The Darkest of Secrets (7 page)

‘You still don’t trust me,’ Khalis said quietly. ‘Do you? To handle my father’s collection properly.’

Grace was not about to admit this wasn’t really about the art. It went deeper, darker, and she didn’t even understand why. She barely knew this man. She met his gaze as levelly as she could. ‘I don’t even know you.’

‘And yet,’ Khalis observed, ‘if I intended to keep the paintings or sell them on the black market, contacting your company would be just about the most idiotic thing I could do. Your lack of trust borders on ridiculous, Grace.’

She knew that. She knew his intentions towards the art had to be legitimate. And yet she couldn’t keep her frightened instinct from kicking in, from remembering how it felt to be like one of those paintings in that vault, adored and hidden away, for no one else to see. It had been a miserable life for her, just as it was for Leda. And it coloured her response to this man, in shades too dark for her to admit.

And as for what was ridiculous. When he said her name, in really, a completely normal tone of voice … why did it make her insides unfurl, like a seedling seeking sunlight?
That
was absurd. ‘It might seem ridiculous to you,’ she said stiffly, ‘but I’ve experienced enough to be justified in my lack of trust.’

‘Experienced professionally? Or personally?’

‘Both,’ she said flatly, and began to butter her toast. Khalis was silent for a long moment, but she could still feel his speculation as he sipped his coffee. She’d said too much. Just one word, but it had been too much. Not that it mattered. All it would take was one internet search for Khalis to learn her history, or at least some of it. Not the most painful parts, but still enough to hurt. Perhaps he’d learned it already, although his air of unconcern suggested otherwise.

‘So,’ he finally said, ‘what will you do after you catalogue the paintings and check them against this register?’

‘Run preliminary tests on the ones that do not appear to come from any museum. I don’t suppose your father kept any files on his artwork?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Most paintings of any real value have certificates of authentication. It’s virtually impossible to sell a valuable painting without one.’

‘You’re saying my father should have these certificates?’

‘Of the ones that are not stolen, yes. Obviously the stolen works’ certificates would remain with the museums they were taken from. Really, some legal authority should be contacted. Interpol, or the FBI’s Art Crimes department—’

‘No.’ He still spoke evenly enough, but his voice made Grace go cold. It reminded her of Loukas’s implacable tone when she’d asked to go to Athens for a shopping trip. One miserable little shopping trip, for things for Katerina. She’d said nothing then, and she said nothing now. Perhaps she hadn’t changed as much as she’d hoped. ‘I’m not ready to have law enforcement of any kind swarming over this compound and investigating everything.’

‘You’re hiding something,’ she said, the words seeming to scrape her throat.

‘My father hid plenty of things,’ he corrected. ‘And I intend to find out what they all were before I invite the law in.’

‘So you can decide which ones to reveal and which ones to keep hiding?’

Ice flashed in his eyes and he leaned forward, his hand encircling her wrist, his movements precise and controlled, yet radiating a leashed and lethal power. ‘Let me be very clear. I am not corrupt. I am not a criminal. I do not intend to allow Tannous Enterprises to continue to engage in any illegal activity. But neither do I intend to hand the reins over to a bunch of bureaucratic, bumbling policemen who might be as interested in lining their pockets as my father was. Understood?’

‘Let go of my wrist,’ she said coldly, and Khalis looked down as if surprised he was touching her. He hadn’t grabbed her, hadn’t hurt her at all, yet she felt as if he had.

‘I’m sorry.’ He released her, then let out a gusty sigh as he raked a hand through his hair. ‘I’m sorry if I scared you.’ Grace said nothing. She wasn’t about to explain that she had been scared, or why. Khalis gave her a thoughtful look from under his lashes, his mouth pursed. ‘You’ve been hurt, haven’t you? By a man.’

Shock caused her to freeze, her nerveless fingers almost dropping her coffee cup before she replaced it on its saucer. ‘That,’ she said, ‘is none of your business.’

‘You’re right. Again, I apologise.’ He looked away; the silence in the room felt electric. ‘So these preliminary tests. What are they?’

‘I need to see what facilities are in the basement. Artwork, especially older artwork, needs to be handled very carefully. A few minutes’ exposure to sunlight can cause irreparable damage. But I would expect to analyse the pigments used, as well as use infrared photography to determine what preliminary sketches are underneath the paintings. If I have the right equipment, I can test for the age of the wood of the panels used. This is an especially good way of dating European masters, since they almost always painted on wood.’

‘The two in the back room are on wood.’

‘Yes.’

‘Interesting.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Really quite fascinating.’

‘I certainly think so.’

He shot her a quick smile and she realised how invigorating it was to have a man actually interested in her work. During their marriage, Loukas had preferred for her never to discuss it, much less practise her chosen profession. She’d gone along for the sake of marital accord, but it had tried her terribly. Too terribly.

‘I’d better let you get to it,’ Khalis said, and Grace nodded, pushing away her plate. She’d only eaten half a piece of toast, but she had little appetite.

‘Eric will escort you to the basement. Let me know if there is anything you require.’ And, with another parting smile, Khalis took his computer and left the room. Grace watched him go, hating that she suddenly felt so lonely.

The rest of the day was spent in the laborious yet ultimately rewarding work of checking all the artworks against the international Art Loss Register. The results were dispiriting. Many of the paintings, as Grace had suspected, were stolen. It made her job of authentication and appraisal easier, yet it saddened her to think of how many paintings had been lost to the public, in some cases for generations.

At noon the young woman who had served her meals earlier brought down a plate of sandwiches and a carafe of coffee. ‘Mr Tannous said you needed to eat,’ she murmured in hesitant English, and Grace felt a curious mingling of gratitude for his thoughtfulness and disappointment that she wouldn’t see him.

Stupid.
She hadn’t really expected to share another meal with him, had she? Last night had been both an introduction and an aberration. Even so, she could not deny the little sinking feeling she had at the thought of an afternoon working alone. It had never bothered her before; she was certainly used to solitude. It wouldn’t bother her now. Frowning, she turned back to her laptop with grim concentration.

Immersed in her work, she wasn’t really aware of time passing until she heard a light tap-tap at the door of the lab across from the vault where she’d set up her temporary office. She looked up to see Khalis standing in the doorway. He had changed from his dark trousers and silk shirt of this morning into board shorts and a T-shirt that hugged the lean sculpted muscles of his chest. His hair was a little rumpled.

‘You’ve been at it for eight hours.’

She blinked, surprised even as she felt the muscles in her neck cramp. ‘I have?’

‘Yes. It’s six o’clock in the evening.’

She shook her head, smiling a little, unable to staunch the ripple of pleasure she felt at seeing him. ‘I was completely absorbed.’

He smiled back. ‘So it would appear. I didn’t realise art appraisal was
that
fascinating.’

‘I’ve checked all the works against—’

‘No, no talk about art and theft or work. It’s time to relax.’

‘Relax?’ she repeated warily. Both Eric and Khalis seemed big on relaxing, yet she had no intention of letting down her guard, and especially not with this man. Last night’s headache episode had been bad enough. She didn’t intend to give him another chance to get close, to
affect
her.

‘Yes, relax,’ Khalis said. ‘The sun will set in another hour, and before it does I want to go for a swim.’

‘Please, don’t let me stop you.’

His mouth quirked in another smile. ‘I want you to go with me.’

Her heart seemed to fling itself against her ribs at the thought. ‘I don’t—’

‘Swim? I could teach you. We’ll start with the dog paddle.’ He mimed a child’s paddling stroke and Grace found herself smiling. Again.

‘I think I can manage to keep myself afloat, thanks very much.’ Strange, how light he made her feel. How
happy.
It was as dangerous and addictive as the physical response her body had to him. She shook her head. ‘I really should get this done—’

Khalis dropped his arms to his sides. ‘It’s not good to work without taking a break, especially considering the strength of your migraine last night. I let you work through lunch, but you really need to take some time off.’

‘Most employers don’t insist on their staff taking time off.’

‘I’m not most employers. Besides, you’re not actually my employee. I’m your client.’

‘Still—’

‘Anyone with sense knows that people work more effectively when they’re rested and relaxed. At least they know that in California.’ He held out one hand, his long lean fingers stretching so enticingly towards her. ‘Come on.’

She absolutely shouldn’t take his hand.
Touch
him. And she shouldn’t go for a swim. She shouldn’t even
want
to go for a swim, because she didn’t want to want anyone ever again. As for love, trust, desire.? Forget it. Forget them all.

And yet. And yet she remained motionless, hesitating, suspended with suppressed longing, because no matter what her brain told her about staying safe, strong and in control, her body and maybe even her heart said differently. They said,
Yes. Please.

‘Do you have a swimming costume?’

Reluctantly she nodded. She had brought one, despite what she’d told Michel.

‘Well, then? What’s stopping you?’

You. Me.
The physical temptation that the very idea of a swim with Khalis presented. The two of them, in the water and wearing very little.

And then there was the far more alarming emotional temptation … to draw closer to this man, to care about him when she couldn’t care about anyone. Never mind what restrictions her ex-husband had placed on her, her heart had far more stringent ones.

‘Grace.’ He said her name not as a question or a command, but as a statement. As if he knew her. And when he did that Grace felt as though she had no choice, and it both aggravated and amazed her. How could she fight this?

She reached out and took his hand. His fingers closed around hers with both strength and gentleness, and he glanced at her carefully, as if he needed to check she was OK. And, after the way she had yanked her hand away from his last night, he probably did.

Taking a breath, Grace met his questioning gaze—and nodded her assent.

Khalis felt an entirely triumphant thrill as he led her from the basement, up into the sunshine and fresh air. He felt as if he’d won a major victory, not against her, but for her. Something about Grace’s hidden vulnerability called out to him, made him want to offer her both protection and pleasure. He’d spent the better part of the day thinking about her, wondering what she was doing, thinking, feeling. Wondering about the man who had hurt her and how soft her lips would be if
—when
—he kissed her.

It had been a long time since he’d been in a relationship, even longer since a woman had aroused these kinds of protective feelings in him. Never before, if he were honest, at least not on a romantic, sexual level. The last woman who he’d been emotionally close to had been his sister. Jamilah.

And look what happened then.

Khalis resolutely pushed the thought away. It was just this island, these memories that were temporarily awakening his emotions.

This woman.

It would pass, Khalis told himself. He’d leave Alhaja and get back to his normal life soon enough. And in the meantime Grace provided a welcome distraction.

Except to think of her as a distraction was to think of her dismissively, as something disposable, and he knew he didn’t. Couldn’t. Already it had become something more, and he didn’t know whether to be alarmed, annoyed or amazed. Perhaps he was all three. But, for right now, all he wanted was a simple swim.

Up in the foyer, she stopped, pulled her hand away from his with firm purpose. ‘I need to change.’

‘Why don’t I meet you at the pool?’

‘All right.’

Fifteen minutes later a stiff and self-conscious Grace approached the pool area. He was sitting on the edge of the pool waiting for her, dangling his legs in the water, enjoying the last golden rays of sunshine. He took in her appearance in one swift and silent glance. Her swimming costume was appalling. Well, appalling might be too strong a word. It fitted, at least. But it was black and very modest, with a high neckline and a little skirt that covered her thighs. She looked like a grandmother. A very sexy grandmother, but still. Clearly she meant to hide her attractions. He smiled. Even a ridiculous swimming costume couldn’t make Grace Turner unattractive. Her long, slim legs remained on elegant display, and a swimming costume was, after all, a swimming costume. Her generous curves were also on enticing view.

She stiffened under his rather thorough inspection and then tilted her chin in that proud, defensive way he was coming to know so well. He stretched out his hand, which she ignored, instead moving gingerly to the steps that led into the shallow end.

‘The water’s warm,’ he offered.

‘Lovely.’ She dipped a toe in, then stood on the first step, up to her ankles, looking as if she were being tortured.

‘Lovely, you said?’ he teased, his voice rich with amusement, and she looked startled before giving him a very small smile.