The Sinful Art of Revenge

Chapter FOUR


REIKO TRIED TO DISMISS Damion’s words. In some ways she could see how the words could be construed as hot. She could certainly understand how any other woman would find it difficult to think straight after being the object of that delivery—especially with that low, gravelly accent thrown in for good measure. After all, hadn’t she fallen for the whole package of effortless charisma and sheer animal magnetism?

She desperately tried to stem the incredibly fiery sensation that rose in her belly whenever she remembered his gaze on her lips.

Damion’s words would never apply to her. He’d made that glaringly obvious when he’d walked away without a backward glance five years ago.

No, when Damion Fortier chose his mate, he would cast his net in the exclusive pool of privilege and prestige equal to his own, not in the damaged remnants of a brief, meaningless affair.

The aircraft landed and rolled into another hangar at Orly Airport. She jumped from her seat. Damion, who’d been on the phone for the whole flight, hung up and glanced at her. Again the look tugged on her senses, and she hissed in irritation at herself.

She had calls to make, people to contact if she was to establish a solid lead as to the whereabouts of the Femme sur Plage. Four years in this shaky economic climate was a long time for a painting to remain in one place for long—especially one as exclusively priceless as the Sylvain Fortier piece. If Damion, with his unlimited funds and excellent contacts, had been unable to locate it, then she’d have her work cut out.

Whom Damion would eventually choose as his Baroness was the last thing she should be thinking of.

Fishing a pen out of her handbag, she quickly scribbled down her address. ‘This is where I’ll be staying, should you need to contact me. Otherwise I’ll see you at the exhibit on Friday evening.’

He glanced at the piece of paper but made no move to take it. ‘This is where you stay when you’re in Paris?’ The slur in his tone was unmistakable.

‘Don’t tell me. You wouldn’t be caught dead in that neighbourhood?’

‘Oui, that is right. And neither will you.’

‘I always stay there. I like the area’s bohemian feel. You should try it some time. Maybe you’ll like it.’

‘Believe it or not, I’ve tried it and liked it. I lived there during my university days.’ He caught her slack-jawed look and smiled. ‘Before it became a drugs and gang hotspot. When was the last time you were there?’ he asked.

Recalling the last time she’d visited Paris, she felt a swell of pain rise through her. ‘Three years ago.’

A hooded look came over his eyes. ‘Were you alone?’

‘No.’ She’d been with her father. They’d had an amazing time. Going back to where she’d stayed with him would be painful. Of that she had no doubt.

Face the demons …

Damion rose to tower over her. ‘Well, you won’t be staying there. I won’t let you compromise our agreement simply because you want to feel bohemian.’

‘It’s a good thing you’re not the boss of me, then, isn’t it?’ she snapped.

‘Look out of the window, Reiko,’ he replied simply.

‘Why?’ Her head whipped to the closest window, her heart hammering. Expecting to find the plane surrounded by police, all she saw was another gleaming sports car and an immigration official ready to inspect their travel documents. Relief made her slightly dizzy. ‘Wh … what exactly am I supposed to be looking at?’

‘You’re not a French citizen, which means you need a special licence or a certificate of origin to bring any form of art into the country. I haven’t yet taken ownership of the Femme en Mer, so unless I vouch for you, or claim ownership of the painting, the authorities will have to be involved. Now, personally I don’t have a problem—’

‘Fine! We’ll do it your way.’ His smug smile made her teeth grind. ‘Did I mention that I think you’re a cold bastard?’

‘Your tone implied it exquisitely.’

‘Good, I’m so glad.’ Despite her snarky tone, panic began to claw at her insides. She had no doubt Damion meant to keep her close. Which meant he would be within hearing distance should she experience another of her nightmares, or worse. Carefully, she cleared her throat. ‘Do you intend to hold me prisoner the whole time I’m here?’

Their pilot came out and lowered the steps to the plane. Damion ushered her out. ‘Not at all. You’re a free agent. As long as you stay at my apartment, stay within the confines of the law and make every attempt to locate the painting.’

When he placed a hand in the small of her back to propel her forward, Reiko jumped out of reach. Beneath her clothes, her skin tingled. She averted her gaze from Damion’s frowning look.

‘Let’s not keep the nice officer waiting,’ she said hurriedly.

His frown remained in place. ‘It also goes without saying that I want you on your best behaviour. And, before you use another Scout salute, be warned that I saw your two-finger salute last night instead of the correct three.’

He stood so close she could see the faint shadow of his stubble, smell the heady scent of him. Hurriedly she went down the stairs. ‘How would you know? I find it impossible to picture you as a Scout.’

‘I wasn’t, but I had a crush on a Guide once upon a time.’

Stunned, she glanced at him as he shook hands with the official. The sheer magnificence of him made something kick in her chest, catching her breath for a second before releasing it. When Damion’s gaze caught hers, she struggled to maintain a neutral expression.

She couldn’t lower her guard around him. Even if what had happened five years ago hadn’t been enough of a lesson, she only had to think of his affair with Isadora Baptiste to remember she detested everything about his heartless attitude towards relationships.

Like an ice-cold shower, the thought obliterated everything else.

The foundations of her control solidified, she slid into the car beside Damion.

She felt his quizzical gaze on her, but kept hers forward. When he turned the ignition and gripped the gearstick, she deliberately drifted her fingers over the back of his hand. His light intake of breath didn’t pierce her re-imposed self-control. Even the tingle in her fingers lingered for a split second before it set her free. For that, Reiko was eternally grateful.

‘You don’t need to worry. I’ll be on my best behaviour.’

‘I’m curious as to the sudden change of heart.’

Had his voice grown a little raspier?

‘Let’s just say I don’t want to prolong our association any longer than I have to.’

Damion pondered the change in Reiko as he negotiated the last few streets towards his Parisian apartment in the third arrondissement. Something had happened between their disembarking the plane and leaving the airstrip. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.

Her body was so still, her expression so remote, Damion wondered if she was in some sort of trance. Only the frequent flickering of her eyelids and furtive glances out of her window indicated she wasn’t in a meditative state.

When he pulled up outside his apartment overlooking the Place des Vosges, he glanced at her again. This time she met his gaze. Damion saw a trace of pain in that look and frowned. Had he been too rough with her? A tinge of guilt seeped in to compound his confusion. As feisty as she was, he wasn’t unaware of her diminutive stature. His glance slid over her again and his frown deepened. Why had she covered herself up so completely?

The Reiko he’d known had worn skimpy outfits designed to drive him wild with desire. He recalled her perfect, flawless skin, and heat unfurled within him. He’d loved running his hands over her naked body, watching arousal heat her flesh, hearing her words of wonder as he’d taken her …

He stemmed the tide of unwanted memories.

Five years ago he’d let the personal get in the way of business and regretted it.

Whatever Reiko Kagawa was hiding underneath those staid, sexless clothes was no longer his business.

His main focus needed to be on locating the third painting and making sure his grandfather’s last days were made as comfortable as possible.

As to what came after that … His jaw tightened. He’d think about that aspect of his duty—finding a wife, making sure his family name continued—when the time was right.

‘Vien, we’re here.’ His personal concierge hurried forward and opened Reiko’s door. Damion handed over the contents of the boot and turned to her. ‘It’s lunchtime. I’ve booked a restaurant close by. Are you okay to walk?’

He caught her look of panic-tinged suspicion before she quickly doused it.

‘Of course I am. Why shouldn’t I be?’ she challenged, her eyes fiery.

He indicated the cobblestoned pavement reminiscent of this part of Paris. ‘Those heels look hazardous—’

‘They’re fine.’

He’d clearly touched a nerve, but Damion didn’t know why. ‘Let’s go.’

The scent of her flowery perfume caught his nostrils as she fell into step beside him. He slowed his pace to match hers, and in the spring sunshine watched the way the light bounced over her long, dark locks.

He felt another puzzle tease at his brain. Her suit, make-up and shoes all shrieked a power statement that her free-flowing hair immediately defused.

Or was that her trick? Recalling the way she’d touched him last night and this morning, Damion felt his gut tighten. The contact had been in no way sensual, and certainly not what he was used to from women, but it had captured his attention. So much so he hadn’t been able to dismiss it from his mind.

A grande dame tottered past with several dogs on a leash. Reiko didn’t seem to notice her. He grabbed her arm to steer her clear of the menagerie and felt the fragile bones of her elbow beneath his touch. He waited for her to make a comment and glanced at her when she didn’t.

‘What?’ she enquired.

He nodded to the old lady. ‘You once mentioned how cute you thought that whole grande dame with dogs thing. So very French.’

Her mouth dropped open. She looked after the old woman and her dogs, then back at him. ‘You remember?’

He remembered a great deal about their six weeks in Tokyo; he had spent far too much time last night thinking about it. Was spending too much time thinking about it now. What the hell was wrong with him?

Everything Reiko had said to him at the vault had been true. He had sent her the money to salve his conscience after he’d learnt of her grandfather’s death. But deep down he’d hoped she wouldn’t take it—that she’d call or come and find him and rip the cheque to shreds in his presence.

When she hadn’t, he’d returned to Tokyo, foolishly believing he’d find her, apologise and resume what they’d started. How wrong he’d been.

Ruthlessly, he pushed the images in his brain away. ‘Oui, I remember.’ Bitterness slashed through him, mingling with an arousal he refused to acknowledge. Looking away, he glimpsed the discreet entrance to the restaurant. ‘We’re here.’

He went to take her elbow again, but she pulled away from him under the pretext of greeting the maître d’.

Damion suppressed a grim smile. It seemed this new Reiko had developed a penchant for touching at will, but curiously she didn’t like the favour returned. He tucked that little morsel to the back of his mind.

‘You didn’t finish telling me about the exhibition.’ When he hesitated, Reiko shrugged. ‘I’m going to find out eventually.’ She sipped her water, gripping the glass firmly to hide her trembling.

Damion’s revelation outside the restaurant had shaken her. So Damion remembered one tiny comment she’d made during their time together? Big deal. It made no sense for her emotions to skitter out of control because of it.

‘The Ingénue is a collection of firsts—first poems, first paintings, first sculptures. Even the first haute couture gown created by Michel Zoltan.’

She was reluctantly impressed. ‘Wow, how did you manage that?’ The temperamental and very reclusive designer had created the most perfect wedding gown for the last European royal bride, and then promptly declared it to be his last-ever creation.

He shot her a droll look. ‘I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you. And all that blood on this perfect parquet floor …’

‘Ha-ha—very funny.’

One side of his mouth lifted in a half-smile as he beckoned the hovering sommelier. Once Damion had inspected the chilled bottle and the Chablis was poured, she chose her entrée and main and handed the menu to the waiter.

‘These works were done before the influence of the outside world—before the artists’ innocence was stolen, as it were. The world has never seen an exhibition like this. Most artists believe their first works aren’t worthy of publicising.’

‘I don’t think it’s so much that as an unwillingness to bare their souls to the public—especially in the presence of other artists. Artists have very fragile egos.’

‘With the right incentive, even fragile egos are malleable.’

Her fingers tightened around the glass. ‘Does that translate as everyone can be bought?’

‘In my experience, oui,’ he responded without an ounce of regret, his cold gaze locked on hers.

She carefully swallowed. ‘What a jaded life you’ve led.’

‘As opposed to your unsullied existence in an ivory tower? Why do you really want to attend my exhibit? And don’t tell me it’s because of your love of art.’

Reiko was eternally grateful she’d perfected her poker face long before she could speak, because the grey eyes boring into hers made shivers dance down her spine. ‘I told you—to explore whatever lead I can to establish the whereabouts of your painting.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘So you won’t be blatantly poaching my business?’

She shrugged. ‘If you’re that bothered about it, we could come to an agreement.’

On cue, haughty distaste filled his eyes. ‘I don’t do backroom deals.’

‘Never say never.’

He was about to respond when the waiter brought their entrée. Her thinly sliced ham on a bed of apple and celeriac was exquisite. Opposite her, Damion attacked his own lobster salad with a relish that reminded her of his huge appetite. Watching his hands as he deftly forked food into his mouth, Reiko felt familiar heat invade her belly.

She lowered her gaze to her plate, a shaft of pain slicing through her at the fruitlessness of her feelings.

Even if there were the remotest chance of a physical relationship with a member of the opposite sex, the man sitting before her would not be her prime choice. Damion Fortier appreciated beauty and perfection. She’d been stunned five years ago when he’d shown an interest in her. Of course the reason why had eventually revealed itself. Like a gullible fool, she’d let him brush aside her initial scepticism, drawn to him with an intensity she’d found impossible to fight.

His every choice of female since he’d walked away from her attested to the fact that she had been a fluke—a step outside his normal circle, which he’d always intended to return to.

No, Damion would never be given the chance to see her physical scars or glimpse the emotional wasteland that had ravaged her soul.

‘Is this how you’re hoping to convince me to trust you?’ His question broke through her agonising thoughts.

‘What?’

‘You asked me to trust you but your intentions in attending my exhibition put that theory to the test.’

‘Finding your painting is my priority. Everything else is secondary. I give you my word.’

He stared at her for an interminable minute. Then he nodded. ‘Bien.’ He extended his hand. ‘Shall we shake on it?’

Reiko swallowed and stared at the large masculine hand in front of her. When she glanced back at him, the look in his eyes shifted, and a gleam that made her hackles rise passed through the grey depths before the veneer of civility slid back into place.

‘I’ve already promised to be on my best behaviour, Baron.’

‘But a handshake is much more … professional than Scouts’ honour, n’est ce pas?’

His firm reasoning didn’t ease her anxiety. Inhaling, she set her fork down and tentatively placed her hand in his.

The heat from his touch singed all the way to her toes. When she tried to free herself, he held her for a few seconds longer before releasing her.

After that he turned into the perfect host.

Reiko eventually dared to relax a little, allowed the tension to ease out of her body.

Until he reached out and brushed back her fringe. Her skin burned at the laser-like focus of his gaze on her face.

‘How did you get that scar on your temple?’ he rasped.