The Sinful Art of Revenge. Maya Blake

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.’

      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