d pulled himself under rigid control after that short display of emotion. He’d told her to concentrate her efforts on finding the Femme sur Plage, then he’d left.

After showering, she selected her best power suit. The severe cut of the black jacket and matching trousers coupled with a cream silk dress shirt gave off the no-nonsense vibe she wanted to project, while serving the very useful purpose of covering her up from neck to ankle.

More than anything, she wished she could catch her hair up into a tight bun to cement the outward image she craved, but the scars on her neck made that impossible, so she prayed the suit and make-up would be enough.

After brushing her fringe over the scar that slid down from her temple to her ear, she arranged her hair carefully over her shoulders and slipped her feet into black patent platforms. To complete the look, she secured small diamond studs to her ears.

The heels were a bad idea after the hours she’d spent in another pair yesterday, but there was no way she was putting herself at a disadvantage by wearing flats in Damion Fortier’s presence.

She’d pay the price later, with painful stretching techniques and long hours of hydrotherapy, but the idea of going toe to toe with the Baron made it worth it.

Half an hour later, Reiko brushed imaginary lint from her sleeve to avoid Trevor’s probing gaze.

‘Tell me again why you’re doing this, Reiko?’ he asked, concern etched into his face.

Reiko contemplated telling him about her bargain with Damion and immediately discarded it. ‘Because he’s paying me a shedload of money.’ She attempted a smile.

He frowned. ‘Money has never been your motivation.’

Her smile dimmed. ‘Sylvain Fortier is dying, and Damion’s asked me to help find his painting.’ The partial truth was better than nothing.

Trevor’s lips compressed. ‘That’s just it, Reiko. After what they did to your grandfather, and to you, they have no right!’

Reiko’s heart performed a painful flip but she kept the smile fixed in place. ‘That’s in the past. I’m over it. Besides, I wasn’t joking. He is paying me a shedload—some of which can help you—’

He shook his head firmly. ‘I can take care of my own financial mess.’

‘You took care of me when I needed you. Now it’s my turn.’

The lines of worry faded but didn’t disappear. ‘Did you sleep last night?’

She shrugged. ‘A little. Don’t worry about me, Trevor. That’s an order.’

He laughed, his worry abating to reveal the vibrant fifty-five-year-old man he was, despite his greying hair. Whatever answer he intended to give was curtailed by the sound of a throaty engine in the morning air.

Reiko’s heartbeat escalated as she watched the black sports car roar its way down the long lane.

Damion didn’t stop in the front drive like any other visitor. He kept coming, his ease behind the powerful car evident in the way his wrist rested on the steering wheel.

His gaze locked on hers, he drove forward until the hood of his car was directly in front of the conservatory. Even with a thick layer of glass between them, Reiko felt the force of his presence, the sheer magnetism of the man, like a crackle of electricity in the air.

Still trapping her with his gaze, he killed the engine and stepped from the car. He’d always had the ability to hold her captive like this, so her every sense was heightened, quaking with awareness.

This morning he’d discarded the designer suit in favour of designer casuals. Dark brown chinos encased his slim hips and ended precisely atop his high-gloss black boots. A slate-grey cashmere jumper worn over a sky-blue shirt did incredibly wonderful things to his eyes.

Watching him mount the shallow steps, she recalled with way too much clarity how his long legs had felt wrapped around her five years ago—and last night in her dreams.

Reeling herself in, she pulled on her cuffs. ‘Good morning. I trust today finds you in a less homicidal mood?’

‘To see you didn’t make a run for it in the middle of night is a good start, certainement.’

‘You need to have more faith, Baron.’

‘I prefer to rely on performance-backed talent.’

‘Then it’s a good thing I have that in abundance.’

His gaze flicked over her suit. ‘Why are you dressed like that?’

‘Like what?’

‘We’re visiting a dusty vault, not attending a state funeral.’

Her belly tightened at his probing look and she forced a careless shrug. ‘This is England, Damion. The weather turns at the drop of a hat and I hate being cold.’

She turned with relief as Simpson walked in with her small suitcase. She went to take it but Damion beat her to it. His fingers brushed over hers, making her heightened senses shriek in hysterical warning. But he seemed totally oblivious as he thumbed the electronic key and stowed the case in the boot.

He glanced at the disappearing Simpson and frowned.

‘What?’ she asked.

‘Is this all you’re taking with you?’

‘Yep, I have a PhD in travelling light.’

His upper lip curled ever so slightly, making Reiko’s hackles rise in response. ‘I suspect you’d need to, in your profession.’

She felt her smile slip and struggled to keep control. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d prefer the insults to start after I’ve digested my breakfast. Now, can I have a minute to say goodbye?’

His eyes cooled as they flicked to Trevor. ‘Make it quick. I don’t have all day.’

She went to Trevor and brushed her lips over his bearded cheek. ‘I know you want to clobber him, but try and rise above it, okay?’

Trevor’s lips twisted. ‘I want to do more than clobber him. But I have to trust you know what you’re doing.’

She smiled, despite knowing Trevor would be no match for Damion. The whipcord strength in the Frenchman’s broad shoulders and that aura of power that radiated off him meant Damion Fortier need never lift a finger in a show of force.

Straightening, she stepped outside and encountered a stony-faced Damion. A dangerous edge of something she couldn’t quite name vibrated off him as he held the passenger door open. The hard slam of the car door rattled her teeth, but she kept the smile on her face for Trevor’s sake.

The moment Damion slid in beside her, Reiko found breathing difficult. The already cramped space diminished even further, the mixture of his scent and the smell of the soft black leather of the luxury car made the air intoxicating in the extreme.

Her trembling fingers had barely secured her seatbelt before he was accelerating down the lane.

‘You do realise you’re not coming back here until after I have my painting?’

She frowned. ‘Yes.’

His gaze left the road for a second. ‘The size of your case seems to indicate otherwise. If you have any thoughts of returning here any time soon, kill them now.’

‘Our agreement still stands. I packed a small case because I didn’t want Trevor to worry. Whatever else I need I can get later.’

His lips tightened. ‘Does he know of our past?’

‘What past?’ she taunted and watched his nostrils flare in irritation.

‘Is he your only lover or do you have one of those progressive relationships?’

‘Our relationship is based on truth and trust. More than I can say for whatever it was you and I had.’ She sucked in a sustaining breath and wished she hadn’t. Damion’s scent filled every pore of her being, invading her skin as he’d invaded her dreams last night. ‘And, for the record, my relationship with Trevor is none of your business.’

As for other relationships … the very thought made her snort bitterly.

Stormy grey eyes sliced into her. ‘You find me amusing?’ he rasped, his tone chilly.

‘Amusing? No. Inappropriate? Definitely. Who I sleep with has nothing to do with this commission. So, before one of us blows our top, I suggest we change the subject.’

His hands clenched over the wheel, his hooded gaze on a red light. As if he’d willed it, it turned green.

Damion’s foot slammed on the accelerator, sending the car surging forward.

‘I agree. This isn’t a subject I find palatable. Why did you buy the Femme en Mer?’

Reiko’s heart lurched. ‘Because it was a good investment and I had the resources to buy it at the time.’

Damion glanced at her before smoothly joining the motorway. ‘Was that the only reason?’

She licked her lips, nerves eating at her. ‘What other reason would there have been?

His eyes narrowed. ‘Foolish sentiment, perhaps?’

‘Sentimental? Over you?’ She tried to inject as much cynicism into her voice as possible.

‘I know our time together meant something to you. You wouldn’t have been so riled up last night if it hadn’t.’

‘Wow—conceited much?’ Reiko didn’t know why she was goading him. But then she’d never been one to leave well enough alone. ‘FYI, I got over you pretty quickly.’

His fingers gripped the steering wheel until the knuckles showed white. ‘Oui, I remember,’ he clipped out. Minutes ticked by. ‘So who was he?’

Reiko felt the familiar wash of shame and looked out of the window. She had no intention of revealing the truth of what had happened in the weeks after Damion had left. It wasn’t a time she was proud of, and she planned on keeping it buried along with all her other secrets.

‘No one you know. If you really want to know my reason for buying the painting, my grandfather once told me the story behind it. I was intrigued. But I’m willing to set my sentiment aside for a healthy return.’

Damion changed lanes again, swerving into the fast lane to pass a slower car. Beneath his trousers, his powerful thigh muscles bunched, the way they had in her dream. And just like in her dream, heat pooled in Reiko’s belly and started to rise. Staunchly, she pulled her eyes away and focused on the traffic.

‘What exactly do you know about the painting?’

There was nothing but curiosity in his tone, but apprehension raced over her skin nonetheless.

‘Our grandfathers met your grandmother at the same time. Sylvain Fortier got the girl and the chance to paint her. My grandfather lost out because yours had the most money and power in the love triangle. They remained long-distance friends and business partners until you Fortiers decided your mutual history wasn’t worth a damn in the face of your bottom line. Cute story, isn’t it? For goodness’ sake, slow down! I’d really appreciate arriving in one piece.’

Reiko breathed a sigh of relief as the powerful car eased its frightening pace. Beside her, Damion’s brows were clamped in a fierce frown.

Finally he drew to a stop at another set of traffic lights. Stabbing a hand through his hair, he exhaled. ‘Cute is the last term I’d use to describe the story behind the paintings.’

‘I was being facetious. Trust me, there’s nothing cute about watching someone you care about lose everything. And there’s certainly nothing cute about being made a fool of. So unless you want to talk about that, I suggest we drop the subject, shall we?’

Stony-faced, Damion shrugged. The rest of the journey was made in silence.

Their escort to the vault in Central London was conducted with reverent haste once the patrons recognised Damion. He stood close as the Femme en Mer was removed from the vault and its protective sheets unwrapped.

The painting was of a woman in a barely-there bikini, crashing through frothy waves. Her windswept hair gleamed dark and glossy, the chocolate tresses begging to be touched. Her laughing face, set in profile, was stunning, and drew the eye to her exquisitely detailed features. Around her neck was fastened a thin white scarf that billowed over one shoulder, lending a whisper of innocence to the painting.

But it was her mouth—a sensual mouth so like Damion’s that Reiko had to steel herself not to glance at it—that set the woman’s beauty apart from the ordinary. The painting was alive. The oils, even after over a half-century, were vibrant and passionate. It was a true masterpiece.

‘She was truly stunning, your grandmother,’ Reiko murmured, unable to take her eyes off Gabrielle Fortier’s image.

‘Oui, she was.’ His tone was firm, but where she’d expected fondness or a little warmth, she heard nothing.

A glance at his face showed the same stony demeanour he’d worn since they stepped out of the car into the quiet London side street.

Curiosity made her continue. ‘My grandfather told me she had the whole of the Sorbonne at her feet the two semesters she was there.’

His smile did nothing to alleviate his icy, harsh features. ‘I’ve no doubt that is what happened, because at her feet was exactly where Grandmère preferred her men.’

Her shocked gasp made him raise an eyebrow.

‘I’ve surprised you?’

‘I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, but I wasn’t expecting … Wow—just … wow.’

‘It’s the truth. You expect me to mouth platitudes where there are none?’

‘Platitudes? Probably not, seeing as you don’t do sentiment. But isn’t it a harsh thing to say about your own grandmother?’

‘You know nothing about my life.’

Pain struck sharp. ‘Of course I don’t. Damion Fortier is a stranger to me. I spent six weeks with a man I knew as Daniel Fortman. But I do know about social etiquette and the art of polite conversation. I wouldn’t denounce a member of my family the way you do without even blinking. Especially when your family goes to great lengths to project a pristine image.’

‘Even angels fall, mademoiselle. And I hid my identity simply to avoid this very situation.’

‘What situation?’ she demanded.

He waved his hand at her. ‘This false affront. This pretence that what I did caused any lasting damage. We both know you got over me very quickly, don’t we?’ he flamed at her.

Heat crept up her neck and engulfed her face. His condemning gaze raked her face but she refused to look away. ‘You have no right to look down your nose at me when you lied to me consistently for six weeks. And I don’t really care about your reasons for lying. I trusted you enough to give you my body. You didn’t return the favour; instead you sent a cheque for a million dollars to salve your conscience. And now you’re disappointed I took it? If the money was some sort of test I was expected to pass to be deemed worthy in your eyes, then screw you, Damion. I’m glad I failed—’ Reiko bit her lip to stem the flow of words.

The last thing she wanted him to know was how devastated she’d been when she’d received the money after her grandfather’s death in place of an explanation. Yes, she could have taken the high road and ripped the cheque to shreds. Instead she’d taken delight in giving away every last cent to her favourite charity.

‘… sorry.’

The low, deep word drifted over her, pulling her back from dark recollections. When she glanced at him, he looked slightly shaken—taken aback, even.

‘What did you say?’

His features remained taut. ‘Perhaps the situation could’ve been handled differently.’

‘No kidding, Sherlock.’

‘And for that I’m sorry.’

She heard the words but the condemnation in his eyes didn’t dissipate. Slowly it dawned on her what was really bothering Damion. ‘It’s not about the money, is it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Even though you’ve apologised, you’re still staring at me like I’m pond scum. But it’s got nothing to do with the money, has it? It’s because you think I sl—’

‘I prefer not have this conversation here, Reiko, or indeed at all.’ He nodded to the vault attendant who’d been listening raptly to their conversation. The young man hurried forward with the crate.

‘That’s fine by me.’ Reminiscing … sentiment … led to nothing but pain. She needed to be as clinical as Damion, see this job through, and make sure the next time she disappeared she stayed hidden for good.

Jaw set in concrete, Damion packed the Femme en Mer himself, his gentle but efficient handling of the painting a testament to his years of experience in art-dealing.

The St Valoire auction house dated back to the turn of the nineteenth century, when it had been opened by one of Damion’s illustrious forebears, but Damion himself had been the one to open the now world-famous Gallerie Fortier.

In its very short history it had grown to rival Sotheby’s and Christie’s, specialising in holding prestigious exhibitions exclusively for royalty and heads of state. Only two months ago the Paris headquarters of Gallerie Fortier had held the first ever exhibit of twelve stunning diamond-and-emerald-encrusted Matryoshka nesting dolls, rumoured to have belonged to the wife of a long-dead tsar. The art world had been abuzz with the news for weeks, especially as no one had claimed the bounty.

Wrestling to bring things back to neutral ground, she asked, ‘Did you ever find out who owned those Matryoshka nesting dolls?’

Cold eyes looked up from his wrapping of the painting. ‘The rightful owner was tracked down eventually, yes.’

She passed him tape to secure the thick paper around the painting. Again their fingers touched. Again the surge of heat made her insides clench. ‘Want to share with me who it is?’

‘No, I don’t. What’s your interest anyway? I thought you were retired?’

She shrugged. ‘Semi-retired from art retrieval. I broker from time to time, and I may have a buyer who’s interested in acquiring the whole collection.’

‘An anonymous one who prefers to hide in the shadows, no doubt?’

‘Naturally,’ she responded drolly.

‘Use the right channels, and my people will happily supply you with the owner’s details.’ He picked up the crate and headed towards the exit.

Reiko hurried to catch up. She reached the car just as Damion stowed the crate in the boot, next to her suitcase.

Slamming the boot, he turned to her. ‘Have you ever given any thought to going straight? Giving up the sordid underworld in favour of using your talents legitimately?’

‘Straight is boring. I like what I do.’

‘Serial killers like what they do, too, but they eventually get caught.’

Unexpected laughter bubbled up from her chest and spilled out into the mid-morning sunshine. ‘You did not just compare me to a serial killer! I thought you French were supposed to be charming?’

The barest hint of a mocking smile lightened his face and his gaze dropped to her feet. ‘If the Ferragamos fit …’

Confronted with the less haughty features she’d once been captivated by, Reiko stared. Just then a light wind whipped between them. She felt it tug her fringe away from her face, threatening to expose her scar. Hurriedly she smoothed her hair down and tucked it behind her ear.

But not before she caught Damion’s frown. A dart of anxiety stabbed her. What would he think if he saw her scars? Would he be disgusted and pitying? Or would he strive for false indifference as some did when she inadvertently exposed them, as she almost had last night?

The thought made a silent scream rip through her. His lips parted and she knew he was going to ask what she was hiding. The urge to curtail the question made her reach out. With her free hand she gripped his biceps. His gaze stayed on her hair for several seconds, then dropped to her hand on his arm.

Despite the sensation crawling over her skin, Reiko kept the smile on her face. ‘We have a plane to catch, I believe?’

Grey eyes snapped back to hers. Their gleam told her he knew what she was doing. Thankfully, he didn’t push.

The worst of the rush-hour traffic was clearing by the time they rejoined the motorway. Damion handled the sleek sports car with the ease and efficiency of an expert. Slowly Reiko became less tense as the miles flew by.

The signs for Biggin Hill’s private airport flashed past before she decided to break the silence.

‘So, is it true your exhibition is centred around the Ingénue collection?’

‘Yes. What else did you hear?’

She shrugged. ‘That you’re holding the exhibition on February fourteenth.’

‘Oui, c’est vrais.’

‘Is that like you flipping two fingers at St Valentine?’

He frowned. ‘Why would you think that?’

Her choked laughter scraped her throat. ‘What else could it be? Surely you don’t expect me to think the day holds special meaning for you?’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’re “about as loveable as an arsenic-coated spike”.’ When he shot her a furious look, she held up her hand. ‘Don’t glare at me. I’m just quoting one of your loved-up girlfriends. Or should I say loved-out? She wasn’t too happy with being an ex-girlfriend, if I recall the article correctly.’

‘Don’t believe everything you read in your gutter press.’

‘Touché. But seriously? Valentine’s Day?

His shrug drew her attention to his powerful physique. ‘It was the most convenient date and suited all parties. If it adds a little je ne sais quoi to the occasion, all the better.’

‘Ah … ever the ruthless entrepreneur.’ Deep bitterness spiked her heart.

He swung into a hangar marked ‘Private’ and brought the powerful sports car to a stop at the steps of a large white, gold-trimmed aircraft.

Two men approached, one going directly to unpack the boot. The pilot stood at the bottom of the short flight of stairs, ready to usher them in.

Damion swung his door open, but before he stepped out, he turned to her. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Reiko. I believe in everything February the fourteenth stands for. I just haven’t found a woman who shares the same belief with no strings attached.’ His gaze dropped to her lips briefly before rising to pin her. ‘If and when I do, I will pursue her with the same relentless determination I pursue every other pleasure in my life. And I will let nothing stand in my way until she’s mine.’