The Darkest of Secrets

She laughed softly, no more than a breath of sound. She did not seem like a woman used to laughing. ‘I keep forgetting.’

‘I think you want to forget.’

She didn’t deny it. ‘I told you before, I prefer to keep things professional.’

‘It’s the twenty-first century, Grace. Calling someone by a first name is hardly inviting untoward intimacies.’ Even if such a prospect attracted him all too much.

She lifted her gaze to his, her dark eyes wide and clear with a sudden sobriety. ‘In most circles,’ she allowed, intriguing him further. ‘In any case, what I meant to tell you was that I’m sure you realise most of the art in that vault downstairs has been stolen from various museums around the world.’

‘I do realise,’ he answered, ‘which is why I wished to have it assessed, and assured there are no forgeries.’

‘And then?’

He took a sip of wine, giving her a deliberately amused look over the rim of his glass. ‘Then I intend to sell it on the black market, of course. And quietly get rid of you.’

Her eyes narrowed, lips compressed. ‘If that is a joke, it is a poor one.’

‘If?’ He stared at her, saw her slender body nearly vibrating with tension. ‘My God, do you actually think there is any possibility of such a thing? What kind of man do you think I am?’

A faint blush touched her pale cheeks with pink. ‘I don’t know you, Mr Tannous. All I know is what I’ve heard of your father—’

‘I am nothing like my father.’ He hated the implication she was making, the accusation. He’d been trying to prove he was different his whole life, had made every choice deliberately as a way to prove he was not like his father in the smallest degree. The price he’d paid was high, maybe even too high, but he’d paid it and he wouldn’t look back. And he wouldn’t defend himself to this slip of a woman either. He forced himself to smile. ‘Trust me, such a thing is not in the remotest realm of possibility.’

‘I didn’t think it was,’ she answered sharply. ‘But it is something, perhaps, your father might have done.’

Something snapped to life inside him, but Khalis could not say what it was. Anger? Regret? Guilt? ‘My father was not a murderer,’ he said levelly, ‘as far as I am aware.’

‘But he was a thief,’ Grace said quietly. ‘A thief many times over.’

‘And he is dead. He cannot pay for his crimes, alas, but I can set things to rights.’

‘Is that what you are doing with Tannous Enterprises?’

Tension tautened through his body. ‘Attempting. It is, I fear, a Herculean task.’

‘Why did he leave it to you?’

‘It is a question I have asked myself many times already,’ he said lightly, ‘and one for which I have yet to find an answer. My older brother should have inherited, but he died in the crash.’

‘And what about the other shareholders?’

‘There are very few, and they hold a relatively small percentage of the shares. They’re not best pleased, though, that my father left control of the company to me.’

‘What do you think they’ll do?’

He shrugged. ‘What can they do? They’re waiting now, to see which way I turn.’

‘Whether you’ll be like your father.’ This time she did not speak with accusation, but something that sounded surprisingly like sympathy.

‘I won’t.’

‘A fortune such as the one contained in that vault has tempted a lesser man, Mr … Khalis.’ She spoke softly, almost as if she had some kind of personal experience of such temptation. His name on her lips sent a sudden thrill through him. Perhaps using first names did invite an intimacy … or at least create one.

‘I have my own fortune, Grace. But I thank you for the compliment.’

‘It wasn’t meant to be one,’ she said quietly. ‘Just an observation, really.’ She turned away and he watched her cross to the edge of the private alcove as if looking for exits. The little nook was enclosed by thick foliage on every side but one that led back into the villa. Did she feel trapped?

‘You seem a bit tense,’ he told her mildly. ‘Granted, this island has a similar effect on me, but I wish I could put you at ease in regard to my intentions.’

‘Why didn’t you simply hand the collection over to the police?’

He gave a short laugh. ‘In this part of the world? My father may have been corrupt, but he wasn’t alone. Half of the local police force were in his pocket already.’

She nodded, her back still to him, though he saw the tension radiating along her spine, her slender back taut with it. ‘Of course,’ she murmured.

‘Let me be plain about my intentions, Grace. After you’ve assessed the art—the da Vincis, mainly—and assured me they are not forgeries, I intend to hand the entire collection over to Axis to see it disposed of properly, whether that is the Louvre, the Met, or a poky little museum in Oklahoma. I don’t care.’

‘There are legal procedures—’

He waved a hand in dismissal. ‘I’m sure of it. And I’m sure your company can handle such things and make sure each masterpiece gets back to its proper museum.’

She turned suddenly, looking at him over her shoulder, her eyes wide and dark, her lips parted. It was an incredibly alluring pose, though he doubted she realised it. Or perhaps he’d just been too long without a lover. Either way, Grace Turner fascinated and attracted him more than any woman had in a long time. He wanted to kiss those soft parted lips as much as he wanted to see them smile, and the realisation jarred him. He felt more for this woman than mere physical attraction. ‘I told you before,’ she said, ‘those Leonardos have never been in a museum.’

He pushed away that unwanted realisation with relief. ‘Why not?’

‘No one has ever been sure they even existed.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you recognise the subject of the paintings?’

‘Something in Greek mythology, I thought.’ He racked his brain for a moment. ‘Leda and the Swan, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. Do you know the story?’

‘Vaguely. The Swan was Zeus, wasn’t it? And he had his way with Leda.’

‘Yes, he raped her. It was a popular subject of paintings during the Renaissance, and depicted quite erotically.’ She’d turned to face him and in the flickering torchlight her face looked pale and sorrowful. ‘Leonardo da Vinci was known to have done the first painting downstairs, of Leda and the Swan. A romantic depiction, similar in style to others of the period, yet of course by a master.’

‘And yet this painting was never in a museum?’

‘No, it was last seen at Fontainebleau in 1625. Historians think it was deliberately destroyed. It was definitely known to be damaged, so if it is genuine your father or a previous owner must have had it restored.’

‘If it hasn’t been seen in four hundred years, how does anyone even know what it looked like?’

‘Copies, all based on the first copy done by one of Leonardo’s students. You could probably buy a poster of it on the street for ten pounds.’

‘That’s no poster downstairs.’