Tropical Temptation: Exotic Affairs

CHAPTER THREE

GRACE 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.’

‘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.’