Secret Things and Highland Flings. Tracy Corbett

the Norwegian’s best-known expressionist work and decided to loan it to a small independent gallery in Windsor.

      Except she didn’t say it, of course. She fought the urge for sarcasm, kept her smile in place and pointed to the index card. ‘All of the paintings displayed along this wall are copies,’ she said, refusing to catch the eye of the Woman at the Window in case she gave the game away.

      ‘Very good.’ He nodded manically, gesturing to the painting again. ‘Very good.’

      ‘I agree. They might not be originals, but they’re all exquisite works of art in their own right, painted by some of the country’s leading artists.’ She tried to dazzle them with a winning smile and brushed her blonde hair away from her face … except the plaster on her finger got stuck in her fringe, ruining the effect.

      As she attempted to disentangle herself, the gallery door opened.

      She glanced over, momentarily distracted by the sight of a huge bouquet of pink roses being carried through the doorway. And then she realised who was carrying the flowers and her day went from ‘mildly irritating’ to ‘catastrophic’ in an instant. It was her ex-husband.

      The throbbing in her finger increased … until she realised she was gripping her hair.

      She tried to regain her composure, but the sight of Marcus made that impossible. He was wearing a fitted shirt with black tailored trousers, looking tanned and relaxed, his beguiling smile enhanced by straight white teeth and deep brown eyes. He made quite an impact standing there, grinning, holding the flowers aloft like he was God’s gift. It didn’t stop her wanting to scream and throw a sharp object at his head, though.

      She didn’t, of course. She hid her ensuing panic, smiled at her customers and said, ‘Excuse me a moment,’ then darted over to the doorway, her four-inch heels clicking on the tiled floor in time with her accelerated heart rate.

      She hadn’t seen Marcus for over a year and although his sudden appearance in her gallery should be a complete shock, in truth she’d been expecting him.

      It was hard to compute the range of emotions racing through her. He was as handsome as ever and looked younger than his thirty-four years. He smelt delicious too, a mixture of lemon and pine. Her heart ached a little at the reminder of what she’d lost.

      Thankfully her head came to the rescue, absorbing the sight of his enticing smile but refusing to be taken in by it.

      There’d been a time when he’d charmed her with his persuasive persona, showered her with gifts, and promised her a life filled with love, laughter and adventure. But that was before she’d discovered he wasn’t a decent, hardworking man but a prized rat who rarely told the truth. He’d played her one too many times for her to be fooled by his ‘charming-rogue’ routine. She was older and wiser now. A tougher nut to crack.

      His opening gambit of, ‘Baby, it’s good to see you,’ was accompanied by him reaching for her like she was the answer to his prayers.

      She lifted her hand, stopping him from hugging her. Breathing in his scent might tip the balance in favour of her hormones, derailing her motivation to draw blood.

      It helped that his smile faded as he took in her attire. He’d never liked her in green. Tough. Unlike him, she couldn’t afford fancy new clothes and had to make do with items from her existing wardrobe.

      ‘Your hair’s shorter,’ he said, his eyes grazing over her appearance. ‘And what have you done to your eye?’

      His disapproval helped to relax her. She’d almost forgotten how picky he could be. ‘What do you want, Marcus?’

      A grin appeared. The glint in his eye was a reminder of all the times he’d tried to swindle her. ‘I wanted to see you. I’ve missed you.’ He offered her the flowers.

      She refused to take them. ‘How’s Cindy?’

      Mentioning his twenty-two-year-old PA had the desired effect. His smile instantly faded.

      ‘She’s still in Spain.’

      ‘Staying at the Finca, I presume?’

      It still annoyed her that under Spanish law, their villa was excluded from UK insolvency laws. As such, his dodgy solicitor had managed to secure him ownership in the divorce. They’d purchased the place shortly after they’d married and spent two summers holidaying there – before his shady business dealings came to light and he ran off with his PA.

      ‘Lucky Cindy. Andalucía’s lovely in the spring.’

      ‘I didn’t come here to talk about Cindy.’

      ‘I’m sure you didn’t.’ But Lexi needed to feel more in control and reminding him of his girlfriend helped to do that. If she showed any weakness, he’d only take advantage. ‘Now, what is it you want? I have customers.’

      He lowered the flowers. ‘I think you know why I’m here.’ He held her gaze. ‘You have something that belongs to me.’

      ‘And what would that be, Marcus?’ God, she hoped her left eye wouldn’t start twitching. She was a terrible liar. ‘Are you referring to your belongings following the house repossession? The bailiffs took most of it. As for the rest, I donated it to charity. I didn’t have room to store anything upstairs in the flat. Sorry.’

      She wasn’t sorry at all. The bastard had buggered off and left her to deal with his mess. He should be grateful she hadn’t burnt his stuff.

      ‘What about my clothes?’

      ‘They’re boxed up in the storage basement below. Give me a forwarding address and I’ll send them to you. If you want them shipped to Spain you’ll have to pay yourself. My funds are somewhat depleted since the bankruptcy.’

      ‘I don’t believe that for a second.’ His gaze settled on the Woman at the Window. The sultry Italian temptress was hanging on the far wall, her astute dark eyes watching their exchange with interest. ‘You can still afford to buy valuable paintings.’

      Trust him to notice. ‘Marcus, as you well know, I specialise in replicas, not originals. It’s a copy.’ Her eye immediately started twitching.

      ‘It doesn’t look like a copy.’

      ‘None of my paintings do, that’s why my business is so successful. A business that was severely jeopardised by your shady dealings.’ Attack was the best form of defence, she’d learnt.

      He placed the flowers on the counter and went over to the painting. She watched him study the signature, which she’d carefully concealed behind a display card.

      ‘I remember you buying a preliminary sketch of this painting. We’d gone to London for the weekend and I’d got us tickets to see the Arsenal game, but you insisted we attend some fancy auction. It was always your ambition to own the original painting.’

      She remembered the weekend well. It was supposed to be a romantic getaway … until she’d realised his idea of ‘romance’ was to take her to the blessed football. Stopping off at the auction had seemed only fair.

      She followed him over. ‘You’re right, which is why I took the opportunity to display this copy when it was offered to me by an aspiring local artist.’ She’d rehearsed her answer many times, using a mirror to perfect her performance. She suspected Marcus didn’t believe her. He was too shady to be outwitted, but she wasn’t going down without a fight.

      He resumed looking at the painting. ‘I assume you found the holdall?’

      And there it was. The bombshell she’d been waiting for.

      She cleared her throat. ‘What holdall?’

      His gaze remained fixated on the painting, so he didn’t see her left eye twitching like a malfunctioning washing machine.

      He turned slowly to face her. ‘I think you know exactly what holdall.’

      ‘Like I said, I gave