The Darkest of Secrets (5 page)

‘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.

‘You grew up in Cambridge, you said?’ he finally asked, and Grace felt relief that he wasn’t going to press.

‘Yes, my father was a fellow at Trinity College.’

‘Was?’

‘He died six years ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘And I should say the same to you. I’m sorry for the loss of your father and brother.’

‘Thank you, although it’s hardly necessary.’

Grace paused, her fork in mid-air. ‘Even if you were estranged from them, it’s surely a loss.’

‘I left my family fifteen years ago, Grace. They were dead to me. I did my grieving then.’ He spoke neutrally enough, yet underneath that easy affability Grace sensed an icy hardness. There would be no second chances with a man like Khalis.