The Darkest of Secrets (4 page)

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

G
RACE
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.’