Net of Lies (3 page)

A thought
, crystal clear and definite, formed in his brain, escaping all reason and common sense that tried to bring him back from the verge of self-destruction. He would have her pliable body under his once again, sooner than later. He would kiss every inch of her lovely body and see her eyes widen in response, a tiny gasp escaping her soft lips once again. He would make her beg him to continue, and she would hold him in her arms the way she used to.

Maybe, just maybe
, it would finally banish the demons that had walked along with him, turning his life into a personal hell of bitterness and pain.

He was not a spontaneous man
—not anymore. After all the things that had happened in the last few years of his life, Raoul was well aware that surprise was seldom a good thing, and decisions made in the spur of the moment would come back to haunt him ninety-nine percent of the time. He had made enough mistakes by trusting his feelings and his sense of righteousness to cure him of his youthful notion of following his heart instead of his brain.

This unexpected desire to
possess Kate again was definitely not planned as he had left his luxurious suite for the gala. He wanted payback. He would humiliate her and make her feel all the misery she had caused him. Planning that was very easy—insultingly so. He knew enough about her boss and the place where she worked to drag her down with the rest of the business when he exposed it for what it really was.

The fragile façade of charitable donations and support for local art barely
disguised the net of deception. Marc Stevenson was nothing more than an ordinary conman who didn’t hesitate to deal with cheats and thieves. He had a policy of never asking too many questions while acquiring priceless pieces to showcase for his special clients. It was a crime that needed to be exposed. Some people were willing to pay an insane amount of money for the piece that they desired, approving of whatever it might take to obtain it. And Marc delivered with cold-blooded single-mindedness, even if it meant dealing with the shadier part of the art society.

He specializ
ed in training his own breed of art agents, hiring them to find and hunt down struggling art owners, most of them older and unaware of the true value of the pieces they had in their possession. After tracking them down, he aggressively offered them deals that exploited the clueless owner.

And if the positive
persuasion didn’t work to his advantage, Marc didn’t hesitate to resort to less subtle tactics. His agents bullied and blackmailed the few sensible ones who wanted to get a second opinion before closing a deal. It worked perfectly, and his private sales soared.

Raoul
had spoken to his great aunt Rosa just a few weeks before. Living alone in her beautiful villa on the outskirts of Madrid, she divided her time between her beloved rose garden and her three cats and two hound dogs that she had saved from the pound. Stubborn and independent, she had refused repeatedly to move to the large ancestral home of the Lorrena family. She had vowed to never as much as set foot in the spectacular castle the Lorrena family had called home for the last seven hundred years because she’d never quite been able to forgive her father for disowning her after discovering her romance with an artist sixty years before. Raoul had been a frequent visitor to her art-nouveau home ever since reconnecting with her at his father’s funeral, which she had grudgingly attended. And to his surprise, he loved her more than most of his pompous and self-important relatives. She was smart, witty, and honest—all qualities he treasured.

As
a constant part of Madrid’s art scene for over half a decade, Rosa had acquired enough valuable works to attract the attention of the Stevenson Gallery. Her two Picassos, both of which were signed by the artist himself, seemed to pull Marc’s agents with a magnetic force. She had made the mistake of showcasing them twice in a charity event for the local animal shelter, and her passionate support for the homeless cats and dogs of Madrid had started a chain reaction that had led Marc’s men straight to her door.

They
hadn’t expected to meet someone like Rosa. Her eighty-two years had barely slowed her agile mind, and she quickly put two and two together. Since there was no crime committed and she could hardly report them to the police, she did the next best thing—contacting Raoul. Her passionate advocacy for justice, be it for humans or animals, wouldn’t let her just ignore the exploitation of the less fortunate and more desperate people who would fall prey to the merciless British conman.

Raoul understood
better than she might have ever expected. He needed a cause to distract him, too. He was still smarting from his own miserable attempt to fix the lives and futures of people he cared for, ruining his own chances of happiness in the process. While he might have diverted certain disasters with his selfless and generous actions, his private life was in shambles, and he had no one but himself to blame for the inferno that had followed.

His careful research
of Marc Stevenson had revealed that not only was the gallery conning many unsuspecting private owners, but also that Marc had certain dealings with art that seemed to come from suspiciously shady sources. As Raoul was putting together the research, using background provided by his lawyer, he had come across one name that had completely changed the rules of the game.

Kate
Reeves worked for the man who epitomized the most despicable art swindler he’d ever come across in his years of being a member of the Art Society of Granada. He couldn’t quite believe it the first time her name had popped up in a report. He’d been praying for a plausible reason to contact her, and those prayers had been answered with cruel irony that wasn’t lost on him for one moment.

He
had stared at the photograph accompanying the report wordlessly. Memories flooded the gates he had built around his mind, successfully sweeping away the defenses he had thought indestructible. His gaze roamed hungrily over the tiny photo, taking in her perfect features and the hair he remembered burying his face into countless times. If he had tried, he could have recalled its scent—a mix of honey, lavender, and something unique that eluded description. Long, thick, and streaked with natural highlights, her hair used to spread around her head as she lay on her pillow. The image brought to mind some exotic flower that held him under an unbreakable spell.

Closing his eyes,
Raoul pictured himself with her, his long, tanned frame bending over her as he kissed her soft lips, the smile curving her mouth in response, caressing him like the softest whisper against his skin. Her eyes opened, wide and innocent like a child’s, incapable of any of the darker emotions and pain that had been his companions for most of his life. When she glanced up at him, he felt invincible and new. Everything bad in his life was wiped aside as he drowned in the depth of her gaze. Discarding the memories took inhuman effort.

Most of his life
—ever since he’d learned to walk and say ‘
Si, Padre
’—had been spent following the path of his duty and honor, silencing everything that might compromise his father’s high expectations. Raoul de Lorrena had been a master of controlling his heart and emotions long enough to order himself to bury the past once again. He redoubled his efforts on exposing a man who deserved to be punished. He had to be careful. If Raoul took one wrong step, Marc would panic and cover up his scheme. Then, without tangible proof of Marc’s crimes, Raoul would be unable to bring him to justice.

Raoul was not naïve enough to think
Marc was the only dirty art dealer out there—the line between right and wrong blurred when money and greed were involved. He had no illusions that he would fix the whole system. Much of the discreet and private handlings of art sales was beyond the reach of the law and always would be. But since Marc’s dealings involved his aunt and some of her less fortunate friends, Raoul was determined to set things right, at least where Marc was concerned, even though one drop of justice could hardly dry up an ocean of lies. The fact that Kate was involved was actually a blessing that he could not simply let pass him by.

F
ate was giving him a second chance to face the woman who had walked into his life and out of it, never realizing how profoundly she had changed him. The choice to ignore this unbelievable coincidence was never really there. None of the lies he tried to feed to himself were able to erase the knowledge deep down in his heart that he couldn’t simply let it go. It called for a subtle change of plans.

An idea
, rough and primal, exploded in his brain as he stared at her picture on the gallery’s website, where she smiled as if she was an innocent angel and not a demon sent from hell to destroy him. For once in his life, he would fully exploit the possibilities that a twist of fate had provided. The fire that had started in his soul the moment their eyes met for the first time on a hot summer afternoon would finally be extinguished forever. Maybe he could move on with his life, maybe even find some happiness, however impossible that seemed.

A
bubble of panic rose in Kate’s throat, threatening to burst and expose her misery to the world.
You shouldn’t feel this way,
she reminded herself, trying to snap out of her sudden desperation. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Raoul was the one who had torn apart her soul and heart and had left her bleeding, thinking she might die of the pain. He had lied, cheated, and used her, destroying the happy, trusting person she had been before. When she had finally found out how deep and irrevocable his deceit was, he hadn’t even been there so she could throw it back into his lying face.

A
stranger had pushed her into that abyss of misery while Raoul was away, probably never suspecting his cover had been blown. And if not for a pure coincidence, she wouldn’t have been any the wiser for as long as he wished to keep her dangling from his line, enjoying her body and heart but never really intending to make her his.

She had met him while visiting
Granada, the jewel of the sun-parched Andalusia. It was her first visit to the land of olive groves, majestic mountains, and ancient buildings that had seen dynasties come and go as they slowly withered under the merciless sun. She hadn’t forgotten the childish awe she’d felt when she’d first seen the city nestled at the feet of the bluish Sierra Nevada Mountains.

H
er hard work in her second-to-last year at her university had put her on the list of the three lucky ones chosen for the year-long exchange. She had picked Alhambra and Generalife for her final project. Her fascination with the elegant palace and gardens had made the choice an easy one. She had felt as if she owned the world. Even the tiny, rather shabby accommodations in her small hotel were unable to dampen her excitement. She had walked the ancient streets with eyes glazed over with joy and pure adoration. Her newfound friends at the hotel asked her jokingly if she intended to return to England, or if she would find herself a Spanish husband and never leave. Kate couldn’t care less about any man who might pass her way because she was oblivious to anything but the pure beauty of the architecture and the even more fascinating history behind it.

Three weeks into the stay
, she finally relented to her friends’ pressure and agreed to accompany them on the trip to Costa Tropical. They were eager to explore the famous coastline’s lush microclimate provided by the shelter of the mountain range that guarded its beaches from the dramatic temperature changes so common throughout most of Spain. She suspected they wanted her to come mostly because of her language skills, which would be helpful in enjoying a day on one of numerous beaches if they ever wanted to talk to a local.

What happened next could have served as
a story for a Hollywood movie. While at the beach, her friends had gotten involved in some flirting with a couple of local guys, making her presence redundant as they searched for privacy. She was grateful a third guy wasn’t with the group, and she left them giggling under the striped umbrella, delighted to dip her feet in the crystal-clear, warm water. Refusing their half-hearted offer for her to accompany them to a snack shack was easy. The guys had praised its sangria and food with so much enthusiasm that Kate had wondered if it was their family’s business. She was not interested; she had always thought opportunistic romances that bloomed within just a few hours were best avoided.

S
he had noticed a secluded patch of sand away from the main beach. It was littered with gravel, and most of the tourists were avoiding it. Kate didn’t mind it one bit, preferring it to the densely populated white-sand beach where she and her friends had first arrived. Stubbing a toe or having to maneuver around a few rocks was not enough to deter her from a moment of solitude. She walked into the waves, enjoying the rhythmic lapping of the water against her legs. When she noticed something glittering in the water, she stepped forward, intrigued. The water became deeper there, and a steep drop-off sent her tumbling into the azure abyss.

S
he was an excellent swimmer, and the water, while it was deeper, still wasn’t deeper than five feet. When she swam back to shallower water and stepped onto the sand, she felt an unfamiliar and surprisingly painful sting paralyzing her foot. She gasped, swaying and barely avoiding tumbling into the deep water again. The pain was like nothing she had experienced before. The burning sensation that radiated from her foot sent hot shards of agony up her calf. She managed to hobble toward the beach, hopping clumsily as tears sprang to her eyes. One quick glance toward the umbrella confirmed that her friends had left for the bar. The cheerful cabana swarming with tourists sipping drinks wasn’t far. Still, the idea of walking over the hot sand died as she looked down at her foot and was dismayed by the sight of a broken spike lodged firmly in her flesh. She must have stepped on a sea urchin, one of the usually harmless creatures that littered the sea bottom near the beach. Cursing her own forgetfulness, she recalled her friends’ advice to wear sneakers or sandals while walking in the shallow waters of the bay. In her eagerness to leave behind the flirting couples, she had dismissed any thoughts about possible unpleasant surprises waiting under the calm blue water.