The Sinful Art of Revenge

by Maya Blake

  In the middle of the wall the Femme de la Voile, another painting depicting Gabrielle Fortier, held pride of place. Although a delicate muslin veil covered most of her face, her eyes stared boldly at the painter, the intensity in their depths speaking of her power over the artist.

  Reiko heard movement and turned. Damion stood behind her, his gaze focused on her. Her breath strangled in her throat as the memory of their kiss slammed into her. Again.

  Dressed in a superbly cut tuxedo, with his slightly long hair brushed into place, he cut a powerfully dynamic figure, and the force of his sheer masculinity hit her like the slap of a Sirocco wind.

  All day she’d been unable to take two steps without reliving those intense minutes on the gym mat. Heat rushed through her, making her blood surge faster, thicker through her veins. Between her legs, liquid warmth pulsed, as if readying her body for possession. Possession she knew would never happen.

  ‘Reiko,’ he murmured.

  Her name sounded like a statement of ownership.

  She wrenched her gaze away from his chest and turned back to the wall. ‘You let me think this was a purely business venture. Why didn’t you tell me you were holding the exhibition for your grandfather?’

  ‘For the same reason you let me think you were involved with Ashton. Neither of us likes being caught off guard.’ Beneath his tuxedo, powerful shoulders shrugged. ‘And this is very personal to me.’

  The simple admission and the desolate look on his face pierced through her.

  ‘You wanted all three Femme paintings because they were your grandfather’s first works?’

  ‘Oui. They should be here—displayed together for him to see one last time.’ The tight note to his voice told her how much it cost him to admit that.

  Despite willing herself to feel nothing, a well of sympathy rose inside. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Merci,’ he breathed, continuing to stare at her with those intense grey eyes.

  ‘So—’

  ‘Where did you go this morning? You left before breakfast.’ His tone held a note that made her insides clench. It sounded almost … possessive.

  She indicated her soft grey mid-calf-length dress, her skin tingling when his eyes followed the wave of her hand. ‘I didn’t pack anything suitable for the exhibition. I decided to head out early to find something before the rush.’

  ‘You should’ve told me. I could’ve given you the name of a designer.’

  Reiko felt a surge of something powerful and deeply unpleasant at the thought. She took a quick swallow of her champagne to wash it down. ‘I’m glad I didn’t. Isadora Baptiste’s designs aren’t quite my taste.’

  Damion’s eyes narrowed. ‘You have something against her?’

  ‘Can we pretend I know nothing but her name? Only you’ve got that cobra-about-to-pounce look right now.’

  His gaze dropped to her lips, lingered, then returned to hers. ‘I won’t pounce. Not right now anyway.’ His gaze travelled down her body, a frown materialising when he took in her four-inch grey platform shoes. ‘You shouldn’t be wearing those.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘With the amount of pain you were in last night, those heels are the last things you should be wearing.’

  She wasn’t sure whether to be offended or touched by his concern. ‘Let me worry about what’s good for me.’

  ‘I don’t understand why women torture themselves in the name of fashion. Those shoes are lethal. You shouldn’t be wearing them.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Considering you were a fashion designer’s muse for a whole year, I’d think you of all people would grasp the concept.’

  Over his shoulder she saw an old man being wheeled in, followed by the first trickle of guests. ‘Your guests are arriving; I need to get to work.’

  Frustration edged into his face. She started to turn away but he caught her hand. ‘Reiko, we need to talk.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll catch up with you later.’ She walked away quickly but could feel the force of his gaze at her back. Keeping the smile pasted on her face, she moved from painting to sculpture to 3-D display of abstract art, trying to let the magnificence of her surroundings wash away her bitterness.

  What was it to her how Damion conducted his affairs, or how quickly he’d moved on from her into another woman’s arms?

  The knot of pain twisted inside her, mocking her pretended indifference. Barely a month after leaving her, Damion had been spotted with Isadora Baptiste, the married woman he’d slept with for a whole year. But who was she to be all high and mighty? Her behaviour after he’d left her had gouged a permanent groove of shame on her soul.

  Lost in her painful haze, Reiko didn’t realise she’d circled back to the original wall until she heard a heavy cough beside her.

  The wheelchair-bound old man had a heavy blanket covering his knees. Despite his shock of white hair and shrunken features, there was a charisma with which he wore his snow-white tuxedo and black bowtie that felt vaguely familiar.

  She watched him wheel his electric wheelchair closer to a frame that held flamboyant scrawled writing. Looking closer, Reiko saw that it was a poem—a simple but very powerful sonnet about love that brought a lump to her throat.

  ‘Men are stupid.’

  The bold statement caught her by surprise.

  ‘We think we rule the world,’ he continued in a thick French accent. ‘We beat our chests, measure our dicks and crow when we think we have the biggest balls. But all comes to nothing in the face of a beautiful woman. A beautiful woman can make a man’s dreams come true or destroy him with a simple flick of her smallest finger.’ He turned his head and fixed piercing ice-blue eyes on her. ‘Is that what you’re doing to him?’ He nodded to where Damion stood, surrounded by his guests.

  Startled, Reiko quickly shook her head. ‘Oh, no, you’ve got it wrong. There’s nothing between—’

  ‘That’s what you’re telling yourself right now. That’s probably what he’s telling himself. He’s arrogant enough to think he holds all the cards. He always has been. But I can tell this time he’s screwed.’

  A bitter laugh escaped before she could stem it. ‘Not by me,’ she choked out, then felt heat rising in her face. ‘I mean, I have no interest in screw … in attracting anyone. Not now. Not ever.’

  He just smiled. ‘Of course not. Because the last thing you want is him, correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His attention returned to the poem. ‘Like I said—stupid,’ he muttered.

  His breath shuddered out, and his gaze was so intent on the words she felt as if she were intruding.

  ‘We’re all stupid, but given the choice we wouldn’t change a thing.’ He turned back to her. ‘As you can probably tell, I won’t be around much longer.’

  Again the intensity in his eyes teased at her, reminding her of—

  ‘I fear that my grandson will let my mistakes and his own past experiences get in the way of his happiness. But, should he be helped to see past those experiences, he will love deeply and completely.’

  ‘Your grand—?’ Reiko looked closer at the old man and everything fell into place. ‘You’re Sylvain Fortier,’ she murmured. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognise you.’

  The smile on his age-lined face was weary. ‘I recognise you, ma petite. As I also recognise that certain decisions I took in the past may have impacted you.’

  Reiko tried to swallow past the sudden lump in her throat. ‘You’re talking about my grandfather?’

  Eyes very similar to Damion’s bored into her. ‘Oui. If I ventured an apology, would it be well received?’

  ‘It would certainly receive a fair hearing.’ She glanced over to where Damion stood, surrounded by his guests.

  ‘Bon, then I ask for your forgiveness. Although I think perhaps it is a different apology you require?’

  Reiko opened her mouth to deny it but no sound emerged.

  He nodded as if she’d answered him. ‘Will you remember what I said about my gra
ndson?’

  More than a little dazed at the exchange, Reiko nodded. ‘Um, yes. I will.’

  Sylvain Fortier smiled. ‘Bien. Au revoir.’

  Still reeling from the meeting, she wasn’t prepared when she spotted her quarry several minutes later. Despite the slick veneer of his clothes, Reiko recognised Pascale Duvall instantly.

  He stood beside a steel sculpture, a look of undisguised avarice on his face. Knowing how he’d acquired the jade figurine made her stomach turn, but she summoned a smile and approached him.

  ‘Monsieur Duvall. I was hoping to run into you.’ She introduced herself.

  His wariness evaporated in the time it took for him to slide his gaze over her from top to toe. ‘Mademoiselle Kagawa—a pleasure indeed.’ He bent to kiss the back of her hand. Over his balding head she saw Damion shoot her a hard, dangerous look from where he stood beside his grandfather. Her nape tightened. Fearing he would guess why she’d wangled an invitation, she spoke quickly.

  ‘I won’t beat about the bush, Monsieur Duvall. Six months ago you were in Kyoto and came into possession of a jade figurine.’

  The startled Frenchman started to release her hand. From the corner of her eye, she saw Damion heading towards her.

  She held onto Duvall’s hand and kept her gaze on his. ‘The artefact belongs to my client. I want it back.’

  ‘I paid a fair price for it—’

  ‘No, you did not. It’s a twelfth-century family heirloom worth at least twenty times what you paid for it. It was supposed to have been held until my client paid off her debt to a loan shark. He sold it to you at a fraction of the price for a quick profit.’

  ‘That’s not my problem.’

  She tightened her grip. ‘It should be. There was another buyer interested in the piece. He thinks you stole it from under his nose.’ Reiko dropped the name of a well-known unscrupulous black-market dealer—one known to take very extreme measures in acquiring his art.

  Pascale Duvall paled, his eyes growing wide.

  She pressed home her advantage. ‘You have two choices: sell the figurine back to me for what you bought it for, or I release your name to my circle of friends and you can deal with them. Either way, the piece won’t be in your possession for very long.’

  Damion drew level with her as she pressed her card into a shaken Duvall’s hand. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you,’ she murmured sweetly and released him.

  ‘What the hell was that all about?’ Damion demanded, his voice low and dangerous as he watched Duvall’s hasty retreat.

  She widened her eyes and let her smile broaden. ‘Just doing my job while getting to know some of your friends.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘If I find out that you’re up to no good—’

  She placed a finger on his lips, enjoying the sensation far more than she knew was safe for her. ‘You’re too suspicious for your own good. Relax or you’ll develop ulcers.’

  Damion’s lips moved against her finger. If the thought wasn’t absurd, she’d have believed he was caressing her finger with his lips. Fired up by the sensation as much as by the thought, she withdrew her finger and folded her hand into a fist.

  ‘You spoke to my grandfather?’

  She glanced warily over at Sylvain. ‘Yes.’ She bit her lip.

  ‘What did he say to you?’

  ‘He expressed his views on men and women—’

  Recalling his exact words, she felt a blush climbing her face. And of course Damion saw it.

  ‘How, exactly?’ he asked in a lower, deeper voice.

  ‘He said men were stupid—you won’t get an argument from me there, by the way—and women rule the world. Then he said you and I were pretending we weren’t attracted to each other—that given the chance we’d be tearing each other’s clothes off and dance the Argentine tango naked.’

  At his stunned look, she snorted. ‘Relax, that last part was complete exaggeration on my part. By the way, I assured him there was no pretence, no attraction and definitely no tangoing.’

  His eyes bored into hers. ‘Did he believe you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what he believes. What you and I know is the truth is what matters, isn’t it?’

  Before he could answer, her phone trilled in her handbag. Pouncing on it with extreme relief, she answered it. A dart of surprise went through her when Pascale Duvall spoke. Her indication that she needed to take the call brought a dark frown to Damion’s face. With a curt nod, he moved away.

  Within minutes she’d arranged to take delivery of the figurine. Duvall’s obvious reluctance to attract the attention of the Eastern European mobster was plain in his voice.

  Once she’d concluded the call, she saw Damion had returned to his grandfather’s side. Her pelvis throbbed with the dark promise of another painful night ahead if she didn’t take off her shoes. Reiko made a quick decision.

  The doorman was more than happy to pass her note to Damion and hail a taxi for her. Fabrice let her into the apartment. Within half an hour she was asleep on the sofa.

  ‘Reiko, wake up.’

  She fought her way through layers of disturbingly dark images to find Damion beside her, a grim look on his face.

  ‘I …’ She swallowed to ease her dry throat. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Are you in pain?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ The only thing causing her distress was the panic clawing through her, despite being fully awake.

  His concern-etched frown didn’t lessen. ‘You were limping as you left the gallery.’

  ‘Gee, and there I thought I had my swagger down to an art form.’

  His jaw tightened. ‘Why did you leave without me?’

  ‘Because you’re not my keeper. Go back to bed. I promise you there’s no pain. I did my exercises before bed. I’m as nimble as an acrobat.’ She swung her legs off the sofa, twisting away from the tangled sheets that bore testament to her tortured dreams.

  He went to the drinks cabinet, poured a glass of water and handed it her. She took it from him, because to refuse felt rude.

  ‘Do you have nightmares often?’

  ‘I didn’t have a nightmare.’

  ‘Your screams say otherwise.’

  She shrugged and lowered her head, unwilling for him to see the heat slowly crawling up her neck into her face. ‘It’s no big deal.’

  ‘Why are you sleeping on the sofa?’

  ‘It’s more comfortable.’

  He glanced pointedly at the sheets and pillow. ‘Or you were hoping that I wouldn’t hear when you screamed?’

  Sitting down, he faced her, bringing his thigh to rest on the seat. With every fibre of her being, Reiko willed herself not to glance down at the hard muscle rippling beneath the cotton trousers.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes, you do. You need help, Reiko.’

  She tensed, anxiety and pain coursing through her in equal measures. ‘Leave it, Damion. I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Keeping it bottled up isn’t healthy. Tell me why you think you’re responsible for your father’s death. I take it he was in the accident with you?’

  ‘Why do I feel like I’ve visited this particular playground before?’

  ‘We agreed to talk after the exhibition. You left before that could happen.’

  ‘That should’ve been your first hint.’

  ‘If it helps, I’ll go first.’

  Reiko realised she didn’t want to know. Learning the sordid details of his affair so soon after he’d been with her diminished him somehow—made him less than the man who’d helped her last night in the gym and kissed her scar without showing any revulsion.

  She took a hasty gulp of her water and set the glass aside. ‘Only a few days ago you didn’t even want to be in the same room as me. Now you want to know my life story.’ She snorted. ‘Seriously, the way you’re acting, anyone would think you were hot for me.’

  Her disbelieving laugh dried up when he just stared at her.
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  He didn’t speak. Not one word. Yet the whole room boomed with the power of his thoughts.

  She shook her head in confusion. ‘You can’t be. You walked away, remember?’

  ‘I’ve told myself the same thing a few dozen times,’ he clipped out. ‘My conscience just laughs at me.’

  ‘Try harder. You have a wife to find and little barons and baronesses to produce.’

  His jaw tightened then released. ‘In time, but not just yet.’

  Her heart lurched. ‘Nothing can come of it, and I won’t be used to scratch a temporary itch.’

  ‘Something already has come of it. Perhaps you need a refresher on our kiss last night?’

  ‘Hell, Damion, this will never work. It … Things aren’t that simple.’

  ‘Explain.

  ‘I don’t owe you any explanations.’

  ‘Pascale Duvall left in a hurry. Did you have something to do with that?’ His mercurial switch of subject threw her for a second.

  She tried to keep her face and voice neutral. ‘Maybe.’

  He shoved a hand through his hair. ‘We’ll get nowhere if you choose silence over talking. You’re very talented, yet you choose to throw your talent away—’

  ‘Whoa—that’s your opinion. What I choose to do with my life is my business.’

  ‘If I picked up the phone to the authorities right now, how interested would they be?’

  Her heart hammered as she gauged the threat behind his statement. She licked her lips. ‘On a scale of white to red, I’m a bright orange on their list.’

  ‘Why?’

  She shrugged when he raised his eyebrow, demanding an answer. ‘They seem to think I feature in a few of their unsolved cases because of a trip I took to Mexico three years ago.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Not in the way you think, no.’

  ‘Then why not come clean? Silence can be construed as guilt.’

  ‘I have nothing to prove to you or anyone. If the police had enough to charge me with, I’d be behind bars.’