The Sinful Art of Revenge

He indicated the cobblestoned pavement reminiscent of this part of Paris. ‘Those heels look hazardous—’

‘They’re fine.’

He’d clearly touched a nerve, but Damion didn’t know why. ‘Let’s go.’

The scent of her flowery perfume caught his nostrils as she fell into step beside him. He slowed his pace to match hers, and in the spring sunshine watched the way the light bounced over her long, dark locks.

He felt another puzzle tease at his brain. Her suit, make-up and shoes all shrieked a power statement that her free-flowing hair immediately defused.

Or was that her trick? Recalling the way she’d touched him last night and this morning, Damion felt his gut tighten. The contact had been in no way sensual, and certainly not what he was used to from women, but it had captured his attention. So much so he hadn’t been able to dismiss it from his mind.

A grande dame tottered past with several dogs on a leash. Reiko didn’t seem to notice her. He grabbed her arm to steer her clear of the menagerie and felt the fragile bones of her elbow beneath his touch. He waited for her to make a comment and glanced at her when she didn’t.

‘What?’ she enquired.

He nodded to the old lady. ‘You once mentioned how cute you thought that whole grande dame with dogs thing. So very French.’

Her mouth dropped open. She looked after the old woman and her dogs, then back at him. ‘You remember?’

He remembered a great deal about their six weeks in Tokyo; he had spent far too much time last night thinking about it. Was spending too much time thinking about it now. What the hell was wrong with him?

Everything Reiko had said to him at the vault had been true. He had sent her the money to salve his conscience after he’d learnt of her grandfather’s death. But deep down he’d hoped she wouldn’t take it—that she’d call or come and find him and rip the cheque to shreds in his presence.