Give me your phone number.’
‘Why?’
‘So I can text you the list of names attending my exhibition. Be ready to leave for Paris when I return in the morning.’
‘You’re not afraid I’ll vanish once you leave?’ she mocked.
‘No. Because you’ve revealed another weakness.’
Her eyes, a unique hazel that was more brown than green, remained unreadable despite the rapid pulse beating at the base of her slender throat.
‘By all means, enlighten me.’
‘Aside from the money, you obviously care about Ashton. I can only imagine what you’ll do to prevent him from being carted off to jail once I arrange for his debts to be called in.’
A spark very much like anger heated her cheeks. ‘Careful, now. That renowned Fortier halo is looking a tad besmirched.’
Damion laughed. The realisation that he was actually enjoying besting Reiko eased the intense frustration of the past few weeks.
‘You fight dirty. I fight dirtier. Phone number?’
Tersely, she recited it. He entered it into his phone and pressed ‘send’. ‘The quicker you strike my guests off your list, the quicker you can move on to find out who has the paintings. You’ve gained yourself an invitation to my exhibition, but if you have even the faintest urge to pull anything underhand, squash it.’
‘Scouts’ honour.’ She raised two slender fingers.
The folds of her billowing sleeves fell back and Damion caught the faintest glimpse of puckered flesh before she sucked in a breath and tucked her arm against her side. Whirling, she retreated into the shadowed hallway.
Puzzled by her behaviour, he followed. ‘Reiko—’
‘I didn’t get the chance to tell you before Trevor come downstairs.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘I’ll only need to find the Femme sur Plage.’
Ice clutched the back of his neck and he forced himself to speak. ‘Why?’
‘Because I already know where the Femme en Mer is.’
‘Where is it?’
‘In a storage vault in London.’
‘Who owns it?’
‘I do.’
CHAPTER THREE
THE DREAMS CAME AGAIN … She was laughing as she pulled her father’s resistant hand, telling him he had nothing to worry about, that there was space on the crowded train. No, she didn’t want to wait for the next train. His hastily concealed concern … his familiar embrace … his strong arms around her.
Then nothing … only the heavy weight of blackness.
And screams—horrible, heart-rending screams—as carnage reigned all round her. Her father’s warm hand was clutching hers, then gradually growing cold.
But this time her dreams were interspersed with other images.
Within the chaos Reiko dreamed of dancing with the Baron de St Valoire. And not just any dance. She dreamt of the Argentine frickin’ tango.
Reiko woke with her mind filled with vivid images of train wrecks, scarred bodies … and Damion’s long, muscular legs tangling with scissor-like precision and skill against her much shorter ones, his hands guiding her with exquisite mastery.
She dreamt of short, shockingly sexy dresses, stratospheric red-soled shoes.
In her dreams the disparity between their heights didn’t matter. They fitted perfectly. And when a particular move wasn’t possible, her dark-haired, stormy-eyed partner merely lifted her up against his strong, virile body and continued dancing, their heated breaths mingling, his movements getting increasingly faster, headier, sexier—
‘What the hell, Reiko?’
Shoving off the offending hot sheets, she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She had just over an hour to get ready before Damion returned.
Recalling the incandescent rage that had filled his face after her revelation last night, she swallowed. Weirdly, he’d pulled himself under rigid control after that short display of emotion. He’d told her to concentrate her efforts on finding the Femme sur Plage, then he’d left.
After showering, she selected her best power suit. The severe cut of the black jacket and matching trousers coupled with a cream silk dress shirt gave off the no-nonsense vibe she wanted to project, while serving the very useful purpose of covering her up from neck to ankle.
More than anything, she wished she could catch her hair up into a tight bun to cement the outward image she craved, but the scars on her neck made that impossible, so she prayed the suit and make-up would be enough.
After brushing her fringe over the scar that slid down from her temple to her ear, she arranged her hair carefully over her shoulders and slipped her feet into black patent platforms. To complete the look, she secured small diamond studs to her ears.
The heels were a bad idea after the hours she’d spent in another pair yesterday, but there was no way she was putting herself at a disadvantage by wearing flats in Damion Fortier’s presence.
She’d pay the price later, with painful stretching techniques and long hours of hydrotherapy, but the idea of going toe to toe with the Baron made it worth it.
Half an hour later, Reiko brushed imaginary lint from her sleeve to avoid Trevor’s probing gaze.
‘Tell me again why you’re doing this, Reiko?’ he asked, concern etched into his face.
Reiko contemplated telling him about her bargain with Damion and immediately discarded it. ‘Because he’s paying me a shedload of money.’ She attempted a smile.
He frowned. ‘Money has never been your motivation.’
Her smile dimmed. ‘Sylvain Fortier is dying, and Damion’s asked me to help find his painting.’ The partial truth was better than nothing.
Trevor’s lips compressed. ‘That’s just it, Reiko. After what they did to your grandfather, and to you, they have no right!’
Reiko’s heart performed a painful flip but she kept the smile fixed in place. ‘That’s in the past. I’m over it. Besides, I wasn’t joking. He is paying me a shedload—some of which can help you—’
He shook his head firmly. ‘I can take care of my own financial mess.’
‘You took care of me when I needed you. Now it’s my turn.’
The lines of worry faded but didn’t disappear. ‘Did you sleep last night?’
She
