The Sinful Art of Revenge

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 always stay there. I like the area’s bohemian feel. You should try it some time. Maybe you’ll like it.’

‘Believe it or not, I’ve tried it and liked it. I lived there during my university days.’ He caught her slack-jawed look and smiled. ‘Before it became a drugs and gang hotspot. When was the last time you were there?’ he asked.

Recalling the last time she’d visited Paris, she felt a swell of pain rise through her. ‘Three years ago.’

A hooded look came over his eyes. ‘Were you alone?’

‘No.’ She’d been with her father. They’d had an amazing time. Going back to where she’d stayed with him would be painful. Of that she had no doubt.

Face the demons …

Damion rose to tower over her. ‘Well, you won’t be staying there. I won’t let you compromise our agreement simply because you want to feel bohemian.’

‘It’s a good thing you’re not the boss of me, then, isn’t it?’ she snapped.

‘Look out of the window, Reiko,’ he replied simply.

‘Why?’ Her head whipped to the closest window, her heart hammering. Expecting to find the plane surrounded by police, all she saw was another gleaming sports car and an immigration official ready to inspect their travel documents. Relief made her slightly dizzy. ‘Wh … what exactly am I supposed to be looking at?’

‘You’re not a French citizen, which means you need a special licence or a certificate of origin to bring any form of art into the country. I haven’t yet taken ownership of the Femme en Mer, so unless I vouch for you, or claim ownership of the painting, the authorities will have to be involved. Now, personally I don’t have a problem—’

‘Fine! We’ll do it your way.’ His smug smile made her teeth grind. ‘Did I mention that I think you’re a cold bastard?’

‘Your tone implied it exquisitely.’

‘Good, I’m so glad.’ Despite her snarky tone, panic began to claw at her insides. She had no doubt Damion meant to keep her close. Which meant he would be within hearing distance should she experience another of her nightmares, or worse. Carefully, she cleared her throat. ‘Do you intend to hold me prisoner the whole time I’m here?’

Their pilot came out and lowered the steps to the plane. Damion ushered her out. ‘Not at all. You’re a free agent. As long as you stay at my apartment, stay within the confines of the law and make every attempt to locate the painting.’

When he placed a hand in the small of her back to propel her forward, Reiko jumped out of reach. Beneath her clothes, her skin tingled. She averted her gaze from Damion’s frowning look.

‘Let’s not keep the nice officer waiting,’ she said hurriedly.

His frown remained in place. ‘It also goes without saying that I want you on your best behaviour. And, before you use another Scout salute, be warned that I saw your two-finger salute last night instead of the correct three.’

He stood so close she could see the faint shadow of his stubble, smell the heady scent of him. Hurriedly she went down the stairs. ‘How would you know? I find it impossible to picture you as a Scout.’

‘I wasn’t, but I had a crush on a Guide once upon a time.’

Stunned, she glanced at him as he shook hands with the official. The sheer magnificence of him made something kick in her chest, catching her breath for a second before releasing it. When Damion’s gaze caught hers, she struggled to maintain a neutral expression.

She couldn’t lower her guard around him. Even if what had happened five years ago hadn’t been enough of a lesson, she only had to think of his affair with Isadora Baptiste to remember she detested everything about his heartless attitude towards relationships.

Like an ice-cold shower, the thought obliterated everything else.

The foundations of her control solidified, she slid into the car beside Damion.

She felt his quizzical gaze on her, but kept hers forward. When he turned the ignition and gripped the gearstick, she deliberately drifted her fingers over the back of his hand. His light intake of breath didn’t pierce her re-imposed self-control. Even the tingle in her fingers lingered for a split second before it set her free. For that, Reiko was eternally grateful.

‘You don’t need to worry. I’ll be on my best behaviour.’

‘I’m curious as to the sudden change of heart.’

Had his voice grown a little raspier?

‘Let’s just say I don’t want to prolong our association any longer than I have to.’

Damion pondered the change in Reiko as he negotiated the last few streets towards his Parisian apartment in the third arrondissement. Something had happened between their disembarking the plane and leaving the airstrip. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.

Her body was so still, her expression so remote, Damion wondered if she was in some sort of trance. Only the frequent flickering of her eyelids and furtive glances out of her window indicated she wasn’t in a meditative state.

When he pulled up outside his apartment overlooking the Place des Vosges, he glanced at her again. This time she met his gaze. Damion saw a trace of pain in that look and frowned. Had he been too rough with her? A tinge of guilt seeped in to compound his confusion. As feisty as she was, he wasn’t unaware of her diminutive stature. His glance slid over her again and his frown deepened. Why had she covered herself up so completely?

The Reiko he’d known had worn skimpy outfits designed to drive him wild with desire. He recalled her perfect, flawless skin, and heat unfurled within him. He’d loved running his hands over her naked body, watching arousal heat her flesh, hearing her words of wonder as he’d taken her …

He stemmed the tide of unwanted memories.

Five years ago he’d let the personal get in the way of business and regretted it.

Whatever Reiko Kagawa was hiding underneath those staid, sexless clothes was no longer his business.

His main focus needed to be on locating the third painting and making sure his grandfather’s last days were made as comfortable as possible.

As to what came after that … His jaw tightened. He’d think about that aspect of his duty—finding a wife, making sure his family name continued—when the time was right.

‘Vien, we’re here.’ His personal concierge hurried forward and opened Reiko’s door. Damion handed over the contents of the boot and turned to her. ‘It’s lunchtime. I’ve booked a restaurant close by. Are you okay to walk?’

He caught her look of panic-tinged suspicion before she quickly doused it.

‘Of course I am. Why shouldn’t I be?’ she challenged, her eyes fiery.