# The Darkest of Secrets

Kate Hewitt

The high price of buried secrets Khalis Tannous has spent years ruthlessly eradicating every hint of corruption and scandal from his life – even shunning his own family. When Grace Turner arrives at Khalis’s private Mediterranean island to view his family’s stolen collection of priceless art, even he isn’t blind to her beauty.Yet he recognises the shadows in her eyes – she too has her secrets. Grace can foresee the cost of giving in to temptation, but is helpless to resist Khalis’s slow, determined seduction. But will she risk everything she has for a night in his bed?

For the first time, as Khalis led her back to the tent and drew her down to the pillows’ opulent softness, she wanted to tell the last of her secrets. She wanted to bare her soul. She wanted, Grace knew, to be understood, accepted. Forgiven.

Yet as Khalis bent to trail kisses from her throat to her tummy, and desire dazed her senses, Grace knew that was impossible. So she would just take this one night, this physical understanding and acceptance and pleasure, and it would have to be enough.

Khalis’s mouth moved lower, his tongue flicking against her skin, and hazily she thought that it could be more than enough. Then she stopped thinking completely.

## About the Author

KATE HEWITT discovered her first Mills & Boon® romance on a trip to England when she was thirteen, and she’s continued to read them ever since. She wrote her first story at the age of five, simply because her older brother had written one and she thought she could do it too. That story was one sentence long—fortunately they’ve become a bit more detailed as she’s grown older. She has written plays, short stories and magazine serials for many years, but writing romance remains her first love. Besides writing, she enjoys reading, travelling and learning to knit.

After marrying the man of her dreams—her older brother’s childhood friend—she lived in England for six years, and now resides in Connecticut with her husband, her three young children, and the possibility of one day getting a dog.

Kate loves to hear from readers—you can contact her through her website: www.kate-hewitt.com

Recent titles by the same author:

KHOLODOV’S LAST MISTRESS

MR AND MISCHIEF

(The Powerful and the Pure) BOUND TO THE GREEK

Did you know these are also available as eBooks?

Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

## The Darkest. of Secrets. Kate Hewitt


www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Jennie, Natasha, and Maisey,

who encouraged me to write this book

and buy a fantastic dress in the bargain!

Thanks for all your encouragement and support.

Love, Kate.

## CHAPTER ONE

‘OPEN it up.’

It had taken the better part of two days to reach this moment. Khalis Tannous stood back as the two highly skilled engineers he’d employed to open his father’s steel vault finally eased the door off its hinges. They had used all their knowledge and skill trying to unlock the thing, but his father was too paranoid and the security too advanced. In the end they’d had to use the newest laser technology to cut straight through the steel.

Khalis had no idea what lay inside this vault; he hadn’t even known the vault had existed, on the lowest floor of the compound on his father’s private island. He’d already been through the rest of the facility and found enough evidence to see his father put in prison for life, if he were still alive.

‘It’s dark,’ one of the engineers said. They’d propped the sawn-off door against a wall and the opening to the vault was black and formless.

Khalis gave a grim smile. ‘Somehow I doubt there are windows in there.’ What was in there he couldn’t even guess. Treasure or trouble? His father had had a penchant for both. ‘Give me a torch,’ he said, and one was passed into his hand.

He flicked it on, took a step towards the darkness. He could feel his hand slick on the torch, his heart beating far too hard. He was scared, which annoyed him, but then he knew enough about his father to brace himself for yet another tragic testament to the man’s power and cruelty.

Another step, and the darkness enveloped him like velvet. He felt a thick carpet under his feet, breathed in the surprising scents of wood and furniture polish, and felt a flicker of relief—and curiosity. He lifted the torch and shone it around the vault. It was a surprisingly large space and fashioned like a gentleman’s study, with elegant sofas and chairs, even a drinks table.

Yet somehow Khalis didn’t think his father came down to a sealed underground vault just to relax with a tumbler of his best single malt. He saw a switch on the wall and flicked it on, bathing the room in electric light. His torch lay forgotten in his hand as he slowly turned in a circle, gazing first at the furniture and then at the walls.

And what they held … frame after frame, canvas after canvas. Some he recognised, others he didn’t but he could guess. Khalis gazed at them all, felt a heaviness settle on him like a shroud. Yet another complication. Another testament to his father’s many illegal activities.

‘Mr Tannous?’ one of the engineers asked uneasily from the outside hallway. Khalis knew his silence had gone on too long.

‘It’s fine,’ he called back, even though it wasn’t fine at all. It was amazing. and terrible. He stepped further into the room and saw another wood-panelled door in the back. With a flicker of foreboding, he went to it. It opened easily and he entered another smaller room. Only two paintings were in this tiny chamber, two paintings that made Khalis squint and step closer. If they were what he thought they were… .

‘Khalis?’ his assistant, Eric, called, and Khalis came out of the little room and closed the door. He switched off the light and stepped out of the vault. The two engineers and Eric all waited, their expressions both curious and concerned.

‘Leave it,’ he told the engineers, who had propped the enormous steel door against the wall. He felt the beginnings of a headache and gave a brisk nod. ‘I’ll deal with all this later.’

No one asked any questions, which was good since he had no intention of spreading the news of what was in that vault. He didn’t yet trust the skeleton staff left on the compound since his father’s death, all of them now in his employ. Anyone who had worked for his father had to be either desperate or completely without scruples. Neither option inspired trust. He nodded towards the engineers. ‘You can go now. The helicopter will take you to Taormina.’

They nodded, and after Khalis disarmed the security system everyone headed into the lift that led to the floors above ground. Khalis felt tension snap through his body, but then he’d been tense for a week, ever since he’d left San Francisco for this godforsaken island, when he’d learned his father and brother had both died in a helicopter crash.

He hadn’t seen either of them in fifteen years, hadn’t had anything to do with Tannous Enterprises, his father’s dynastic business empire. It was huge, powerful and corrupt to its core … and it was now in Khalis’s possession. Considering his father had disowned him quite publicly when he’d walked away from it all at the age of twenty-one, his inheritance had come as a bit of a surprise.

Back in his father’s office, which he’d now taken for his own, he let out a long, slow breath and raked his hands through his hair as he considered that vault. He’d spent the last week trying to familiarise himself with his father’s many assets, and then attempt to determine just how illegal they were. The vault and its contents was yet another complication in this sprawling mess.

Outside, the Mediterranean Sea sparkled jewel-bright under a lemon sun, but the island felt far from a paradise to Khalis. It had been his childhood home, but it now felt like a prison. It wasn’t the high walls topped with barbed wire and broken glass that entrapped him, but his memories. The disillusionment and despair he’d felt corroding his own soul, forcing him to leave. If he closed his eyes, he could picture Jamilah on the beach, her dark hair whipping around her face as she watched him leave for the last time, her aching heart reflected in her dark eyes.

Don’t leave me here, Khalis.

I’ll come back. I’ll come back and save you from this place, Jamilah. I promise.

He pushed the memory away, as he had been doing for the last fifteen years. Don’t look back. Don’t regret or even remember. He’d made the only choice he could; he just hadn’t foreseen the consequences.

‘Khalis?’

Eric shut the door and waited for instructions. In his board shorts and T-shirt, he looked every inch the California beach bum, even here on Alhaja. His relaxed outfit and attitude hid a razor-sharp mind and an expertise in computers that rivalled Khalis’s own.

‘We need to fly an art appraiser out here as soon as possible,’ Khalis said. ‘Only the best, preferably someone with a specialisation in Renaissance paintings.’

Eric raised his eyebrows, looking both intrigued and impressed. ‘What are you saying? The vault had paintings?’

‘Yes. A lot of paintings. Paintings I think could be worth millions.’ He sank into the chair behind his father’s desk, gazed unseeingly at the list of assets he’d been going through. Real estate, technology, finance, politics. Tannous Enterprises had a dirty finger in every pie. How, Khalis wondered, not for the first time, did you take the reins of a company that was more feared than revered, and turn it into something honest? Something good?

You couldn’t. He didn’t even want to.

‘Khalis?’ Eric prompted.

‘Contact an appraiser, fly him out here. Discreetly.’

‘No problem. What are you going to do with the paintings once they’re appraised?’

Khalis smiled grimly. ‘Get rid of them.’ He didn’t want anything of his father’s, and certainly not some priceless artwork that was undoubtedly stolen. ‘And inform the law once we know what we’re dealing with,’ he added. ‘Before we have Interpol crawling all over this place.’

Eric whistled softly. ‘This is one hell of a mess, isn’t it?’

Khalis pulled a sheaf of papers towards him. ‘That,’ he told his assistant and best friend, ‘is a complete understatement.’

‘I’ll get on to the appraiser.’

‘Good. The sooner the better—that open vault presents too much risk.’

‘You don’t actually think someone is going to steal something?’ Eric asked, eyebrows raised. ‘Where would they go?’

Khalis shrugged. ‘People can be sly and deceptive. And I don’t trust anyone.’

Eric gazed at him for a moment, his blue eyes narrowed shrewdly. ‘This place really did a number on you, didn’t it?’

Khalis just shrugged again. ‘It was home,’ he said, and turned back to his work. A few seconds later he heard the door click shut.

‘Special project for La Gioconda.’

‘So amusing,’ Grace Turner said dryly. She swivelled in her chair to glance at David Sparling, her colleague at Axis Art Insurers and one of the world’s top experts on Picasso forgeries. ‘What is it?’ she asked as he dangled a piece of paper in front of her eyes. She refused to attempt to snatch it. She smiled coolly instead, eyebrows raised.

‘Ah, there’s the smile,’ David said, grinning himself. Grace had been dubbed La Gioconda—the Mona Lisa—when she’d first started at Axis, both for her cool smile and her expertise in Renaissance art. ‘Urgent request came in to appraise a private collection. They want a specialist in Renaissance.’

‘Really?’ Her curiosity was piqued in spite of her determination to remain unmoved, or at least appear so.

‘Really,’ David said. He dangled the paper a bit closer. ‘Aren’t you just a teeny bit curious, Grace?’

Grace swivelled back to her computer and stared at the appraisal she’d been working on for a client’s seventeenth century copy of a Caravaggio. It was good, but not that good. It wouldn’t sell for as much as he’d hoped. ‘No.’

David chuckled. ‘Even when I tell you they’ll fly the appraiser out to some private island in the Mediterranean, all expenses paid?’

‘Naturally.’ Private collections couldn’t be moved easily. And most people were very private about their art. She paused, her fingers hovering over the keys of her computer. ‘Do you know the collector?’ There were only a handful of people in the entire world who owned significant collections of Renaissance paintings of real value, and most of them were extremely discreet … so discreet they didn’t want appraisers or insurers looking in and seeing just what kind of art they had on their walls.

David shook his head. ‘Too top secret for me. The boss wants to see you about it ASAP.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asked, and David just grinned. Pressing her lips together, she grabbed the printout he’d been teasing her with and strode towards the office of Michel Latour, the CEO of Axis Art Insurers, her father’s oldest friend and one of the most powerful men in the art world.

‘You wanted to see me?’

Michel turned from the window that overlooked the Rue St Honoré in the 1st arrondissement of Paris. ‘Close the door.’ Grace obeyed and waited. ‘You received the message?’

‘A private collection with significant art from the Renaissance period to be appraised.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘I can think of less than half a dozen collectors who fit that description.’

‘This is different.’

‘How?’

Michel gave her a thin-lipped smile. ‘Tannous.’

‘Tannous?’ She stared at him, disbelieving, her jaw dropping before she thought to snap it shut. ‘Balkri Tannous?’ Immoral—or perhaps amoral—businessman, and thought to be an obsessive art collector. No one knew what his art collection contained, or if it even existed. No one had ever seen it or even spoke of it. And yet the rumours flew every time a museum experienced a theft: a Klimt disappeared from a gallery in Boston, a Monet from the Louvre. Shocking, inexplicable, and yet the name Tannous was always darkly whispered around such heists. ‘Wait,’ Grace said slowly. ‘Isn’t he dead?’

‘He died last week in a helicopter crash,’ Michel confirmed. ‘Suspicious, apparently. His son is making the enquiry.’

‘I thought his son died in the crash.’

‘His other son.’

Grace was silent. She had not known there was another son. ‘Do you think he wants to sell the collection?’ she finally asked.

‘I’m not sure what he wants.’ Michel moved to his desk, where a file folder lay open. He flipped through a few papers; Grace saw some scrawled notes about various heists. Tannous suspected behind every one, though no one could prove it.

‘If he wanted to sell on the black market, he wouldn’t have come to us.’ There were plenty of shady appraisers who dealt in stolen goods and Axis was most assuredly not one of them.

‘No,’ Michel agreed thoughtfully. ‘I do not think he intends to sell the collection on the black market.’

‘You think he’s going to donate it?’ Grace heard the disbelief in her voice. ‘The whole collection could be worth millions. Maybe even a billion dollars.’

‘I don’t think he needs money.’

‘It doesn’t have to be about need.’ Michel just cocked his head, his lips curving in a half-smile. ‘Who is he? I didn’t even know Tannous had a second son.’

‘You wouldn’t. He left the Tannous fold when he was only twenty-one, after graduating from Cambridge with a First in mathematics. Started his own IT business in the States, and never looked back.’

‘And his business in the U.S.? It’s legitimate?’

‘It appears to be.’ He paused. ‘The request is fairly urgent. He wishes the collection to be dealt with as soon as possible.’

‘Why?’

‘I can certainly appreciate why an honest businessman would want to legally off-load a whole lot of stolen art quite quickly.’

‘If he is honest.’

Michel shook his head, although there was a flicker of sympathy in his shrewd grey eyes. ‘Cynicism doesn’t suit you, Grace.’

‘Neither did innocence.’ She turned away, her mind roiling from Michel’s revelations.

‘You know you want to see what’s in that vault,’ Michel said softly.

Grace didn’t answer for a moment. She couldn’t deny the fact that she was curious, but she’d experienced and suffered too much not to hesitate. Resist. Temptation came in too many forms. ‘He could just turn it all over to the police.’

‘He might do so, after it’s been appraised.’

‘If it’s a large collection, an appraisal could take months.’

‘A proper one,’ Michel agreed. ‘But I believe he simply wants an experienced eye cast over the collection. It will have to be moved eventually.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t like it. You don’t know anything about this man.’

‘I trust him,’ Michel said simply. ‘And I trust the fact that he went to the most legitimate source he could for appraisal.’

Grace said nothing. She didn’t trust this Tannous man; of course she didn’t. She didn’t trust men full stop, and especially not wealthy and possibly corrupt tycoons. ‘In any case,’ Michel continued in that same mild tone, ‘he wants the appraiser to fly to Alhaja Island—tonight.’

‘Tonight?’ Grace stared at her boss, mentor and onetime saviour. ‘Why the rush?’

‘Why not? I told you, holding onto all that art has to be an unappealing prospect. People are easily tempted.’

‘I know,’ Grace said softly, and regret flashed briefly in Michel’s eyes.

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘I know,’ she said again, then shook her head. That brief flare of curiosity died out by decision. ‘It’s not something I can be involved with, Michel.’ She took a deep breath, felt it sear her lungs. ‘You know how careful I have to be.’

His eyes narrowed, mouth thinning. ‘How long are you going to live your life enslaved to that—?’

‘As long as I have to.’ She turned away, not wanting Michel to see her expression, the pain she still couldn’t hide, not even after four years. She was known by her colleagues to be cool, emotionless even, but it was no more than a carefully managed mask. Just thinking about Katerina made tears rise to her eyes and her soul twist inside her.

‘Oh, chérie.’ Michel sighed and glanced again at the file. ‘I think this could be good for you.’

‘Good for me—’

‘Yes. You’ve been living your life like a church mouse, or a nun, I don’t know which. Perhaps both.’

‘Interesting analogies,’ Grace said with a small smile. ‘But I need to live a quiet life. You know that.’

‘I know that you are my most experienced appraiser of Renaissance art, and I need you to fly to Alhaja Island—tonight.’

She turned to stare at him, saw the iron in his eyes. He wasn’t going to back down. ‘I can’t—’

‘You can, and you will. I might have been your father’s oldest friend, but I am also your employer. I don’t do favours, Grace. Not for you. Not for anyone.’

She knew that wasn’t true. He’d done her a huge favour four years ago, when she’d been desperate and dying inside. When he’d offered her a job at Axis he had, in his own way, given her life again—or as much life as she could have, given her circumstances. ‘You could go yourself,’ she pointed out.

‘I don’t have the knowledge of that period that you do.’

‘Michel—’

‘I mean it, Grace.’

She swallowed. She could feel her heart beating inside her far too hard. ‘If Loukas finds out—’

‘What? You’re just doing your job. Even he allows you that.’

‘Still.’ Nervously, she pleated her fingers together. She knew how high-octane the art world could be. Dealing with some of the finest and most expensive art in the world ignited people’s passions—and possessiveness. She’d seen how a beautiful picture could poison desire, turn love into hate and beauty into ugliness. She’d lived it, and never wanted to again.

‘It will all be very discreet, very safe. There’s no reason for anyone even to know you are there.’

Alone on an island with the forgotten son of a corrupt and hated business tycoon? She didn’t know much about Balkri Tannous, but she knew his type. She knew how ruthless, cruel and downright dangerous such a man could be. And she had no reason—yet—to believe his son would be any different.

‘There will be a staff,’ Michel reminded her. ‘It’s not as if you’d be completely alone.’

‘I know that.’ She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘How long would it take?’

‘A week? It depends on what is required.’

‘A week—’

‘Enough.’ Michel held up one hand. ‘Enough. You will go. I insist on it, Grace. Your plane leaves in three hours.’

‘Three hours? But I haven’t even packed—’

‘You have time.’ He smiled, although his expression remained iron-like and shrewd. ‘Don’t forget a swimming costume. I hear the Mediterranean’s nice this time of year. Khalis Tannous might give you some time off to swim.’

Khalis Tannous. The name sent a shiver of something—curiosity? Fear?—through her. What kind of man was he, the son of an undoubtedly unscrupulous or even evil man, yet who had chosen—either out of defiance or desperation—to go his own way at only twenty-one years old? And now that he was back, in control of an empire, what kind of man would he become?

‘I don’t intend to swim,’ she said shortly. ‘I intend to do the job as quickly as possible.’

‘Well,’ Michel said, smiling, ‘you could try to enjoy yourself—for once.’

Grace just shook her head. She knew where that led, and she had no intention of enjoying herself ever again.

## CHAPTER TWO

‘THERE it is.’

Grace craned her neck to look out of the window of the helicopter that had picked her up in Sicily and was now taking her to Alhaja Island, no more than a rocky crescent-shaped speck in the distance, off the coast of Tunisia. She swallowed, discreetly wiped her hands along the sides of her beige silk trench coat and tried to staunch the flutter of nerves in her middle.

‘Another ten minutes,’ the pilot told her, and Grace leaned back in her seat, the whine of the propeller blades loud in her ears. She was uncomfortably aware that two of Khalis Tannous’s family members had died in a helicopter crash just a little over a week ago, over these very waters. She did not wish to experience the same fate.

The pilot must have sensed something of her disquiet, for he glanced over at her and gave her what Grace supposed was meant to be a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry. It is very safe.’

‘Right.’ Grace closed her eyes as she felt the helicopter start to dip down. She might be one of the foremost appraisers of Renaissance art in Europe, but this was still far out of her professional experience. She mostly dealt with museums, inspecting and insuring paintings that hung on revered walls around the world. Her job took her to quiet back rooms and sterile laboratories, out of the public eye and away from scandal. Michel himself handled many private collections, dealt with the tricky and often tempestuous personalities that accompanied so much priceless art.

Yet this time he’d sent her. She opened her eyes, saw the ground seeming to swoop towards them. A strip of white sand beach, a rocky cove, a tangle of trees and, most noticeably of all, a high chain-link fence topped with two spiky strands of barbed wire and bits of broken glass. And Grace suspected that was the least of Tannous’s security.

The helicopter touched down on the landing pad, where a black Jeep was already waiting. Her heart still thudding, Grace stepped out onto the tarmac. A slim man in a tie-dyed T-shirt and cut-off jeans stood there, his fair hair blowing in the sea breeze.

‘Ms Turner? I’m Eric Poulson, assistant to Khalis Tannous. Welcome to Alhaja.’

Grace just nodded. He didn’t look like what she’d expected, although she hadn’t really thought of what a Tannous employee would look like. Certainly not a beach bum. He led her to the waiting Jeep, tossing her case in the back.

‘Mr Tannous is expecting me?’

‘Yes, you can refresh yourself and relax for a bit and he’ll join you shortly.’

She prickled instinctively. She hated being told what to do. ‘I thought this was urgent.’

He gave her a laughing glance. ‘We’re on a Mediterranean island, Ms Turner. What does urgent even mean?’

Grace frowned and said nothing. She didn’t like the man’s attitude. It was far from professional, and that was what she needed to be—always. Professional. Discreet.

Eric drove the Jeep down a pebbly road to the compound’s main gates, a pair of armoured doors that looked incredibly forbidding. They opened seamlessly and silently and swung just as quietly shut behind the Jeep, yet Grace still felt them clang through her. Eric seemed relaxed, but then he obviously knew the security codes to those gates. She didn’t. She had just become a prisoner. Again. Her heart raced and her palms dampened as nausea churned along with the memories inside her. Memories of feeling like a prisoner. Being a prisoner.

Why had she agreed to this?

Not just because Michel had insisted, she knew. Despite his tough talk, she could have refused. She didn’t think Michel would actually fire her. No, she’d agreed because the desire to see Tannous’s art collection—and see it, God willing, restored to museums—had been too strong to ignore. A temptation too great to resist.

And temptation was, unfortunately, something she knew all about.

As Grace slid out of the Jeep, she looked around slowly. The compound was an ugly thing of concrete, like a huge bunker, but the gardens surrounding it were lovely and lush, and she inhaled the scent of bougainvillea on the balmy air.

Eric led her towards the front doors of the building and disarmed yet another fingerprint-activated security system. Grace followed him into a huge foyer tiled in terracotta, a soaring skylight above, and then into a living room decorated with casual elegance, sofas and chairs in soothing neutral shades, a few well placed antiques and a view through the one-way window of the startling sweep of sea.

‘May I offer you something to drink?’ Eric asked, his hands dug into the pockets of his cut-off jeans. ‘Juice, wine, a pina colada?’

Grace wondered if he was amused by her buttoned-up attitude. Well, she had no intention of relaxing. ‘A glass of sparkling water, please.’

‘Sure thing.’ He left her alone, and Grace slowly circled the room. She summed up the antiques and artwork with a practised eye: all good copies, but essentially fakes. Eric returned with her water and withdrew again, promising that Tannous would be with her in a few minutes and she could just ‘go ahead and relax’. No, thanks. Grace took a sip, frowning as the minutes ticked on. If Tannous’s request really was urgent, why was he keeping her waiting like this? Was it on purpose?

She didn’t like it, but then she didn’t like anything about being here. Not the walls, not the armoured gates, not the man she was meant to meet. All of it brought back too many painful memories, like knives digging into her skull. What didn’t kill you was meant to make you stronger, wasn’t it? Grace smiled grimly. Then she must be awfully strong. Except she didn’t feel strong right now. She felt vulnerable and even exposed, and that made her tense. She worked hard to cultivate a cool, professional demeanour, and just the nature of this place was causing it to crack.

She could not allow that to happen. Quickly she went to the door and tried the handle. With a shuddering rush of relief she felt it open easily. Clearly she was acting a little paranoid. She stepped out into the empty entry hall and saw a pair of French windows at the back that led to an enclosed courtyard, and an infinity pool shaded by palms shimmering in the dusky light.

Grace slipped outside, breathing in the scents of lavender and rosemary as a dry breeze rustled the hair at the nape of her neck. She brushed a tendril away from her face, tucking it back into her professional chignon, and headed towards the pool, her heels clicking on the tiles. She could hear the water in the pool slapping against the sides, the steady sound of limbs cutting through water. Someone was swimming out here in the twilight, and she thought she knew who it was.

She came around a palm tree into the pool area and saw a man cutting through the water with sinuous ease. Even swimming he looked assured. Arrogant and utterly confident in his domain.

Khalis Tannous.

A dart of irritation—no, anger—shot through her. While she was cooling her heels, anxious and tense, he was swimming? It felt like the most obvious kind of power play. Deliberately Grace walked to the chaise where a towel had been tossed. She picked it up, then crossed over to where Khalis Tannous was finishing his lap, her four-inch heels surely in his line of vision.

He came to the edge, long lean fingers curling around the slick tile as he glanced upwards. Grace was not prepared for the jolt of—what? Alarm? Awareness? She could not even say, but something in her sizzled to life as she gazed down into those grey-green eyes, long dark lashes spiky with water. It terrified her, and she instantly suppressed it as she coolly handed him the towel.

‘Mr Tannous?’

His mouth twisted in bemusement but she took in the narrowing of his eyes, the flickering of suspicion. He was on his guard, just as she was. He hoisted himself up onto the tiles in one fluid movement and took the towel from her. ‘Thank you.’ He dried himself off with deliberate ease, and Grace could not keep her gaze from flicking downwards to the lean chest and lithe torso, muscled yet trim, his golden-brown skin now flecked with droplets of water. Tannous had a Tunisian father and a French mother, Grace knew, and his mixed ethnicity was evident in his unique colouring. He was beautiful, all burnished skin and sleek, powerful muscle. He gave off an aura of power, not from size, although he was tall, but from the whipcord strength and energy he exuded in every easy yet precise movement.

‘And you are?’ he finally said, and Grace jerked her gaze upwards.

‘Grace Turner of Axis Art Insurers.’ She reached in the pocket of her coat for her business card and handed it to him. He took it without looking. ‘I believe you were expecting me.’

‘So I was.’ He slung the towel around his hips, his shrewd gaze flicking over her in one quick yet thorough assessment.

‘I thought,’ Grace said, keeping her voice professionally level, ‘this appraisal was urgent?’

‘Fairly urgent,’ Tannous agreed. She said nothing, but something of her censure must have been evident for he smiled and said, ‘I must apologise for what appears to have been discourtesy. I assumed the appraiser would wish to refresh himself before meeting me, and I would have time to finish my swim.’

‘Herself,’ Grace corrected coolly, ‘and, I assure you, I am ready to work.’

‘Glad to hear it, Miss—’ he glanced down at her card, his eyebrows arching as he corrected himself ‘—Ms Turner.’ He looked up, his gaze assessing once more, although whether he was measuring her as a woman or a professional Grace couldn’t tell. She kept her gaze level. ‘If you care to follow me, I’ll take you to my office and we can discuss what you’ve come here for.’

Nodding her acceptance, Grace followed him through the pool area to a discreet door in the corner. They walked down another long hallway, the windows’ shutters open to the fading sunlight still bathing the courtyard in gold, and then into a large masculine office with tinted windows overlooking the landscaped gardens on the other side of the compound.

Unthinkingly Grace walked to the window, pressed one hand against the cool glass as she gazed at all that managed beauty kept behind those high walls, the jagged bits of glass on top glinting in the last of the sun’s rays. The feeling of being trapped clutched at her, made her throat close up. She forced herself to breathe evenly.

Khalis Tannous came to stand behind her and she was uncomfortably aware of his presence, and the fact that all he wore was a pair of swimming trunks and a towel. She could hear the soft sound of his breathing, feel the heat of him, and she tensed, every nerve on high alert and singing with an awareness she definitely did not want to feel.

‘Very beautiful, don’t you think?’ he murmured and Grace forced herself not to move, not to respond in any way to his nearness.

‘I find the wall quite ruins the view,’ she replied and turned away from the window. Her shoulder brushed against his chest, a few water droplets clinging to the silk of her blouse. Tension twanged through her again so she felt as if she might snap. She could not deny the physical response she had to this man, but she could suppress it. Completely. Her body stiff, her head held high, she moved past him into the centre of the room.

Tannous gazed at her, his expression turning thoughtful. ‘I quite agree with your assessment,’ he said softly. She did not reply. ‘I’ll just get dressed,’ he told her, and disappeared through another door tucked in the corner of the room.

Grace took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She could handle this. She was a professional. She’d concentrate on her job and forget about the man, the memories. For being in this glorified prison certainly brought back the memories of another island, another wall. And all the heartbreak that had followed—of her own making.

‘Ms Turner.’

Grace turned and saw Tannous standing in the doorway. He had changed into a pewter-grey silk shirt, open at the throat, and a pair of black trousers. He’d looked amazing in nothing but a towel, but he looked even better in these casually elegant clothes, his lean strength powerfully apparent in every restrained movement, the silk rippling over his muscled body. She took a slight step backwards.

‘Mr Tannous.’

‘Please, call me Khalis.’ Grace said nothing. He smiled faintly. ‘Tell me about yourself, Ms Turner. You are, I take it, experienced in the appraisal of Renaissance art?’

‘It is my speciality, Mr Tannous.’

‘Khalis.’ He sat behind the huge oak desk, steepling his fingers under his chin, clearly waiting for her to continue.

‘I have a PhD in seventeenth century da Vinci copies.’

‘Forgeries.’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t think you will be dealing with forgeries here.’

A leap of excitement pulsed through her. Despite her alarm and anxiety about being in this place, she really did want to see what was in that vault. ‘If you’d like to show me what you wish to be appraised—’

‘How long have you been with Axis Art Insurers?’

‘Four years.’

‘You are, I must confess, very young to be so experienced.’

Grace stifled a surge of annoyance. She was, unfortunately, used to clients—mainly men—casting doubt upon her abilities. Clearly Khalis Tannous was no different. ‘Monsieur Latour can vouch for my abilities, Mr Tannous—’

‘Khalis,’ he said softly.

Awareness rippled over her in a shiver, like droplets of water on bare skin. She didn’t want to call him by his first name, as ridiculous as that seemed. Keeping formal would be one way of maintaining a necessary and professional distance. ‘If you’d prefer another appraiser, please simply say so. I will be happy to oblige you.’ Leaving this island—and all the memories it churned up—would be a personal relief, if a professional disappointment.

He smiled, seeming so very relaxed. ‘Not at all, Ms Turner. I was simply making an observation.’

‘I see.’ She waited, wary, tense, trying to look as unconcerned as he did. He didn’t speak, and impatience bit at her. ‘So the collection …?’ she finally prompted.

‘Ah, yes. The collection.’ He turned to stare out of the window, his easy expression suddenly turning guarded, hooded. He seemed so urbane and assured, yet for just a moment he looked like a man in the grip of some terrible force, in the cast of an awful shadow. Then his face cleared and he turned back to her with a small smile. ‘My father had a private collection of art in the basement of this compound. A collection I knew nothing about.’ Grace refrained from comment. Tannous arched one eyebrow in gentle mockery. ‘You doubt me.’

Of course she did. ‘I am not here to make judgements, Mr Tannous.’

‘Are you ever,’ he mused, ‘going to call me Khalis?’

Not if she could help it. ‘I prefer work relationships to remain professional.’

‘And calling me by my first name is too intimate?’ There was a soft, seductive lilt to his voice that made that alarming awareness creep along Grace’s spine and curl her toes. The effect this man had on her—his voice, his smile, his body—was annoying. Unwanted. She smiled tightly.

‘Intimate is not the word I would use. But if you feel as strongly about it as you seem to, then I’m happy to oblige you and call you Khalis.’ Her tongue seemed to tangle itself on his name, and her voice turned breathy. Grace inwardly flinched. She was making a fool of herself and yet, even so, she’d seen something flare in his eyes, like silver fire, when she said his name. Whatever she was feeling—this attraction, this magnetism—he felt it, too.

Not that it mattered. Attraction, to her, was as suicidal as a moth to a flame. ‘May I see the paintings?’ she asked.

‘Of course. Perhaps that will explain things.’

In one fluid movement Khalis rose from the desk and walked out of the study, clearly expecting Grace to follow him. She suppressed the bite of irritation she felt at his arrogant attitude—he didn’t even look back—only to skid to a surprised halt when she saw him holding the door open for her.

He smiled down at her, and Grace had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly what she’d been feeling. ‘After you,’ he murmured and, fighting a flush, she walked past him down the same corridor they had used earlier. ‘Where am I going?’ she asked tersely. She could feel Khalis walking behind her, heard the whisper of his clothes as he moved. Everything about him was elegant, graceful and sinuous. Sexy.

No. She could not—would not—think that way. She hadn’t looked at a man in a sexual or romantic way in four years. She’d trained herself not to, suppressed those longings because she’d had to. One misstep would cost her if not her life, then her very soul. It was insane to feel anything now—and especially for a man like Khalis Tannous, a man who was now the CEO of a terrible and corrupt empire, a man she could never trust.

Instinctively she walked a little faster, as if she could distance herself from him, but he kept pace with ease.

‘Turn right,’ he murmured, and she heard humour in his voice. ‘You are amazingly adept in those very high heels, Ms Turner. But it’s not a race.’

Grace didn’t answer, but she forced herself to slow down. A little. She turned and walked down another long corridor, the shutters open to a different side of the villa’s interior courtyard.

‘And now left,’ he said, his voice a soft caress, raising the tiny hairs on the back of Grace’s neck. He’d come close again, too close. She turned left and came to a forbidding-looking lift with steel doors and a complex security pad.

Khalis activated the security with a fingerprint and a numbered code while Grace averted her eyes. ‘I’ll have to give you access,’ he said, ‘as all the art will need to stay on the basement level.’

‘To be honest, Mr Tannous—’

‘Khalis.’

‘I’m not sure how much can be accomplished here,’ Grace continued, undeterred. ‘Most appraisals need to be done in a laboratory, with the proper equipment—’

Khalis flashed her a quick and rather grim smile. ‘It appears my father had the same concerns you do, Ms Turner. I think you will find all the equipment and tools you need.’

The lift doors opened and Khalis ushered her inside before stepping into the lift himself. The doors swooshed closed, and Grace fought a sudden sense of claustrophobia. The lift was spacious enough, and there were only two of them in there, but she still felt as if she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. She was conscious of Khalis next to her, seeming so loose-limbed and relaxed, and the lift plunging downwards, deep below the earth, to the evil heart of this awful compound. She felt both trapped and tempted—two things she hated feeling.

‘Just a few more seconds,’ Khalis said softly, and she knew he was aware of how she felt. She was used to hiding her emotions, and being good at it, and it amazed and alarmed her that this stranger seemed to read her so quickly and easily. No one else ever had.

The doors opened and he swept out one arm, indicating she could go first. Cautiously Grace stepped out into a nondescript hallway, the concrete floor and walls the same as those in any basement. To the right she saw a thick steel door, sawn off its hinges and now propped to the side. Balkri Tannous’s vault. Her heart began to beat with heavy thuds of anticipation and a little fear.

‘Here we are.’ Khalis moved past her to switch on the light. Grace saw the interior of the vault was fashioned like a living room or study and, with her heart still beating hard, she stepped into that secret room.

It was almost too much to take in at once. Paintings jostled for space on every wall, frames nearly touching each other. She recognised at least a dozen stolen paintings right off the bat—Klimt, Monet, Picasso. Millions and millions of dollars’ worth of stolen art.

Her breath came out in a shudder and Khalis laughed softly, the sound somehow bleak. ‘I’m no expert, but even I could tell this was something else.’

She stopped in front of a Picasso that hadn’t been seen in a museum in over twenty years. She wasn’t that experienced with contemporary art, but she doubted it was a forgery. ‘Why,’ she asked, studying the painting’s clean geometric shape and different shades of blue, ‘did you ask for a Renaissance expert? There’s art from every period here.’

‘True,’ Khalis said. He came to stand by her shoulder, gazing at the Picasso as well. ‘Although, frankly, that looks like something my five-year-old god-daughter might paint in Nursery.’

‘That’s enough to make Picasso roll in his grave.’

‘Well, she is very clever.’

Grace gave a little laugh, surprising herself. She rarely laughed. She rarely let a man make her laugh. ‘Is your god-daughter in California?’

‘Yes, she’s the daughter of one of my shareholders.’

Grace gazed at the painting. ‘Clever she may be, but most art historians would shudder to compare Picasso with a child and a box of finger paints.’

‘Oh, she has a paintbrush.’

Grace laughed again, softly, a little breath of sound. ‘Maybe she’ll be famous one day.’ She half-turned and, with a somersault of her heart, realised just how close he had come. His face—his lips—were mere inches away. She could see their mobile fullness, amazed at how such a masculine man could have such lush, kissable, sexy lips. She felt a shaft of longing pierce her and quickly she moved onto the next painting. ‘So why me? Why a Renaissance specialist?’

‘Because of these.’

He took her hand in his own and shock jolted through her with the force of an electric current, short-circuiting her senses. Grace jerked her hand away from his too hard, her breath coming out in an outraged gasp.

Khalis stopped, an eyebrow arched. Grace knew her reaction had been ridiculously extreme. How could she explain it? She could not, not easily at any rate. She decided to ignore the whole sorry little episode and raised her chin a notch. ‘Show me, please.’

‘Very well.’ With one last considering look he led her to a door she hadn’t noticed in the back of the room. He opened it and switched on an electric light before ushering her inside.

The room was small and round, and it felt like being inside a tower, or perhaps a shrine. Grace saw only two artworks on the walls, and they stole the breath right from her lungs.

‘What—’ She stepped closer, stared hard at the wood panels with their thick brushstrokes of oil paint. ‘Do you know what these are?’ she whispered.

‘Not precisely,’ Khalis told her, ‘but they definitely aren’t something my god-daughter could paint.’

Grace smiled and shook her head. ‘No, indeed.’ She stepped closer, her gaze roving over the painted wood panels. ‘Leonardo da Vinci.’

‘Yes, he’s quite famous, isn’t he?’

Her smile widened, to her own amazement. She hadn’t expected Khalis Tannous to amuse her. ‘He is, rather. But they could be forgeries, you know.’

‘I doubt they are,’ Khalis answered. ‘Simply by the fact they’re in their own little room.’ He paused, his tone turning grim. ‘And I know my father. He didn’t like to be tricked.’

‘Forgeries can be of exceptional quality,’ Grace told him. ‘And they even have their own value—’

‘My father—’ Khalis cut her off ‘—liked the best.’

She turned back to the paintings, drinking them in. If these were real … how many people had seen these ever? ‘How on earth did he find them?’

‘I have no idea. I don’t really want to know.’

‘They weren’t stolen, at least not from a museum.’

‘No?’

‘These have never been in a museum.’

‘Then they are rather special, aren’t they?’

She gave a little laugh. ‘You could say that.’ She shook her head slowly, still trying to take it in. Two original Leonardo paintings never seen in a museum. Never known to exist, beyond rumours. ‘If these are real, they would comprise the most significant find of the art world in the last century.’

Khalis sighed heavily, almost as if he were disappointed by such news. ‘I suspected as much,’ he said, and flicked out the lights. ‘You can examine them at length later. But right now I think we both deserve some refreshment.’

Her mind still spinning, Grace barely took in his words. ‘Refreshment?’

‘Dinner, Ms Turner. I’m starving.’ And with an almost wolfish smile he led her out of the vault.

## CHAPTER THREE

GRACE paced the sumptuous bedroom Eric had shown her to, her mind still racing from the revelations found in that vault. She longed to ring Michel, but she’d discovered her mobile phone didn’t get reception on this godforsaken island. She wondered if that was intentional; somehow she didn’t think Balkri Tannous wanted his guests having free contact with the outside world. But what about Khalis?

It occurred to her, not for the first time but with more force, that she really knew nothing about this man. Michel had given her the barest details: he was Balkri Tannous’s younger son; he’d gone to Cambridge; he’d left his family at twenty-one and made his own way in America. But beyond that?

She knew he was handsome and charismatic and arrogantly assured. She knew his closeness made her heart skip a beat. She knew the scent and heat of him had made her dizzy. He’d made her laugh.

Appalled by the nature of her thoughts, Grace shook her head as if the mere action could erase her thinking. She could not be attracted to this man. And even if her body insisted on betraying her, her mind wouldn’t. Her heart wouldn’t.

Not again.

She took a deep, shuddering breath and strove for calm. Control. What she didn’t know about Khalis Tannous was whether the reality of a huge billion dollar empire would make him power hungry. Whether the sight of millions of dollars’ worth of art made him greedy. Whether he could be trusted.

She’d seen how wealth and power had turned a man into someone she barely recognised. Charming on the outside—and Khalis was charming—but also selfish and cruel. Would Khalis be like that? Like her ex-husband?

And why, Grace wondered with a lurch of panic, was she thinking about Khalis and her ex-husband in the same breath? Khalis was her client, no more. Her client with a great deal of expensive art.

Another breath. She needed to think rationally rather than react with emotion, with her memories and fears. This was a different island, a different man. And she was different now, too. Stronger. Harder. Wiser. She had no intention of getting involved with anyone … even if she could.

Deliberately she sat down and pulled a pad of paper towards her. She’d make notes, handle this like any other assignment. She wouldn’t think of the way Khalis looked in his swimming trunks, the clean, sculpted lines of his chest and shoulders. She wouldn’t remember how he’d made her smile, lightened her heart—something that hardly seemed possible. And she certainly wouldn’t wonder if he might end up like his father—or her ex-husband. Corrupted by power, ruined with wealth. It didn’t matter. In a few days she would be leaving this wretched island, as well as its owner.

Grace Turner. Khalis stared at the small white card she’d given him. It listed only her qualifications, the name of her company and her phone number. He balanced the card on his knuckles, turning his hand quickly to catch it before he brought it unthinkingly to his lips, almost as if he could catch the scent of her from that little bit of paper.

Grace Turner intrigued him, on many levels. Of course he’d first been struck by her looks; she was an uncommonly beautiful woman. A bit unconventional, perhaps, with her honey-blond hair and chocolate eyes, an unusual and yet beguiling combination. Her lashes were thick and sooty, sweeping down all too often to hide the emotions he thought he saw in her eyes.

And her figure … generous curves and endless legs, all showcased in business attire that was no doubt meant to look professional but managed to be ridiculously alluring. Khalis had never seen a white silk blouse and houndstooth pencil skirt look so sexy. Yet, despite the skyscraper heels, he doubted she intended to look sexy. She was as prickly as a sea urchin, and might as well have had do not touch emblazoned on her forehead.

Yet he did want to touch her, had wanted it from the moment those gorgeous legs had entered his vision when he’d completed his lap in the pool. He hadn’t been able to resist when they’d been in the vault, and her reaction to his taking her hand had surprised, he thought, both of them.

She was certainly a woman of secrets. He sensed her coiled tension, even her fear. Something about this island—about him—made her nervous. Of course, on the most basic level he could hardly blame her. From the outside, Alhaja Island looked like a prison. And he was a stranger, the son of a man whose ruthless exploits had been whispered about if not proved. Even so, he didn’t think her fear was directed simply at him, but something greater. Something, Khalis suspected, that had held her in its thrall for a while.

Or was he simply projecting his own emotions onto this mysterious and intriguing woman? For he recognised his own fear. He hated being back on Alhaja, hated the memories that rose to the forefront of his mind like scum on the surface of a pond.

Get used to it, Khalis. This is how it is done.

Don’t leave me here, Khalis.

I’ll come back … I promise.

Abruptly he rose from his chair, prowled the length of his study with an edgy restlessness. He’d resolutely banished those voices for fifteen years, yet they’d all come rushing back, taunting and tormenting him from the moment he’d stepped on this wretched shore. Despite Eric’s tactful suggestion that he set up a base of operations in any number of cities where his father had had offices, Khalis had refused.

He’d run from this island once. He wasn’t going to do it again.

And at least the enigmatic and attractive Grace Turner provided a welcome distraction from the agony of his own thoughts.

‘Khalis?’ He glanced up and saw Eric standing in the doorway. ‘Dinner is served.’

‘Thank you.’ Khalis slid Grace’s business card into the inside pocket of the dark grey blazer he’d put on. He felt a pleasurable tingle of anticipation at the thought of seeing the all too fascinating Ms Turner again, and firmly pushed away his dark thoughts once and for all. There was, he’d long ago decided, never any point in looking back.

He’d ordered dinner to be served on a private terrace of the compound’s interior courtyard, and the intimate space flickered with torchlight as Khalis strolled up to the table. Grace had not yet arrived and he took the liberty of pouring a glass of wine for each of them. He’d just finished when he heard the click of her heels, felt a prickle of awareness at her nearness. Smiling, he turned.

‘Ms Turner.’

‘If you insist on my calling you Khalis, then you must call me Grace.’

He inclined his head, more gratified than he should be at her concession. ‘Thank you … Grace.’

She stepped into the courtyard, the torchlight casting her into flickering light and wraith-like shadow. She looked magnificent. She’d kept her hair up in its businesslike coil, but had exchanged her work day attire for a simple sheath dress in chocolate-brown silk. On another woman the dress might have looked like a paper sack but on Grace it clung to her curves and shimmered when she moved. He suspected she’d chosen the dress for its supposed modesty, and the fact that she had little idea how stunning she looked only added to her allure. He realised he was staring and reached for one of the glasses on the table. ‘Wine?’

A hesitation, her body tensing for a fraction of a second before she held out one slender arm. ‘Thank you.’

They sipped the wine in silence for a moment, the night soft all around them. In the distance Khalis heard the whisper of the waves, the wind rustling the palm trees overhead. ‘I’d offer a toast, but the occasion doesn’t seem quite appropriate.’

‘No.’ Grace lowered her glass, her slim fingers wrapped tightly around the fragile stem. ‘You must realise, Mr Tannous—’

‘Khalis.’

She laughed softly, no more than a breath of sound. She did not seem like a woman used to laughing. ‘I keep forgetting.’

‘I think you want to forget.’

She didn’t deny it. ‘I told you before, I prefer to keep things professional.’

‘It’s the twenty-first century, Grace. Calling someone by a first name is hardly inviting untoward intimacies.’ Even if such a prospect attracted him all too much.

She lifted her gaze to his, her dark eyes wide and clear with a sudden sobriety. ‘In most circles,’ she allowed, intriguing him further. ‘In any case, what I meant to tell you was that I’m sure you realise most of the art in that vault downstairs has been stolen from various museums around the world.’

‘I do realise,’ he answered, ‘which is why I wished to have it assessed, and assured there are no forgeries.’

‘And then?’

He took a sip of wine, giving her a deliberately amused look over the rim of his glass. ‘Then I intend to sell it on the black market, of course. And quietly get rid of you.’

Her eyes narrowed, lips compressed. ‘If that is a joke, it is a poor one.’

‘If?’ He stared at her, saw her slender body nearly vibrating with tension. ‘My God, do you actually think there is any possibility of such a thing? What kind of man do you think I am?’

A faint blush touched her pale cheeks with pink. ‘I don’t know you, Mr Tannous. All I know is what I’ve heard of your father—’

‘I am nothing like my father.’ He hated the implication she was making, the accusation. He’d been trying to prove he was different his whole life, had made every choice deliberately as a way to prove he was not like his father in the smallest degree. The price he’d paid was high, maybe even too high, but he’d paid it and he wouldn’t look back. And he wouldn’t defend himself to this slip of a woman either. He forced himself to smile. ‘Trust me, such a thing is not in the remotest realm of possibility.’

‘I didn’t think it was,’ she answered sharply. ‘But it is something, perhaps, your father might have done.’

Something snapped to life inside him, but Khalis could not say what it was. Anger? Regret? Guilt? ‘My father was not a murderer,’ he said levelly, ‘as far as I am aware.’

‘But he was a thief,’ Grace said quietly. ‘A thief many times over.’

‘And he is dead. He cannot pay for his crimes, alas, but I can set things to rights.’

‘Is that what you are doing with Tannous Enterprises?’

Tension tautened through his body. ‘Attempting. It is, I fear, a Herculean task.’

‘Why did he leave it to you?’

‘It is a question I have asked myself many times already,’ he said lightly, ‘and one for which I have yet to find an answer. My older brother should have inherited, but he died in the crash.’

‘And what about the other shareholders?’

‘There are very few, and they hold a relatively small percentage of the shares. They’re not best pleased, though, that my father left control of the company to me.’

‘What do you think they’ll do?’

He shrugged. ‘What can they do? They’re waiting now, to see which way I turn.’

‘Whether you’ll be like your father.’ This time she did not speak with accusation, but something that sounded surprisingly like sympathy.

‘I won’t.’

‘A fortune such as the one contained in that vault has tempted a lesser man, Mr … Khalis.’ She spoke softly, almost as if she had some kind of personal experience of such temptation. His name on her lips sent a sudden thrill through him. Perhaps using first names did invite an intimacy … or at least create one.

‘I have my own fortune, Grace. But I thank you for the compliment.’

‘It wasn’t meant to be one,’ she said quietly. ‘Just an observation, really.’ She turned away and he watched her cross to the edge of the private alcove as if looking for exits. The little nook was enclosed by thick foliage on every side but one that led back into the villa. Did she feel trapped?

‘You seem a bit tense,’ he told her mildly. ‘Granted, this island has a similar effect on me, but I wish I could put you at ease in regard to my intentions.’

‘Why didn’t you simply hand the collection over to the police?’

He gave a short laugh. ‘In this part of the world? My father may have been corrupt, but he wasn’t alone. Half of the local police force were in his pocket already.’

She nodded, her back still to him, though he saw the tension radiating along her spine, her slender back taut with it. ‘Of course,’ she murmured.

‘Let me be plain about my intentions, Grace. After you’ve assessed the art—the da Vincis, mainly—and assured me they are not forgeries, I intend to hand the entire collection over to Axis to see it disposed of properly, whether that is the Louvre, the Met, or a poky little museum in Oklahoma. I don’t care.’

‘There are legal procedures—’

He waved a hand in dismissal. ‘I’m sure of it. And I’m sure your company can handle such things and make sure each masterpiece gets back to its proper museum.’

She turned suddenly, looking at him over her shoulder, her eyes wide and dark, her lips parted. It was an incredibly alluring pose, though he doubted she realised it. Or perhaps he’d just been too long without a lover. Either way, Grace Turner fascinated and attracted him more than any woman had in a long time. He wanted to kiss those soft parted lips as much as he wanted to see them smile, and the realisation jarred him. He felt more for this woman than mere physical attraction. ‘I told you before,’ she said, ‘those Leonardos have never been in a museum.’

He pushed away that unwanted realisation with relief. ‘Why not?’

‘No one has ever been sure they even existed.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you recognise the subject of the paintings?’

‘Something in Greek mythology, I thought.’ He racked his brain for a moment. ‘Leda and the Swan, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. Do you know the story?’

‘Vaguely. The Swan was Zeus, wasn’t it? And he had his way with Leda.’

‘Yes, he raped her. It was a popular subject of paintings during the Renaissance, and depicted quite erotically.’ She’d turned to face him and in the flickering torchlight her face looked pale and sorrowful. ‘Leonardo da Vinci was known to have done the first painting downstairs, of Leda and the Swan. A romantic depiction, similar in style to others of the period, yet of course by a master.’

‘And yet this painting was never in a museum?’

‘No, it was last seen at Fontainebleau in 1625. Historians think it was deliberately destroyed. It was definitely known to be damaged, so if it is genuine your father or a previous owner must have had it restored.’

‘If it hasn’t been seen in four hundred years, how does anyone even know what it looked like?’

‘Copies, all based on the first copy done by one of Leonardo’s students. You could probably buy a poster of it on the street for ten pounds.’

‘That’s no poster downstairs.’

‘No.’ She met his gaze frankly, her eyes wide and a soft, deep brown. Pansy eyes, Khalis thought, alarmed again at how sentimental he was being. Feeling. The guarded sorrow in her eyes aroused a protective instinct in him he hadn’t felt in years. Hadn’t wanted to feel. Yet one look from Grace and it came rushing back, overwhelming him. He wanted, inexplicably, to take care of this woman. ‘In fact,’ Grace continued, ‘I would have assumed the painting downstairs is a copy, except for the second painting.’

‘The second painting,’ Khalis repeated. He was having trouble keeping track of the conversation, due to the rush of his own emotions and the effect Grace was having on him. A faint flush now coloured her cheekbones, making her look more beautiful and alluring than ever. He felt his libido stir insistently to life and took a sip of wine to distract himself. What was it about this woman that affected him so much—in so many ways?

‘Yes, you see the second painting is one art historians thought Leonardo never completed. It’s been no more than a rumour or even a dream.’ She shook her head slowly, as if she couldn’t believe what she’d seen with her own eyes. ‘Leda not with her lover the Swan, but with her children of that tragic union. Helen and Polydeuces, Castor and Clytemnestra.’ Abruptly she turned away from him, and with the sudden sweep of those sooty lashes Khalis knew she was hiding some deep and powerful emotion.

‘If he never completed it,’ he asked after a moment, ‘how do art historians even know about its possibility?’

‘He did several studies. He was fascinated by the myth of Leda.’ Her back was still to him, radiating tension once more. Khalis fought the urge to put his hand on her shoulders, draw her to him, although for a kiss or a hug of comfort he wasn’t even sure. He felt a powerful desire to do both. ‘He’s one of the few artists ever to have thought of painting Leda that way. As a mother, rather than a lover.’

‘You seem rather moved by the idea,’ he said quietly, and he felt the increase of tension in her lithe body like a jolt of electricity that wired them both.

She drew in a breath that sounded only a little ragged and after a second’s pause, turned to him with a cool smile. ‘Of course I am. As I told you before, this is a major discovery.’

Khalis said nothing, merely observed her. Her gaze was level, her face carefully expressionless. It was a look, he imagined, she cultivated often. A mask to hide the turbulent emotions seething beneath that placid surface. He recognised it because he had a similar technique himself. Except his mask went deeper than Grace’s, soul-deep. He felt nothing while her emotions remained close to the surface, reflected in her eyes, visible in the soft, trembling line of her mouth.

‘I didn’t mean the discovery,’ he said, ‘but rather the painting itself. This Leda.’

‘I can’t help but feel sorry for her, I suppose.’ She shrugged, one slender shoulder lifting, and Khalis’s gaze was irresistibly drawn to the movement, the shimmery fabric of her dress clinging lovingly to the swell of her breast. She noticed the direction of his gaze and, her eyes narrowed and mouth compressed, pushed past him. ‘You mentioned earlier you were starving. Shall we eat?’

‘Of course.’ He moved to the table and pulled out her chair. Grace hesitated, then walked swiftly towards him and sat down. Khalis inhaled the scent of her perfume or perhaps her shampoo; it smelled sweet and clean, like almonds. He gently pushed her chair in and moved to the other side of the table. Nothing Grace had said or done so far had deterred him or dampened his attraction; in fact, he found the enigmatic mix of strength and vulnerability she showed all the more intriguing—and alluring. And as for the emotions she stirred up in him. Khalis pushed these aside. The events of the last week had left him a little raw, that was all. It should come as no surprise that he was feeling a bit stupidly emotional. It would pass … even as his attraction to Grace Turner became stronger.

Grace laid her napkin in her lap with trembling fingers. She could not believe how unnerved she was. She didn’t know if it was being on this wretched island, seeing those amazing paintings, or the proximity to Khalis Tannous. Probably—and unfortunately—all three.

She could not deny this man played havoc with her peace of mind by the way he seemed to sense what she was thinking and feeling. The way his gaze lingered made her achingly aware of her own body, created a response in her she didn’t want or like.

Desire. Need.

She’d schooled herself not to feel either for so long. How could this one man shatter her defences so quickly and completely? How could she let him? She knew what happened when you let a man close. When you trusted him. Despair. Heartbreak. Betrayal.

‘So tell me about yourself, Grace Turner,’ Khalis said, his voice low and lazy. It slid over her like silk, made her want to luxuriate in its soft, seductive promise. He poured her more wine, which Grace knew she should refuse. The few sips she’d taken had already gone to her head—or was that just the effect Khalis was having on her?

‘What do you want to know?’ she asked.

‘Everything.’ He sat back, smiling, the glass of wine cradled between his long brown fingers. Grace could not keep her gaze from wandering over him. Wavy ink-black hair, left just a little long, and those surprising grey-green eyes, the colour of agate. He lifted his brows, clearly waiting, and, startled from her humiliatingly obvious perusal of his attractions, Grace reached for her wine.

‘That’s rather comprehensive. I told you I did my PhD in—’

‘I’m not referring to your professional qualifications.’ Grace said nothing. She wanted—had to—keep this professional. ‘Where are you from?’ he asked mildly, and she let out the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

‘Cambridge.’

‘And you went to Cambridge for your doctorate?’

‘Yes, and undergraduate.’

‘You must have done one after the other,’ he mused. ‘You can’t be more than thirty.’

‘I’m thirty-two,’ Grace told him. ‘And, as a matter of fact, yes, I did do one after the other.’

‘You know I went to Cambridge?’ She inclined her head in acknowledgement; she’d read the file Michel had compiled on him on the plane. ‘We almost overlapped. I’m a few years older than you, but it’s possible.’

‘An amazing coincidence.’

‘You don’t seem particularly amazed.’

She just shrugged. She had a feeling that if Khalis Tannous had been within fifty miles of her she would have known it. Or maybe she wouldn’t have, because then she’d been dazzled by another Cambridge student—her ex-husband. Dazzled and blinded. She felt a sudden cold steal inside her at the thought that Khalis and Loukas might have been acquaintances, or even friends. What if Loukas found out she was here? Even though this trip was business, Grace knew how her ex-husband thought. He’d be suspicious, and he might deny her access to Katerina. Why had she let Michel bully her into coming?

‘Grace?’ She refocused, saw him looking at with obvious concern. ‘You’ve gone deathly white in the space of about six seconds.’

‘Sorry.’ She fumbled for an excuse. ‘I’m a bit tired from the flight, and I haven’t eaten since breakfast.’

‘Then let me serve you,’ Khalis said and, as if on cue, a young woman came in with a platter of food.

Grace watched as Khalis ladled couscous, stewed lamb and a cucumber yogurt salad onto her plate. She told herself it was unlikely Khalis knew Loukas; he’d been living in the States, after all. And, even if he did, he’d surely be discreet about his father’s art collection. She was, as usual, being paranoid. Yet she had to be paranoid, on her guard always, because access to her daughter was so limited and so precious … and in her ex-husband’s complete control.

‘Bon appétit,’ Khalis said, and Grace forced a smile.

‘It looks delicious.’

‘Really? Because you’re looking at your plate as if it’s your last meal.’

Grace pressed two fingers to her forehead; she felt the beginnings of one of her headaches. ‘A delicious last meal, in any case.’ She tried to smile. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just tired, really.’

‘Would you prefer to eat in your room?’

Grace shook her head, not wanting to admit to such weakness. ‘I’m fine,’ she said firmly, as if she could make it so. ‘And this really does look delicious.’ She took a bite of couscous and somehow managed to choke it down. She could feel Khalis’s gaze on her, heavy and speculative. Knowing.