The Sinful Art of Revenge. Maya Blake

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