The Darkest of Secrets

‘How long have you been with Axis Art Insurers?’

‘Four years.’

‘You are, I must confess, very young to be so experienced.’

Grace stifled a surge of annoyance. She was, unfortunately, used to clients—mainly men—casting doubt upon her abilities. Clearly Khalis Tannous was no different. ‘Monsieur Latour can vouch for my abilities, Mr Tannous—’

‘Khalis,’ he said softly.

Awareness rippled over her in a shiver, like droplets of water on bare skin. She didn’t want to call him by his first name, as ridiculous as that seemed. Keeping formal would be one way of maintaining a necessary and professional distance. ‘If you’d prefer another appraiser, please simply say so. I will be happy to oblige you.’ Leaving this island—and all the memories it churned up—would be a personal relief, if a professional disappointment.

He smiled, seeming so very relaxed. ‘Not at all, Ms Turner. I was simply making an observation.’

‘I see.’ She waited, wary, tense, trying to look as unconcerned as he did. He didn’t speak, and impatience bit at her. ‘So the collection …?’ she finally prompted.

‘Ah, yes. The collection.’ He turned to stare out of the window, his easy expression suddenly turning guarded, hooded. He seemed so urbane and assured, yet for just a moment he looked like a man in the grip of some terrible force, in the cast of an awful shadow. Then his face cleared and he turned back to her with a small smile. ‘My father had a private collection of art in the basement of this compound. A collection I knew nothing about.’ Grace refrained from comment. Tannous arched one eyebrow in gentle mockery. ‘You doubt me.’

Of course she did. ‘I am not here to make judgements, Mr Tannous.’

‘Are you ever,’ he mused, ‘going to call me Khalis?’

Not if she could help it. ‘I prefer work relationships to remain professional.’

‘And calling me by my first name is too intimate?’ There was a soft, seductive lilt to his voice that made that alarming awareness creep along Grace’s spine and curl her toes. The effect this man had on her—his voice, his smile, his body—was annoying. Unwanted. She smiled tightly.

‘Intimate is not the word I would use. But if you feel as strongly about it as you seem to, then I’m happy to oblige you and call you Khalis.’ Her tongue seemed to tangle itself on his name, and her voice turned breathy. Grace inwardly flinched. She was making a fool of herself and yet, even so, she’d seen something flare in his eyes, like silver fire, when she said his name. Whatever she was feeling—this attraction, this magnetism—he felt it, too.

Not that it mattered. Attraction, to her, was as suicidal as a moth to a flame. ‘May I see the paintings?’ she asked.

‘Of course. Perhaps that will explain things.’

In one fluid movement Khalis rose from the desk and walked out of the study, clearly expecting Grace to follow him. She suppressed the bite of irritation she felt at his arrogant attitude—he didn’t even look back—only to skid to a surprised halt when she saw him holding the door open for her.

He smiled down at her, and Grace had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly what she’d been feeling. ‘After you,’ he murmured and, fighting a flush, she walked past him down the same corridor they had used earlier. ‘Where am I going?’ she asked tersely. She could feel Khalis walking behind her, heard the whisper of his clothes as he moved. Everything about him was elegant, graceful and sinuous. Sexy.

No. She could not—would not—think that way. She hadn’t looked at a man in a sexual or romantic way in four years. She’d trained herself not to, suppressed those longings because she’d had to. One misstep would cost her if not her life, then her very soul. It was insane to feel anything now—and especially for a man like Khalis Tannous, a man who was now the CEO of a terrible and corrupt empire, a man she could never trust.

Instinctively she walked a little faster, as if she could distance herself from him, but he kept pace with ease.

‘Turn right,’ he murmured, and she heard humour in his voice. ‘You are amazingly adept in those very high heels, Ms Turner. But it’s not a race.’

Grace didn’t answer, but she forced herself to slow down. A little. She turned and walked down another long corridor, the shutters open to a different side of the villa’s interior courtyard.

‘And now left,’ he said, his voice a soft caress, raising the tiny hairs on the back of Grace’s neck. He’d come close again, too close. She turned left and came to a forbidding-looking lift with steel doors and a complex security pad.

Khalis activated the security with a fingerprint and a numbered code while Grace averted her eyes. ‘I’ll have to give you access,’ he said, ‘as all the art will need to stay on the basement level.’

‘To be honest, Mr Tannous—’

‘Khalis.’

‘I’m not sure how much can be accomplished here,’ Grace continued, undeterred. ‘Most appraisals need to be done in a laboratory, with the proper equipment—’

Khalis flashed her a quick and rather grim smile. ‘It appears my father had the same concerns you do, Ms Turner. I think you will find all the equipment and tools you need.’

The lift doors opened and Khalis ushered her inside before stepping into the lift himself. The doors swooshed closed, and Grace fought a sudden sense of claustrophobia. The lift was spacious enough, and there were only two of them in there, but she still felt as if she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. She was conscious of Khalis next to her, seeming so loose-limbed and relaxed, and the lift plunging downwards, deep below the earth, to the evil heart of this awful compound. She felt both trapped and tempted—two things she hated feeling.

‘Just a few more seconds,’ Khalis said softly, and she knew he was aware of how she felt. She was used to hiding her emotions, and being good at it, and it amazed and alarmed her that this stranger seemed to read her so quickly and easily. No one else ever had.

The doors opened and he swept out one arm, indicating she could go first. Cautiously Grace stepped out into a nondescript hallway, the concrete floor and walls the same as those in any basement. To the right she saw a thick steel door, sawn off its hinges and now propped to the side. Balkri Tannous’s vault. Her heart began to beat with heavy thuds of anticipation and a little fear.

‘Here we are.’ Khalis moved past her to switch on the light. Grace saw the interior of the vault was fashioned like a living room or study and, with her heart still beating hard, she stepped into that secret room.

It was almost too much to take in at once. Paintings jostled for space on every wall, frames nearly touching each other. She recognised at least a dozen stolen paintings right off the bat—Klimt, Monet, Picasso. Millions and millions of dollars’ worth of stolen art.

Her breath came out in a shudder and Khalis laughed softly, the sound somehow bleak. ‘I’m no expert, but even I could tell this was something else.’

She stopped in front of a Picasso that hadn’t been seen in a museum in over twenty years. She wasn’t that experienced with contemporary art, but she doubted it was a forgery. ‘Why,’ she asked, studying the painting’s clean geometric shape and different shades of blue, ‘did you ask for a Renaissance expert? There’s art from every period here.’

‘True,’ Khalis said. He came to stand by her shoulder, gazing at the Picasso as well. ‘Although, frankly, that looks like something my five-year-old god-daughter might paint in Nursery.’

‘That’s enough to make Picasso roll in his grave.’

‘Well, she is very clever.’

Grace gave a little laugh, surprising herself. She rarely laughed. She rarely let a man make her laugh. ‘Is your god-daughter in California?’

‘Yes, she’s the daughter of one of my shareholders.’

Grace gazed at the painting. ‘Clever she may be, but most art historians would shudder to compare Picasso with a child and a box of finger paints.’

‘Oh, she has a paintbrush.’

Grace laughed again, softly, a little breath of sound. ‘Maybe she’ll be famous one day.’ She half-turned and, with a somersault of her heart, realised just how close he had come. His face—his lips—were mere inches away. She could see their mobile fullness, amazed at how such a masculine man could have such lush, kissable, sexy lips. She felt a shaft of longing pierce her and quickly she moved onto the next painting. ‘So why me? Why a Renaissance specialist?’

‘Because of these.’

He took her hand in his own and shock jolted through her with the force of an electric current, short-circuiting her senses. Grace jerked her hand away from his too hard, her breath coming out in an outraged gasp.

Khalis stopped, an eyebrow arched. Grace knew her reaction had been ridiculously extreme. How could she explain it? She could not, not easily at any rate. She decided to ignore the whole sorry little episode and raised her chin a notch. ‘Show me, please.’

‘Very well.’ With one last considering look he led her to a door she hadn’t noticed in the back of the room. He opened it and switched on an electric light before ushering her inside.

The room was small and round, and it felt like being inside a tower, or perhaps a shrine. Grace saw only two artworks on the walls, and they stole the breath right from her lungs.

‘What—’ She stepped closer, stared hard at the wood panels with their thick brushstrokes of oil paint. ‘Do you know what these are?’ she whispered.

‘Not precisely,’ Khalis told her, ‘but they definitely aren’t something my god-daughter could paint.’