The Darkest of Secrets

‘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—’