The Sinful Art of Revenge

Damion had never craved attention, never sought it for the purpose of spotlighting himself—even though his life seemed to fascinate the tabloid press and the endlessly vacuous social media. But in that moment Damion admitted he didn’t like being ignored. In fact he hated it. He wanted to growl, to shout and draw Reiko Kagawa’s attention from the older man. Instead he gritted his teeth and watched as they mounted the stairs and disappeared into the upper hallway, not once looking back.

Swallowing the distinct taste of displeasure that coated his mouth, Damion shoved his hand through his hair. He was seriously considering storming up the stairs when Reiko reappeared alone. The upper-hallway light cast her silhouette in soft relief. Through the material of her dress, Damion traced her shapely legs to where they met at that triangular gap that had once so fascinated him.

Heat slammed into his chest as he recalled how he’d been able to slip his fingers inside her without the smallest need to part her thighs.

Lost momentarily in the past, he let his gaze drift upward, over her curvy hips to the small indentation of her waist where she’d planted her hands. His hands could encompass that small waist. Easily. She’d always melted into his arms when he’d done just that.

‘So what now?’ she asked.

‘Come down here,’ he instructed hoarsely.

Catching and killing his wayward thoughts, he shoved his hands into his pockets. She was midway down the steps when he noticed she wasn’t wearing shoes. Dainty feet with nails painted a soft peach clashed with the heavy make-up and scarlet lips.

He frowned. ‘Are you and Ashton lovers?’ he asked, before the question was fully formed in his mind.

Surprise flared in her eyes. A charge of heated energy arced between them. That familiar twinge struck deep, and for the life of him he couldn’t dismiss it.

‘I fail to see what business that is of yours.’

‘I wouldn’t want him causing problems with your pursuit of the paintings.’

‘He won’t be a problem.’

‘Bien. 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.