The Darkest of Secrets (6 page)

‘Didn’t you miss them? At the time?’

‘No.’ He spoke flatly, the one word discouraging any more questions.

‘Do you enjoy living in the States?’ she tried instead, keeping her tone light.

‘I do.’

‘What made you choose to live there?’

‘It was far away.’

It seemed no question was innocuous. They ate in silence for a few moments, the only sound the whisper of the waves and wind. When she couldn’t see those high walls she could almost appreciate the beauty of this island paradise in the middle of the Mediterranean. Yet she could still
feel
them, knew that the only way out of here was by another person’s say-so. At this thought another bolt of pain lanced through her skull and her hand clenched around her fork. Khalis noticed.

‘Grace?’

‘Did you grow up here?’ she asked abruptly. ‘Behind these walls?’

He didn’t answer for a moment, and his narrowed gaze rested on her thoughtfully. ‘Holidays mostly,’ he finally said. ‘I went to boarding school when I was seven, in England.’

‘Seven,’ she murmured. ‘That must have been hard.’

Khalis just shrugged. ‘I suppose I missed my parents, but then I didn’t know as much about them as I should have, being only a child.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You are most certainly aware that my father was not the most admirable of men.’

‘I’m aware.’

‘As a child, I did not realise that. And so I missed him.’ He said it simply, bluntly, as if it were no more than an obvious fact. Yet Grace was both curious and saddened by his statement. When, she wondered, had Khalis become disillusioned with his father? When he left university? And did learning of a loved one’s flaws make you stop loving them? In Khalis’s view, it certainly seemed so.

‘What about your mother?’

‘She died when I was ten,’ Khalis told her. ‘I don’t remember much about her.’

‘You don’t?’ Grace didn’t hide her surprise. ‘My mother died when I was thirteen, and I remember so much.’ The scent of her hand lotion, the softness of her hair, the lullabies she used to sing. She also remembered how dusty and empty their house on Grange Road had seemed after her death, with her father immersed in his books and antiques.

‘It was a long time ago,’ Khalis said, and although his tone was pleasant enough Grace could still tell the topic of conversation was closed. It almost sounded as if he didn’t
want
to remember his mother … or anyone in his past.

She felt an entirely unreasonable flash of curiosity to
know
this man, for she felt with a deep and surprising certainty that he hid secrets. Sorrow. Despite his often light tone, the easy smile, Grace knew there was a darkness and a hardness in him that both repelled and attracted her. She had no business being attracted to any man, much less a man like Khalis. Yet here she was, seeing the sleepy, veiled look in his grey-green eyes, feeling that slow spiral of honeyed desire uncurl in the pit of her belly, even as pain continued to lance her skull. How appropriate. Pain and pleasure. Temptation and torture. They always went together, didn’t they?

With effort she returned the conversation to work. ‘Tomorrow morning I should like to see the equipment you mentioned,’ she told him, keeping her voice brisk. ‘The sooner I am able to assess whether the Leonardos are genuine, the better.’

‘Do you really doubt it?’

‘My job is to doubt it,’ Grace told him. ‘I need to prove they’re real rather than prove they’re forgeries.’

‘Fascinating,’ Khalis murmured. ‘A quest for truth. What drew you to such a profession?’

‘My father was a professor of ancient history. I grew up around antiques, spent most of my childhood in museums, except for a brief horse-mad phase when all I wanted to do was ride.’ She gave him a small smile. ‘The Fitzwilliam in Cambridge was practically a second home.’

‘Like father like daughter?’

‘Sometimes,’ Grace said, her gaze locking with his, ‘you are your father’s child in more than just blood.’

His grey-green gaze felt like a vice on her soul, for she could not look away. It called to something deep within her, something she had suppressed for so long she barely remembered she still possessed it. The longing to be understood, the desire to be known or even revealed. And reflected back in those agate eyes she saw a strange and surprising torment of emotions: sorrow, anger, maybe even despair. Or was she simply looking into a mirror? Her head pounded with the knowledge of what she’d seen and felt, the ache increasing so she longed to close her eyes. Then he broke their gaze, averting his face, his mouth hardening as he looked out at the gardens now cloaked in darkness.

‘You must have some dessert,’ he finally said, and his voice was as light as ever. ‘A Tunisian speciality, almond sesame pastries.’ The young woman entered with a plate of pastries as well as a silver tray with a coffee pot and porcelain cups.

Grace took a bite of the sticky sweet pastry, but she could not manage the coffee. Her head ached unbearably now, and she knew if she did not lie down in the dark she would be incapacitated for hours or even days. She’d had these migraines with depressing regularity, ever since her divorce. With an unsteady clatter she returned her coffee cup to its saucer. ‘I’m sorry, but I am very tired. I think I’ll go to bed.’

Khalis rose from the table, concern darkening his eyes. ‘Of course. You look unwell. Do you have a headache?’

Tightly Grace nodded. Spots swam in her vision and she rose from the table carefully, as if she might break. Every movement sent shafts of lightning pain through her skull.

‘Come.’ Khalis took her by the hand, draping his other arm around her shoulder as he led her from the table.

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, but he brushed aside her apologies.

‘You should have told me.’

‘It came on suddenly.’

‘What do you need?’

‘To lie down … in the dark …’

‘Of course.’

Then, to Grace’s surprise, he pulled her up into his arms, cradling her easily. ‘I apologise for the familiarity, but it is simpler and quicker this way.’ Grace said nothing, shock as well as pain rendering her speechless. In her weakened state she didn’t have the strength to draw away, nor, she realised, the will. It felt far too good to be held, her cheek pressed against the warm strength of his chest. It had been so very long since she’d been this physically close to someone, since she’d felt taken care of. And even though she knew better than to want it, knew where letting someone take care of you led, she did not even attempt to draw away. Worse, she instinctively, irresistibly nestled closer, her head tucked in the curve of his shoulder. ‘You should have told me sooner,’ he murmured, brushing a tendril of hair from her cheek, and Grace just closed her eyes. The pain in her head overwhelmed her now, making speech or even thought impossible.

Eventually she heard a door open, felt Khalis lay her gently on a silk duvet. He left, making her feel suddenly, ridiculously bereft, only to return moments later with a cool damp cloth he laid over her forehead. Grace could not keep from groaning in relief.

‘Can you manage these?’ he said, pressing two tablets in her hand.

She gave the barest of nods. ‘What are they?’

‘Just paracetamol, I’m afraid. I don’t have anything stronger.’ He handed her a glass of water and, despite the dagger points of pain thrusting into her skull, she managed to choke the tablets down. She lay back on the bed, utterly spent, in too much pain even to feel humiliated that Khalis was seeing her so weak and vulnerable, and on her very first day.

She felt him slip off her heels, and then he took her feet in his hands and began massaging her soles with his thumbs. Grace lay on the bed in supine surrender as he ministered to her, rubbing his thumbs in deep, slow circles. It felt unbelievably, unbearably good and she felt her headache start to recede, her body relax. She would not have moved even if she possessed the strength to do so.

She must have fallen asleep, for the last thing she remembered until morning was Khalis still rubbing her feet, his touch sure, knowing and so achingly gentle.

CHAPTER FOUR

G
RACE
woke to sunlight streaming through the crack in the curtains and her head feeling much better. She opened her eyes and stretched, felt a surge of relief mingled with an absurd disappointment that Khalis was gone.

Of course he was gone, she told herself. It was morning. She
wanted
him to be gone. The thought that he might have spent the entire night in her bedroom made her squirm with humiliation. And yet he’d seen enough; she still recalled the gentle way he’d rubbed her feet, how tenderly he’d cared for her. She squirmed some more. She hated feeling weak or vulnerable. Hated the thought of Khalis seeing that and using it to his advantage somehow, even if last night he’d made her feel cherished and cared for.

Forget it,
she told herself.
Forget Khalis, forget how he made you feel.
Quickly she rose from the bed, even though it made her head swim a bit. She took a deep breath and staggered to the shower, determined to forget the events of last night and put today on an even and professional keel. She felt better when she’d showered and dressed in work clothes, a pair of slim black trousers and a fitted white T-shirt. She applied the minimum of neutral make-up, pulled her hair back into a ponytail and reached for her attaché case, her professional armour now firmly in place. This was how she needed to be with Khalis, with any man. Professional, strong and completely in control. Not weak or needy. Not wanting.

Khalis’s assistant Eric met her at the bottom of the main staircase. He wore a pair of board shorts and a T-shirt with a logo that read ‘I work at Silicon Valley. But if I told you more I’d have to kill you’.

Grace thought of her admonition last night.
If that is a joke …
She must have seemed completely ridiculous.

‘Ms Turner,’ Eric greeted her with an easy smile, ‘may I show you to the breakfast room?’

‘Thank you.’ He led her down a tiled hallway and, curious, she asked, ‘Did you meet Mr Tannous in California?’

He turned back to give her a smiling glance. ‘How did you know?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, maybe the hair,’ she replied with a small smile. He had light blond hair, bleached by the sun in rather artful streaks. ‘Have you known him long?’

‘Since he moved out there fifteen years ago. I’ve been with his gig from the start. He had big ideas and, while I don’t have any of those, I’m pretty decent with the admin side.’

‘Did you know about his family?’

Eric hesitated for only a second. ‘Everyone in California is starting over, more or less,’ he said and, although his tone was relaxed, it was also final. He had the same kind of affability Khalis possessed, Grace thought wryly, although rather less of the unyielding hardness she sensed underneath. ‘Here you go,’ he said, and ushered her into a pleasant room at the back of the building. Khalis was already seated at the table, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper on his tablet computer. He glanced up as she entered, his easy and rather familiar smile making her flush and remember how he’d held her last night. How she’d pressed her cheek against his chest, how he’d rubbed her feet. How much she’d savoured it all. Judging by that smile, he’d probably been able to tell.

‘You look like you’re feeling better.’

She sat down and poured herself coffee, her gaze firmly on the cup. ‘Yes, thank you. I apologise for last night.’

‘What is there to be sorry for?’

She added milk. ‘I was incapacitated—’

‘You were in pain.’

He spoke so quietly and firmly that Grace was startled into looking up, her gaze locking on his green-grey one that was full of far too much understanding. It almost made her want to tell him things. She stirred her coffee and took a sip. ‘Still, I am here to perform a set task—’

‘And I’m sure you will perform it admirably today. What exactly is on the agenda?’

Relief surged through her as she realised he was going to graciously drop the subject of last night. Today she could talk about. ‘First I’ll need to catalogue all the works in the vault and check them against the Art Loss Register. Those that appear to have been stolen can be, for the moment, set to one side. Experts from the museums concerned will need to be contacted along with—’

‘I’d prefer,’ Khalis said, ‘not to contact anyone until we know just what we’re dealing with.’

Unease crept along her spine with cold fingers. Ridiculous it might be, but she couldn’t keep from feeling it. She didn’t think Khalis intended to keep the art for himself, but she still didn’t trust him. Not on either a professional or personal level. ‘And why is that?’

‘Because the media storm that will erupt when it is discovered my father had however many stolen paintings in his possession is one I want to control, at least somewhat,’ he replied mildly. ‘I don’t particularly like publicity.’

‘Nor do I.’

‘And yet,’ he said musingly, ‘you will certainly be mentioned in any of the articles that will undoubtedly appear.’

‘Axis Art Insurers will,’ Grace replied swiftly. ‘My name will be kept out of it. That has always been our agreement.’

He gazed at her over the rim of his coffee cup. ‘You really don’t like publicity.’

‘No.’

‘Then my decision to wait to contact any outside source should meet with your approval.’

‘I don’t like being managed,’ Grace said flatly.

Khalis arched an eyebrow. ‘I’d hardly call a request to wait on calling the police being
managed.
’

‘It potentially compromises my position.’

‘You have a moral objection?’

She bit her lip. She didn’t, not really, not if she trusted him to inform the proper legal authority and dispose of the art as necessary. And, logically, she knew she should. She had no real reason to think otherwise, and yet.

And yet she’d once believed a man’s assurances. Trusted his promises. Let herself be led into captivity and despair. Every muscle coiled and tightened at the memory. Pain snapped at the edges of her mind, the remnants of her migraine mocking her.
Khalis Tannous is not your ex-husband. Not even close. All you have is a professional relationship.