Tropical Temptation

May 2020

Exotic Affairs

June 2020

Exotic Temptation

July 2020

Exotic Seduction

August 2020

Exotic Passion

September 2020

Exotic Propositions

October 2020

Exotic Love

November 2020

Exotic Dreams

December 2020

Exotic Scandal

About the Authors

KATE HEWITT has worked a variety of different jobs, from drama teacher to editorial assistant to youth worker, but writing romance is the best one yet. She also writes women’s fiction and all her stories celebrate the healing and redemptive power of love. Kate lives in a tiny village in the English Cotswolds with her husband, five children, and an overly affectionate Golden Retriever.

KATE CARLISLE writes for Mills & Boon Desire and is also the New York Times bestselling author of the Bibliophile Mystery series for NAL. Kate spent twenty years in television production before enrolling in law school, where she turned to writing fiction as a lawful way to kill off her professors. She eventually left law school, but the urge to write has never left her. Kate and her husband live near the beach in Southern California where she was born and raised.

In 2002 JANICE MAYNARD left a career as a teacher to pursue writing full-time. Her first love is creating sexy, character-driven, contemporary romance. She has written for Kensington and NAL, and is very happy to be part of the Mills & Boon family – a lifelong dream. Janice and her husband live in the shadow of the Great Smoky Mountains. They love to hike and travel. Visit her at www.JaniceMaynard.com

Tropical Temptation: Exotic Affairs

The Darkest of Secrets

Kate Hewitt

An Innocent in Paradise

Kate Carlisle

Impossible to Resist

Janice Maynard

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90737-2

TROPICAL TEMPTATION: EXOTIC AFFAIRS

The Darkest of Secrets © 2012 by Kate Hewitt An Innocent in Paradise © 2011 Kathleen Beaver Impossible to Resist © 2012 Janice Maynard

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Authors

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

The Darkest of Secrets

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

An Innocent in Paradise

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Impossible to Resist

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

About the Publisher

The Darkest of Secrets

Kate Hewitt

CHAPTER ONE

‘OPEN it up.’

It had taken the better part of two days to reach this moment. Khalis Tannous stood back as the two highly skilled engineers he’d employed to open his father’s steel vault finally eased the door off its hinges. They had used all their knowledge and skill trying to unlock the thing, but his father was too paranoid and the security too advanced. In the end they’d had to use the newest laser technology to cut straight through the steel.

Khalis had no idea what lay inside this vault; he hadn’t even known the vault had existed, on the lowest floor of the compound on his father’s private island. He’d already been through the rest of the facility and found enough evidence to see his father put in prison for life, if he were still alive.

‘It’s dark,’ one of the engineers said. They’d propped the sawn-off door against a wall and the opening to the vault was black and formless.

Khalis gave a grim smile. ‘Somehow I doubt there are windows in there.’ What was in there he couldn’t even guess. Treasure or trouble? His father had had a penchant for both. ‘Give me a torch,’ he said, and one was passed into his hand.

He flicked it on, took a step towards the darkness. He could feel his hand slick on the torch, his heart beating far too hard. He was scared, which annoyed him, but then he knew enough about his father to brace himself for yet another tragic testament to the man’s power and cruelty.

Another step, and the darkness enveloped him like velvet. He felt a thick carpet under his feet, breathed in the surprising scents of wood and furniture polish, and felt a flicker of relief—and curiosity. He lifted the torch and shone it around the vault. It was a surprisingly large space and fashioned like a gentleman’s study, with elegant sofas and chairs, even a drinks table.

Yet somehow Khalis didn’t think his father came down to a sealed underground vault just to relax with a tumbler of his best single malt. He saw a switch on the wall and flicked it on, bathing the room in electric light. His torch lay forgotten in his hand as he slowly turned in a circle, gazing first at the furniture and then at the walls.

And what they held … frame after frame, canvas after canvas. Some he recognised, others he didn’t but he could guess. Khalis gazed at them all, felt a heaviness settle on him like a shroud. Yet another complication. Another testament to his father’s many illegal activities.

‘Mr Tannous?’ one of the engineers asked uneasily from the outside hallway. Khalis knew his silence had gone on too long.

‘It’s fine,’ he called back, even though it wasn’t fine at all. It was amazing. and terrible. He stepped further into the room and saw another wood-panelled door in the back. With a flicker of foreboding, he went to it. It opened easily and he entered another smaller room. Only two paintings were in this tiny chamber, two paintings that made Khalis squint and step closer. If they were what he thought they were… .

‘Khalis?’ his assistant, Eric, called, and Khalis came out of the little room and closed the door. He switched off the light and stepped out of the vault. The two engineers and Eric all waited, their expressions both curious and concerned.

‘Leave it,’ he told the engineers, who had propped the enormous steel door against the wall. He felt the beginnings of a headache and gave a brisk nod. ‘I’ll deal with all this later.’

No one asked any questions, which was good since he had no intention of spreading the news of what was in that vault. He didn’t yet trust the skeleton staff left on the compound since his father’s death, all of them now in his employ. Anyone who had worked for his father had to be either desperate or completely without scruples. Neither option inspired trust. He nodded towards the engineers. ‘You can go now. The helicopter will take you to Taormina.’

They nodded, and after Khalis disarmed the security system everyone headed into the lift that led to the floors above ground. Khalis felt tension snap through his body, but then he’d been tense for a week, ever since he’d left San Francisco for this godforsaken island, when he’d learned his father and brother had both died in a helicopter crash.

He hadn’t seen either of them in fifteen years, hadn’t had anything to do with Tannous Enterprises, his father’s dynastic business empire. It was huge, powerful and corrupt to its core … and it was now in Khalis’s possession. Considering his father had disowned him quite publicly when he’d walked away from it all at the age of twenty-one, his inheritance had come as a bit of a surprise.

Back in his father’s office, which he’d now taken for his own, he let out a long, slow breath and raked his hands through his hair as he considered that vault. He’d spent the last week trying to familiarise himself with his father’s many assets, and then attempt to determine just how illegal they were. The vault and its contents was yet another complication in this sprawling mess.

Outside, the Mediterranean Sea sparkled jewel-bright under a lemon sun, but the island felt far from a paradise to Khalis. It had been his childhood home, but it now felt like a prison. It wasn’t the high walls topped with barbed wire and broken glass that entrapped him, but his memories. The disillusionment and despair he’d felt corroding his own soul, forcing him to leave. If he closed his eyes, he could picture Jamilah on the beach, her dark hair whipping around her face as she watched him leave for the last time, her aching heart reflected in her dark eyes.

Don’t leave me here, Khalis.

I’ll come back. I’ll come back and save you from this place, Jamilah. I promise.

He pushed the memory away, as he had been doing for the last fifteen years. Don’t look back. Don’t regret or even remember. He’d made the only choice he could; he just hadn’t foreseen the consequences.

‘Khalis?’

Eric shut the door and waited for instructions. In his board shorts and T-shirt, he looked every inch the California beach bum, even here on Alhaja. His relaxed outfit and attitude hid a razor-sharp mind and an expertise in computers that rivalled Khalis’s own.

‘We need to fly an art appraiser out here as soon as possible,’ Khalis said. ‘Only the best, preferably someone with a specialisation in Renaissance paintings.’

Eric raised his eyebrows, looking both intrigued and impressed. ‘What are you saying? The vault had paintings?’

‘Yes. A lot of paintings. Paintings I think could be worth millions.’ He sank into the chair behind his father’s desk, gazed unseeingly at the list of assets he’d been going through. Real estate, technology, finance, politics. Tannous Enterprises had a dirty finger in every pie. How, Khalis wondered, not for the first time, did you take the reins of a company that was more feared than revered, and turn it into something honest? Something good?

You couldn’t. He didn’t even want to.

‘Khalis?’ Eric prompted.

‘Contact an appraiser, fly him out here. Discreetly.’

‘No problem. What are you going to do with the paintings once they’re appraised?’

Khalis smiled grimly. ‘Get rid of them.’ He didn’t want anything of his father’s, and certainly not some priceless artwork that was undoubtedly stolen. ‘And inform the law once we know what we’re dealing with,’ he added. ‘Before we have Interpol crawling all over this place.’

Eric whistled softly. ‘This is one hell of a mess, isn’t it?’

Khalis pulled a sheaf of papers towards him. ‘That,’ he told his assistant and best friend, ‘is a complete understatement.’

‘I’ll get on to the appraiser.’

‘Good. The sooner the better—that open vault presents too much risk.’

‘You don’t actually think someone is going to steal something?’ Eric asked, eyebrows raised. ‘Where would they go?’

Khalis shrugged. ‘People can be sly and deceptive. And I don’t trust anyone.’

Eric gazed at him for a moment, his blue eyes narrowed shrewdly. ‘This place really did a number on you, didn’t it?’

Khalis just shrugged again. ‘It was home,’ he said, and turned back to his work. A few seconds later he heard the door click shut.

‘Special project for La Gioconda.’

‘So amusing,’ Grace Turner said dryly. She swivelled in her chair to glance at David Sparling, her colleague at Axis Art Insurers and one of the world’s top experts on Picasso forgeries. ‘What is it?’ she asked as he dangled a piece of paper in front of her eyes. She refused to attempt to snatch it. She smiled coolly instead, eyebrows raised.

‘Ah, there’s the smile,’ David said, grinning himself. Grace had been dubbed La Gioconda—the Mona Lisa—when she’d first started at Axis, both for her cool smile and her expertise in Renaissance art. ‘Urgent request came in to appraise a private collection. They want a specialist in Renaissance.’

‘Really?’ Her curiosity was piqued in spite of her determination to remain unmoved, or at least appear so.

‘Really,’ David said. He dangled the paper a bit closer. ‘Aren’t you just a teeny bit curious, Grace?’

Grace swivelled back to her computer and stared at the appraisal she’d been working on for a client’s seventeenth century copy of a Caravaggio. It was good, but not that good. It wouldn’t sell for as much as he’d hoped. ‘No.’

David chuckled. ‘Even when I tell you they’ll fly the appraiser out to some private island in the Mediterranean, all expenses paid?’

‘Naturally.’ Private collections couldn’t be moved easily. And most people were very private about their art. She paused, her fingers hovering over the keys of her computer. ‘Do you know the collector?’ There were only a handful of people in the entire world who owned significant collections of Renaissance paintings of real value, and most of them were extremely discreet … so discreet they didn’t want appraisers or insurers looking in and seeing just what kind of art they had on their walls.

David shook his head. ‘Too top secret for me. The boss wants to see you about it ASAP.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asked, and David just grinned. Pressing her lips together, she grabbed the printout he’d been teasing her with and strode towards the office of Michel Latour, the CEO of Axis Art Insurers, her father’s oldest friend and one of the most powerful men in the art world.

‘You wanted to see me?’

Michel turned from the window that overlooked the Rue St Honoré in the 1st arrondissement of Paris. ‘Close the door.’ Grace obeyed and waited. ‘You received the message?’

‘A private collection with significant art from the Renaissance period to be appraised.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘I can think of less than half a dozen collectors who fit that description.’

‘This is different.’

‘How?’

Michel gave her a thin-lipped smile. ‘Tannous.’

‘Tannous?’ She stared at him, disbelieving, her jaw dropping before she thought to snap it shut. ‘Balkri Tannous?’ Immoral—or perhaps amoral—businessman, and thought to be an obsessive art collector. No one knew what his art collection contained, or if it even existed. No one had ever seen it or even spoke of it. And yet the rumours flew every time a museum experienced a theft: a Klimt disappeared from a gallery in Boston, a Monet from the Louvre. Shocking, inexplicable, and yet the name Tannous was always darkly whispered around such heists. ‘Wait,’ Grace said slowly. ‘Isn’t he dead?’

‘He died last week in a helicopter crash,’ Michel confirmed. ‘Suspicious, apparently. His son is making the enquiry.’

‘I thought his son died in the crash.’

‘His other son.’

Grace was silent. She had not known there was another son. ‘Do you think he wants to sell the collection?’ she finally asked.

‘I’m not sure what he wants.’ Michel moved to his desk, where a file folder lay open. He flipped through a few papers; Grace saw some scrawled notes about various heists. Tannous suspected behind every one, though no one could prove it.

‘If he wanted to sell on the black market, he wouldn’t have come to us.’ There were plenty of shady appraisers who dealt in stolen goods and Axis was most assuredly not one of them.

‘No,’ Michel agreed thoughtfully. ‘I do not think he intends to sell the collection on the black market.’

‘You think he’s going to donate it?’ Grace heard the disbelief in her voice. ‘The whole collection could be worth millions. Maybe even a billion dollars.’

‘I don’t think he needs money.’

‘It doesn’t have to be about need.’ Michel just cocked his head, his lips curving in a half-smile. ‘Who is he? I didn’t even know Tannous had a second son.’

‘You wouldn’t. He left the Tannous fold when he was only twenty-one, after graduating from Cambridge with a First in mathematics. Started his own IT business in the States, and never looked back.’

‘And his business in the U.S.? It’s legitimate?’

‘It appears to be.’ He paused. ‘The request is fairly urgent. He wishes the collection to be dealt with as soon as possible.’

‘Why?’

‘I can certainly appreciate why an honest businessman would want to legally off-load a whole lot of stolen art quite quickly.’

‘If he is honest.’

Michel shook his head, although there was a flicker of sympathy in his shrewd grey eyes. ‘Cynicism doesn’t suit you, Grace.’

‘Neither did innocence.’ She turned away, her mind roiling from Michel’s revelations.

‘You know you want to see what’s in that vault,’ Michel said softly.

Grace didn’t answer for a moment. She couldn’t deny the fact that she was curious, but she’d experienced and suffered too much not to hesitate. Resist. Temptation came in too many forms. ‘He could just turn it all over to the police.’

‘He might do so, after it’s been appraised.’

‘If it’s a large collection, an appraisal could take months.’

‘A proper one,’ Michel agreed. ‘But I believe he simply wants an experienced eye cast over the collection. It will have to be moved eventually.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t like it. You don’t know anything about this man.’

‘I trust him,’ Michel said simply. ‘And I trust the fact that he went to the most legitimate source he could for appraisal.’

Grace said nothing. She didn’t trust this Tannous man; of course she didn’t. She didn’t trust men full stop, and especially not wealthy and possibly corrupt tycoons. ‘In any case,’ Michel continued in that same mild tone, ‘he wants the appraiser to fly to Alhaja Island—tonight.’

‘Tonight?’ Grace stared at her boss, mentor and onetime saviour. ‘Why the rush?’

‘Why not? I told you, holding onto all that art has to be an unappealing prospect. People are easily tempted.’

‘I know,’ Grace said softly, and regret flashed briefly in Michel’s eyes.

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘I know,’ she said again, then shook her head. That brief flare of curiosity died out by decision. ‘It’s not something I can be involved with, Michel.’ She took a deep breath, felt it sear her lungs. ‘You know how careful I have to be.’

His eyes narrowed, mouth thinning. ‘How long are you going to live your life enslaved to that—?’

‘As long as I have to.’ She turned away, not wanting Michel to see her expression, the pain she still couldn’t hide, not even after four years. She was known by her colleagues to be cool, emotionless even, but it was no more than a carefully managed mask. Just thinking about Katerina made tears rise to her eyes and her soul twist inside her.

‘Oh, chérie.’ Michel sighed and glanced again at the file. ‘I think this could be good for you.’

‘Good for me—’

‘Yes. You’ve been living your life like a church mouse, or a nun, I don’t know which. Perhaps both.’

‘Interesting analogies,’ Grace said with a small smile. ‘But I need to live a quiet life. You know that.’

‘I know that you are my most experienced appraiser of Renaissance art, and I need you to fly to Alhaja Island—tonight.’

She turned to stare at him, saw the iron in his eyes. He wasn’t going to back down. ‘I can’t—’

‘You can, and you will. I might have been your father’s oldest friend, but I am also your employer. I don’t do favours, Grace. Not for you. Not for anyone.’

She knew that wasn’t true. He’d done her a huge favour four years ago, when she’d been desperate and dying inside. When he’d offered her a job at Axis he had, in his own way, given her life again—or as much life as she could have, given her circumstances. ‘You could go yourself,’ she pointed out.

‘I don’t have the knowledge of that period that you do.’

‘Michel—’

‘I mean it, Grace.’

She swallowed. She could feel her heart beating inside her far too hard. ‘If Loukas finds out—’

‘What? You’re just doing your job. Even he allows you that.’

‘Still.’ Nervously, she pleated her fingers together. She knew how high-octane the art world could be. Dealing with some of the finest and most expensive art in the world ignited people’s passions—and possessiveness. She’d seen how a beautiful picture could poison desire, turn love into hate and beauty into ugliness. She’d lived it, and never wanted to again.

‘It will all be very discreet, very safe. There’s no reason for anyone even to know you are there.’

Alone on an island with the forgotten son of a corrupt and hated business tycoon? She didn’t know much about Balkri Tannous, but she knew his type. She knew how ruthless, cruel and downright dangerous such a man could be. And she had no reason—yet—to believe his son would be any different.

‘There will be a staff,’ Michel reminded her. ‘It’s not as if you’d be completely alone.’

‘I know that.’ She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘How long would it take?’

‘A week? It depends on what is required.’

‘A week—’

‘Enough.’ Michel held up one hand. ‘Enough. You will go. I insist on it, Grace. Your plane leaves in three hours.’

‘Three hours? But I haven’t even packed—’

‘You have time.’ He smiled, although his expression remained iron-like and shrewd. ‘Don’t forget a swimming costume. I hear the Mediterranean’s nice this time of year. Khalis Tannous might give you some time off to swim.’

Khalis Tannous. The name sent a shiver of something—curiosity? Fear?—through her. What kind of man was he, the son of an undoubtedly unscrupulous or even evil man, yet who had chosen—either out of defiance or desperation—to go his own way at only twenty-one years old? And now that he was back, in control of an empire, what kind of man would he become?

‘I don’t intend to swim,’ she said shortly. ‘I intend to do the job as quickly as possible.’

‘Well,’ Michel said, smiling, ‘you could try to enjoy yourself—for once.’

Grace just shook her head. She knew where that led, and she had no intention of enjoying herself ever again.

CHAPTER TWO

‘THERE it is.’

Grace craned her neck to look out of the window of the helicopter that had picked her up in Sicily and was now taking her to Alhaja Island, no more than a rocky crescent-shaped speck in the distance, off the coast of Tunisia. She swallowed, discreetly wiped her hands along the sides of her beige silk trench coat and tried to staunch the flutter of nerves in her middle.

‘Another ten minutes,’ the pilot told her, and Grace leaned back in her seat, the whine of the propeller blades loud in her ears. She was uncomfortably aware that two of Khalis Tannous’s family members had died in a helicopter crash just a little over a week ago, over these very waters. She did not wish to experience the same fate.

The pilot must have sensed something of her disquiet, for he glanced over at her and gave her what Grace supposed was meant to be a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry. It is very safe.’

‘Right.’ Grace closed her eyes as she felt the helicopter start to dip down. She might be one of the foremost appraisers of Renaissance art in Europe, but this was still far out of her professional experience. She mostly dealt with museums, inspecting and insuring paintings that hung on revered walls around the world. Her job took her to quiet back rooms and sterile laboratories, out of the public eye and away from scandal. Michel himself handled many private collections, dealt with the tricky and often tempestuous personalities that accompanied so much priceless art.

Yet this time he’d sent her. She opened her eyes, saw the ground seeming to swoop towards them. A strip of white sand beach, a rocky cove, a tangle of trees and, most noticeably of all, a high chain-link fence topped with two spiky strands of barbed wire and bits of broken glass. And Grace suspected that was the least of Tannous’s security.

The helicopter touched down on the landing pad, where a black Jeep was already waiting. Her heart still thudding, Grace stepped out onto the tarmac. A slim man in a tie-dyed T-shirt and cut-off jeans stood there, his fair hair blowing in the sea breeze.

‘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—’

‘How long have you been with Axis Art Insurers?’

‘Four years.’

‘You are, I must confess, very young to be so experienced.’

Grace stifled a surge of annoyance. She was, unfortunately, used to clients—mainly men—casting doubt upon her abilities. Clearly Khalis Tannous was no different. ‘Monsieur Latour can vouch for my abilities, Mr Tannous—’

‘Khalis,’ he said softly.

Awareness rippled over her in a shiver, like droplets of water on bare skin. She didn’t want to call him by his first name, as ridiculous as that seemed. Keeping formal would be one way of maintaining a necessary and professional distance. ‘If you’d prefer another appraiser, please simply say so. I will be happy to oblige you.’ Leaving this island—and all the memories it churned up—would be a personal relief, if a professional disappointment.

He smiled, seeming so very relaxed. ‘Not at all, Ms Turner. I was simply making an observation.’

‘I see.’ She waited, wary, tense, trying to look as unconcerned as he did. He didn’t speak, and impatience bit at her. ‘So the collection …?’ she finally prompted.

‘Ah, yes. The collection.’ He turned to stare out of the window, his easy expression suddenly turning guarded, hooded. He seemed so urbane and assured, yet for just a moment he looked like a man in the grip of some terrible force, in the cast of an awful shadow. Then his face cleared and he turned back to her with a small smile. ‘My father had a private collection of art in the basement of this compound. A collection I knew nothing about.’ Grace refrained from comment. Tannous arched one eyebrow in gentle mockery. ‘You doubt me.’

Of course she did. ‘I am not here to make judgements, Mr Tannous.’

‘Are you ever,’ he mused, ‘going to call me Khalis?’

Not if she could help it. ‘I prefer work relationships to remain professional.’

‘And calling me by my first name is too intimate?’ There was a soft, seductive lilt to his voice that made that alarming awareness creep along Grace’s spine and curl her toes. The effect this man had on her—his voice, his smile, his body—was annoying. Unwanted. She smiled tightly.

‘Intimate is not the word I would use. But if you feel as strongly about it as you seem to, then I’m happy to oblige you and call you Khalis.’ Her tongue seemed to tangle itself on his name, and her voice turned breathy. Grace inwardly flinched. She was making a fool of herself and yet, even so, she’d seen something flare in his eyes, like silver fire, when she said his name. Whatever she was feeling—this attraction, this magnetism—he felt it, too.

Not that it mattered. Attraction, to her, was as suicidal as a moth to a flame. ‘May I see the paintings?’ she asked.

‘Of course. Perhaps that will explain things.’

In one fluid movement Khalis rose from the desk and walked out of the study, clearly expecting Grace to follow him. She suppressed the bite of irritation she felt at his arrogant attitude—he didn’t even look back—only to skid to a surprised halt when she saw him holding the door open for her.

He smiled down at her, and Grace had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly what she’d been feeling. ‘After you,’ he murmured and, fighting a flush, she walked past him down the same corridor they had used earlier. ‘Where am I going?’ she asked tersely. She could feel Khalis walking behind her, heard the whisper of his clothes as he moved. Everything about him was elegant, graceful and sinuous. Sexy.

No. She could not—would not—think that way. She hadn’t looked at a man in a sexual or romantic way in four years. She’d trained herself not to, suppressed those longings because she’d had to. One misstep would cost her if not her life, then her very soul. It was insane to feel anything now—and especially for a man like Khalis Tannous, a man who was now the CEO of a terrible and corrupt empire, a man she could never trust.

Instinctively she walked a little faster, as if she could distance herself from him, but he kept pace with ease.

‘Turn right,’ he murmured, and she heard humour in his voice. ‘You are amazingly adept in those very high heels, Ms Turner. But it’s not a race.’

Grace didn’t answer, but she forced herself to slow down. A little. She turned and walked down another long corridor, the shutters open to a different side of the villa’s interior courtyard.

‘And now left,’ he said, his voice a soft caress, raising the tiny hairs on the back of Grace’s neck. He’d come close again, too close. She turned left and came to a forbidding-looking lift with steel doors and a complex security pad.

Khalis activated the security with a fingerprint and a numbered code while Grace averted her eyes. ‘I’ll have to give you access,’ he said, ‘as all the art will need to stay on the basement level.’

‘To be honest, Mr Tannous—’

‘Khalis.’

‘I’m not sure how much can be accomplished here,’ Grace continued, undeterred. ‘Most appraisals need to be done in a laboratory, with the proper equipment—’

Khalis flashed her a quick and rather grim smile. ‘It appears my father had the same concerns you do, Ms Turner. I think you will find all the equipment and tools you need.’

The lift doors opened and Khalis ushered her inside before stepping into the lift himself. The doors swooshed closed, and Grace fought a sudden sense of claustrophobia. The lift was spacious enough, and there were only two of them in there, but she still felt as if she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. She was conscious of Khalis next to her, seeming so loose-limbed and relaxed, and the lift plunging downwards, deep below the earth, to the evil heart of this awful compound. She felt both trapped and tempted—two things she hated feeling.

‘Just a few more seconds,’ Khalis said softly, and she knew he was aware of how she felt. She was used to hiding her emotions, and being good at it, and it amazed and alarmed her that this stranger seemed to read her so quickly and easily. No one else ever had.

The doors opened and he swept out one arm, indicating she could go first. Cautiously Grace stepped out into a nondescript hallway, the concrete floor and walls the same as those in any basement. To the right she saw a thick steel door, sawn off its hinges and now propped to the side. Balkri Tannous’s vault. Her heart began to beat with heavy thuds of anticipation and a little fear.

‘Here we are.’ Khalis moved past her to switch on the light. Grace saw the interior of the vault was fashioned like a living room or study and, with her heart still beating hard, she stepped into that secret room.

It was almost too much to take in at once. Paintings jostled for space on every wall, frames nearly touching each other. She recognised at least a dozen stolen paintings right off the bat—Klimt, Monet, Picasso. Millions and millions of dollars’ worth of stolen art.

Her breath came out in a shudder and Khalis laughed softly, the sound somehow bleak. ‘I’m no expert, but even I could tell this was something else.’

She stopped in front of a Picasso that hadn’t been seen in a museum in over twenty years. She wasn’t that experienced with contemporary art, but she doubted it was a forgery. ‘Why,’ she asked, studying the painting’s clean geometric shape and different shades of blue, ‘did you ask for a Renaissance expert? There’s art from every period here.’

‘True,’ Khalis said. He came to stand by her shoulder, gazing at the Picasso as well. ‘Although, frankly, that looks like something my five-year-old god-daughter might paint in Nursery.’

‘That’s enough to make Picasso roll in his grave.’

‘Well, she is very clever.’

Grace gave a little laugh, surprising herself. She rarely laughed. She rarely let a man make her laugh. ‘Is your god-daughter in California?’

‘Yes, she’s the daughter of one of my shareholders.’

Grace gazed at the painting. ‘Clever she may be, but most art historians would shudder to compare Picasso with a child and a box of finger paints.’

‘Oh, she has a paintbrush.’

Grace laughed again, softly, a little breath of sound. ‘Maybe she’ll be famous one day.’ She half-turned and, with a somersault of her heart, realised just how close he had come. His face—his lips—were mere inches away. She could see their mobile fullness, amazed at how such a masculine man could have such lush, kissable, sexy lips. She felt a shaft of longing pierce her and quickly she moved onto the next painting. ‘So why me? Why a Renaissance specialist?’

‘Because of these.’

He took her hand in his own and shock jolted through her with the force of an electric current, short-circuiting her senses. Grace jerked her hand away from his too hard, her breath coming out in an outraged gasp.

Khalis stopped, an eyebrow arched. Grace knew her reaction had been ridiculously extreme. How could she explain it? She could not, not easily at any rate. She decided to ignore the whole sorry little episode and raised her chin a notch. ‘Show me, please.’

‘Very well.’ With one last considering look he led her to a door she hadn’t noticed in the back of the room. He opened it and switched on an electric light before ushering her inside.

The room was small and round, and it felt like being inside a tower, or perhaps a shrine. Grace saw only two artworks on the walls, and they stole the breath right from her lungs.

‘What—’ She stepped closer, stared hard at the wood panels with their thick brushstrokes of oil paint. ‘Do you know what these are?’ she whispered.

‘Not precisely,’ Khalis told her, ‘but they definitely aren’t something my god-daughter could paint.’

Grace smiled and shook her head. ‘No, indeed.’ She stepped closer, her gaze roving over the painted wood panels. ‘Leonardo da Vinci.’

‘Yes, he’s quite famous, isn’t he?’

Her smile widened, to her own amazement. She hadn’t expected Khalis Tannous to amuse her. ‘He is, rather. But they could be forgeries, you know.’

‘I doubt they are,’ Khalis answered. ‘Simply by the fact they’re in their own little room.’ He paused, his tone turning grim. ‘And I know my father. He didn’t like to be tricked.’

‘Forgeries can be of exceptional quality,’ Grace told him. ‘And they even have their own value—’

‘My father—’ Khalis cut her off ‘—liked the best.’

She turned back to the paintings, drinking them in. If these were real … how many people had seen these ever? ‘How on earth did he find them?’

‘I have no idea. I don’t really want to know.’

‘They weren’t stolen, at least not from a museum.’

‘No?’

‘These have never been in a museum.’

‘Then they are rather special, aren’t they?’

She gave a little laugh. ‘You could say that.’ She shook her head slowly, still trying to take it in. Two original Leonardo paintings never seen in a museum. Never known to exist, beyond rumours. ‘If these are real, they would comprise the most significant find of the art world in the last century.’

Khalis sighed heavily, almost as if he were disappointed by such news. ‘I suspected as much,’ he said, and flicked out the lights. ‘You can examine them at length later. But right now I think we both deserve some refreshment.’

Her mind still spinning, Grace barely took in his words. ‘Refreshment?’

‘Dinner, Ms Turner. I’m starving.’ And with an almost wolfish smile he led her out of the vault.

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.’

‘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.

‘Didn’t you miss them? At the time?’

‘No.’ He spoke flatly, the one word discouraging any more questions.

‘Do you enjoy living in the States?’ she tried instead, keeping her tone light.

‘I do.’

‘What made you choose to live there?’

‘It was far away.’

It seemed no question was innocuous. They ate in silence for a few moments, the only sound the whisper of the waves and wind. When she couldn’t see those high walls she could almost appreciate the beauty of this island paradise in the middle of the Mediterranean. Yet she could still feel them, knew that the only way out of here was by another person’s say-so. At this thought another bolt of pain lanced through her skull and her hand clenched around her fork. Khalis noticed.

‘Grace?’

‘Did you grow up here?’ she asked abruptly. ‘Behind these walls?’

He didn’t answer for a moment, and his narrowed gaze rested on her thoughtfully. ‘Holidays mostly,’ he finally said. ‘I went to boarding school when I was seven, in England.’

‘Seven,’ she murmured. ‘That must have been hard.’

Khalis just shrugged. ‘I suppose I missed my parents, but then I didn’t know as much about them as I should have, being only a child.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You are most certainly aware that my father was not the most admirable of men.’

‘I’m aware.’

‘As a child, I did not realise that. And so I missed him.’ He said it simply, bluntly, as if it were no more than an obvious fact. Yet Grace was both curious and saddened by his statement. When, she wondered, had Khalis become disillusioned with his father? When he left university? And did learning of a loved one’s flaws make you stop loving them? In Khalis’s view, it certainly seemed so.

‘What about your mother?’

‘She died when I was ten,’ Khalis told her. ‘I don’t remember much about her.’

‘You don’t?’ Grace didn’t hide her surprise. ‘My mother died when I was thirteen, and I remember so much.’ The scent of her hand lotion, the softness of her hair, the lullabies she used to sing. She also remembered how dusty and empty their house on Grange Road had seemed after her death, with her father immersed in his books and antiques.

‘It was a long time ago,’ Khalis said, and although his tone was pleasant enough Grace could still tell the topic of conversation was closed. It almost sounded as if he didn’t want to remember his mother … or anyone in his past.

She felt an entirely unreasonable flash of curiosity to know this man, for she felt with a deep and surprising certainty that he hid secrets. Sorrow. Despite his often light tone, the easy smile, Grace knew there was a darkness and a hardness in him that both repelled and attracted her. She had no business being attracted to any man, much less a man like Khalis. Yet here she was, seeing the sleepy, veiled look in his grey-green eyes, feeling that slow spiral of honeyed desire uncurl in the pit of her belly, even as pain continued to lance her skull. How appropriate. Pain and pleasure. Temptation and torture. They always went together, didn’t they?

With effort she returned the conversation to work. ‘Tomorrow morning I should like to see the equipment you mentioned,’ she told him, keeping her voice brisk. ‘The sooner I am able to assess whether the Leonardos are genuine, the better.’

‘Do you really doubt it?’

‘My job is to doubt it,’ Grace told him. ‘I need to prove they’re real rather than prove they’re forgeries.’

‘Fascinating,’ Khalis murmured. ‘A quest for truth. What drew you to such a profession?’

‘My father was a professor of ancient history. I grew up around antiques, spent most of my childhood in museums, except for a brief horse-mad phase when all I wanted to do was ride.’ She gave him a small smile. ‘The Fitzwilliam in Cambridge was practically a second home.’

‘Like father like daughter?’

‘Sometimes,’ Grace said, her gaze locking with his, ‘you are your father’s child in more than just blood.’

His grey-green gaze felt like a vice on her soul, for she could not look away. It called to something deep within her, something she had suppressed for so long she barely remembered she still possessed it. The longing to be understood, the desire to be known or even revealed. And reflected back in those agate eyes she saw a strange and surprising torment of emotions: sorrow, anger, maybe even despair. Or was she simply looking into a mirror? Her head pounded with the knowledge of what she’d seen and felt, the ache increasing so she longed to close her eyes. Then he broke their gaze, averting his face, his mouth hardening as he looked out at the gardens now cloaked in darkness.

‘You must have some dessert,’ he finally said, and his voice was as light as ever. ‘A Tunisian speciality, almond sesame pastries.’ The young woman entered with a plate of pastries as well as a silver tray with a coffee pot and porcelain cups.

Grace took a bite of the sticky sweet pastry, but she could not manage the coffee. Her head ached unbearably now, and she knew if she did not lie down in the dark she would be incapacitated for hours or even days. She’d had these migraines with depressing regularity, ever since her divorce. With an unsteady clatter she returned her coffee cup to its saucer. ‘I’m sorry, but I am very tired. I think I’ll go to bed.’

Khalis rose from the table, concern darkening his eyes. ‘Of course. You look unwell. Do you have a headache?’

Tightly Grace nodded. Spots swam in her vision and she rose from the table carefully, as if she might break. Every movement sent shafts of lightning pain through her skull.

‘Come.’ Khalis took her by the hand, draping his other arm around her shoulder as he led her from the table.

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, but he brushed aside her apologies.

‘You should have told me.’

‘It came on suddenly.’

‘What do you need?’

‘To lie down … in the dark …’

‘Of course.’

Then, to Grace’s surprise, he pulled her up into his arms, cradling her easily. ‘I apologise for the familiarity, but it is simpler and quicker this way.’ Grace said nothing, shock as well as pain rendering her speechless. In her weakened state she didn’t have the strength to draw away, nor, she realised, the will. It felt far too good to be held, her cheek pressed against the warm strength of his chest. It had been so very long since she’d been this physically close to someone, since she’d felt taken care of. And even though she knew better than to want it, knew where letting someone take care of you led, she did not even attempt to draw away. Worse, she instinctively, irresistibly nestled closer, her head tucked in the curve of his shoulder. ‘You should have told me sooner,’ he murmured, brushing a tendril of hair from her cheek, and Grace just closed her eyes. The pain in her head overwhelmed her now, making speech or even thought impossible.

Eventually she heard a door open, felt Khalis lay her gently on a silk duvet. He left, making her feel suddenly, ridiculously bereft, only to return moments later with a cool damp cloth he laid over her forehead. Grace could not keep from groaning in relief.

‘Can you manage these?’ he said, pressing two tablets in her hand.

She gave the barest of nods. ‘What are they?’

‘Just paracetamol, I’m afraid. I don’t have anything stronger.’ He handed her a glass of water and, despite the dagger points of pain thrusting into her skull, she managed to choke the tablets down. She lay back on the bed, utterly spent, in too much pain even to feel humiliated that Khalis was seeing her so weak and vulnerable, and on her very first day.

She felt him slip off her heels, and then he took her feet in his hands and began massaging her soles with his thumbs. Grace lay on the bed in supine surrender as he ministered to her, rubbing his thumbs in deep, slow circles. It felt unbelievably, unbearably good and she felt her headache start to recede, her body relax. She would not have moved even if she possessed the strength to do so.

She must have fallen asleep, for the last thing she remembered until morning was Khalis still rubbing her feet, his touch sure, knowing and so achingly gentle.

CHAPTER FOUR

GRACE woke to sunlight streaming through the crack in the curtains and her head feeling much better. She opened her eyes and stretched, felt a surge of relief mingled with an absurd disappointment that Khalis was gone.

Of course he was gone, she told herself. It was morning. She wanted him to be gone. The thought that he might have spent the entire night in her bedroom made her squirm with humiliation. And yet he’d seen enough; she still recalled the gentle way he’d rubbed her feet, how tenderly he’d cared for her. She squirmed some more. She hated feeling weak or vulnerable. Hated the thought of Khalis seeing that and using it to his advantage somehow, even if last night he’d made her feel cherished and cared for.

Forget it, she told herself. Forget Khalis, forget how he made you feel. Quickly she rose from the bed, even though it made her head swim a bit. She took a deep breath and staggered to the shower, determined to forget the events of last night and put today on an even and professional keel. She felt better when she’d showered and dressed in work clothes, a pair of slim black trousers and a fitted white T-shirt. She applied the minimum of neutral make-up, pulled her hair back into a ponytail and reached for her attaché case, her professional armour now firmly in place. This was how she needed to be with Khalis, with any man. Professional, strong and completely in control. Not weak or needy. Not wanting.

Khalis’s assistant Eric met her at the bottom of the main staircase. He wore a pair of board shorts and a T-shirt with a logo that read ‘I work at Silicon Valley. But if I told you more I’d have to kill you’.

Grace thought of her admonition last night. If that is a joke … She must have seemed completely ridiculous.

‘Ms Turner,’ Eric greeted her with an easy smile, ‘may I show you to the breakfast room?’

‘Thank you.’ He led her down a tiled hallway and, curious, she asked, ‘Did you meet Mr Tannous in California?’

He turned back to give her a smiling glance. ‘How did you know?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, maybe the hair,’ she replied with a small smile. He had light blond hair, bleached by the sun in rather artful streaks. ‘Have you known him long?’

‘Since he moved out there fifteen years ago. I’ve been with his gig from the start. He had big ideas and, while I don’t have any of those, I’m pretty decent with the admin side.’

‘Did you know about his family?’

Eric hesitated for only a second. ‘Everyone in California is starting over, more or less,’ he said and, although his tone was relaxed, it was also final. He had the same kind of affability Khalis possessed, Grace thought wryly, although rather less of the unyielding hardness she sensed underneath. ‘Here you go,’ he said, and ushered her into a pleasant room at the back of the building. Khalis was already seated at the table, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper on his tablet computer. He glanced up as she entered, his easy and rather familiar smile making her flush and remember how he’d held her last night. How she’d pressed her cheek against his chest, how he’d rubbed her feet. How much she’d savoured it all. Judging by that smile, he’d probably been able to tell.

‘You look like you’re feeling better.’

She sat down and poured herself coffee, her gaze firmly on the cup. ‘Yes, thank you. I apologise for last night.’

‘What is there to be sorry for?’

She added milk. ‘I was incapacitated—’

‘You were in pain.’

He spoke so quietly and firmly that Grace was startled into looking up, her gaze locking on his green-grey one that was full of far too much understanding. It almost made her want to tell him things. She stirred her coffee and took a sip. ‘Still, I am here to perform a set task—’

‘And I’m sure you will perform it admirably today. What exactly is on the agenda?’

Relief surged through her as she realised he was going to graciously drop the subject of last night. Today she could talk about. ‘First I’ll need to catalogue all the works in the vault and check them against the Art Loss Register. Those that appear to have been stolen can be, for the moment, set to one side. Experts from the museums concerned will need to be contacted along with—’

‘I’d prefer,’ Khalis said, ‘not to contact anyone until we know just what we’re dealing with.’

Unease crept along her spine with cold fingers. Ridiculous it might be, but she couldn’t keep from feeling it. She didn’t think Khalis intended to keep the art for himself, but she still didn’t trust him. Not on either a professional or personal level. ‘And why is that?’

‘Because the media storm that will erupt when it is discovered my father had however many stolen paintings in his possession is one I want to control, at least somewhat,’ he replied mildly. ‘I don’t particularly like publicity.’

‘Nor do I.’

‘And yet,’ he said musingly, ‘you will certainly be mentioned in any of the articles that will undoubtedly appear.’

‘Axis Art Insurers will,’ Grace replied swiftly. ‘My name will be kept out of it. That has always been our agreement.’

He gazed at her over the rim of his coffee cup. ‘You really don’t like publicity.’

‘No.’

‘Then my decision to wait to contact any outside source should meet with your approval.’

‘I don’t like being managed,’ Grace said flatly.

Khalis arched an eyebrow. ‘I’d hardly call a request to wait on calling the police being managed.’

‘It potentially compromises my position.’

‘You have a moral objection?’

She bit her lip. She didn’t, not really, not if she trusted him to inform the proper legal authority and dispose of the art as necessary. And, logically, she knew she should. She had no real reason to think otherwise, and yet.

And yet she’d once believed a man’s assurances. Trusted his promises. Let herself be led into captivity and despair. Every muscle coiled and tightened at the memory. Pain snapped at the edges of her mind, the remnants of her migraine mocking her. Khalis Tannous is not your ex-husband. Not even close. All you have is a professional relationship.

‘You still don’t trust me,’ Khalis said quietly. ‘Do you? To handle my father’s collection properly.’

Grace was not about to admit this wasn’t really about the art. It went deeper, darker, and she didn’t even understand why. She barely knew this man. She met his gaze as levelly as she could. ‘I don’t even know you.’

‘And yet,’ Khalis observed, ‘if I intended to keep the paintings or sell them on the black market, contacting your company would be just about the most idiotic thing I could do. Your lack of trust borders on ridiculous, Grace.’

She knew that. She knew his intentions towards the art had to be legitimate. And yet she couldn’t keep her frightened instinct from kicking in, from remembering how it felt to be like one of those paintings in that vault, adored and hidden away, for no one else to see. It had been a miserable life for her, just as it was for Leda. And it coloured her response to this man, in shades too dark for her to admit.

And as for what was ridiculous. When he said her name, in really, a completely normal tone of voice … why did it make her insides unfurl, like a seedling seeking sunlight? That was absurd. ‘It might seem ridiculous to you,’ she said stiffly, ‘but I’ve experienced enough to be justified in my lack of trust.’

‘Experienced professionally? Or personally?’

‘Both,’ she said flatly, and began to butter her toast. Khalis was silent for a long moment, but she could still feel his speculation as he sipped his coffee. She’d said too much. Just one word, but it had been too much. Not that it mattered. All it would take was one internet search for Khalis to learn her history, or at least some of it. Not the most painful parts, but still enough to hurt. Perhaps he’d learned it already, although his air of unconcern suggested otherwise.

‘So,’ he finally said, ‘what will you do after you catalogue the paintings and check them against this register?’

‘Run preliminary tests on the ones that do not appear to come from any museum. I don’t suppose your father kept any files on his artwork?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Most paintings of any real value have certificates of authentication. It’s virtually impossible to sell a valuable painting without one.’

‘You’re saying my father should have these certificates?’

‘Of the ones that are not stolen, yes. Obviously the stolen works’ certificates would remain with the museums they were taken from. Really, some legal authority should be contacted. Interpol, or the FBI’s Art Crimes department—’

‘No.’ He still spoke evenly enough, but his voice made Grace go cold. It reminded her of Loukas’s implacable tone when she’d asked to go to Athens for a shopping trip. One miserable little shopping trip, for things for Katerina. She’d said nothing then, and she said nothing now. Perhaps she hadn’t changed as much as she’d hoped. ‘I’m not ready to have law enforcement of any kind swarming over this compound and investigating everything.’

‘You’re hiding something,’ she said, the words seeming to scrape her throat.

‘My father hid plenty of things,’ he corrected. ‘And I intend to find out what they all were before I invite the law in.’

‘So you can decide which ones to reveal and which ones to keep hiding?’

Ice flashed in his eyes and he leaned forward, his hand encircling her wrist, his movements precise and controlled, yet radiating a leashed and lethal power. ‘Let me be very clear. I am not corrupt. I am not a criminal. I do not intend to allow Tannous Enterprises to continue to engage in any illegal activity. But neither do I intend to hand the reins over to a bunch of bureaucratic, bumbling policemen who might be as interested in lining their pockets as my father was. Understood?’

‘Let go of my wrist,’ she said coldly, and Khalis looked down as if surprised he was touching her. He hadn’t grabbed her, hadn’t hurt her at all, yet she felt as if he had.

‘I’m sorry.’ He released her, then let out a gusty sigh as he raked a hand through his hair. ‘I’m sorry if I scared you.’ Grace said nothing. She wasn’t about to explain that she had been scared, or why. Khalis gave her a thoughtful look from under his lashes, his mouth pursed. ‘You’ve been hurt, haven’t you? By a man.’

Shock caused her to freeze, her nerveless fingers almost dropping her coffee cup before she replaced it on its saucer. ‘That,’ she said, ‘is none of your business.’

‘You’re right. Again, I apologise.’ He looked away; the silence in the room felt electric. ‘So these preliminary tests. What are they?’

‘I need to see what facilities are in the basement. Artwork, especially older artwork, needs to be handled very carefully. A few minutes’ exposure to sunlight can cause irreparable damage. But I would expect to analyse the pigments used, as well as use infrared photography to determine what preliminary sketches are underneath the paintings. If I have the right equipment, I can test for the age of the wood of the panels used. This is an especially good way of dating European masters, since they almost always painted on wood.’

‘The two in the back room are on wood.’

‘Yes.’

‘Interesting.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Really quite fascinating.’

‘I certainly think so.’

He shot her a quick smile and she realised how invigorating it was to have a man actually interested in her work. During their marriage, Loukas had preferred for her never to discuss it, much less practise her chosen profession. She’d gone along for the sake of marital accord, but it had tried her terribly. Too terribly.

‘I’d better let you get to it,’ Khalis said, and Grace nodded, pushing away her plate. She’d only eaten half a piece of toast, but she had little appetite.

‘Eric will escort you to the basement. Let me know if there is anything you require.’ And, with another parting smile, Khalis took his computer and left the room. Grace watched him go, hating that she suddenly felt so lonely.

The rest of the day was spent in the laborious yet ultimately rewarding work of checking all the artworks against the international Art Loss Register. The results were dispiriting. Many of the paintings, as Grace had suspected, were stolen. It made her job of authentication and appraisal easier, yet it saddened her to think of how many paintings had been lost to the public, in some cases for generations.

At noon the young woman who had served her meals earlier brought down a plate of sandwiches and a carafe of coffee. ‘Mr Tannous said you needed to eat,’ she murmured in hesitant English, and Grace felt a curious mingling of gratitude for his thoughtfulness and disappointment that she wouldn’t see him.

Stupid. She hadn’t really expected to share another meal with him, had she? Last night had been both an introduction and an aberration. Even so, she could not deny the little sinking feeling she had at the thought of an afternoon working alone. It had never bothered her before; she was certainly used to solitude. It wouldn’t bother her now. Frowning, she turned back to her laptop with grim concentration.

Immersed in her work, she wasn’t really aware of time passing until she heard a light tap-tap at the door of the lab across from the vault where she’d set up her temporary office. She looked up to see Khalis standing in the doorway. He had changed from his dark trousers and silk shirt of this morning into board shorts and a T-shirt that hugged the lean sculpted muscles of his chest. His hair was a little rumpled.

‘You’ve been at it for eight hours.’

She blinked, surprised even as she felt the muscles in her neck cramp. ‘I have?’

‘Yes. It’s six o’clock in the evening.’

She shook her head, smiling a little, unable to staunch the ripple of pleasure she felt at seeing him. ‘I was completely absorbed.’

He smiled back. ‘So it would appear. I didn’t realise art appraisal was that fascinating.’

‘I’ve checked all the works against—’

‘No, no talk about art and theft or work. It’s time to relax.’

‘Relax?’ she repeated warily. Both Eric and Khalis seemed big on relaxing, yet she had no intention of letting down her guard, and especially not with this man. Last night’s headache episode had been bad enough. She didn’t intend to give him another chance to get close, to affect her.

‘Yes, relax,’ Khalis said. ‘The sun will set in another hour, and before it does I want to go for a swim.’

‘Please, don’t let me stop you.’

His mouth quirked in another smile. ‘I want you to go with me.’

Her heart seemed to fling itself against her ribs at the thought. ‘I don’t—’

‘Swim? I could teach you. We’ll start with the dog paddle.’ He mimed a child’s paddling stroke and Grace found herself smiling. Again.

‘I think I can manage to keep myself afloat, thanks very much.’ Strange, how light he made her feel. How happy. It was as dangerous and addictive as the physical response her body had to him. She shook her head. ‘I really should get this done—’

Khalis dropped his arms to his sides. ‘It’s not good to work without taking a break, especially considering the strength of your migraine last night. I let you work through lunch, but you really need to take some time off.’

‘Most employers don’t insist on their staff taking time off.’

‘I’m not most employers. Besides, you’re not actually my employee. I’m your client.’

‘Still—’

‘Anyone with sense knows that people work more effectively when they’re rested and relaxed. At least they know that in California.’ He held out one hand, his long lean fingers stretching so enticingly towards her. ‘Come on.’

She absolutely shouldn’t take his hand. Touch him. And she shouldn’t go for a swim. She shouldn’t even want to go for a swim, because she didn’t want to want anyone ever again. As for love, trust, desire.? Forget it. Forget them all.

And yet. And yet she remained motionless, hesitating, suspended with suppressed longing, because no matter what her brain told her about staying safe, strong and in control, her body and maybe even her heart said differently. They said, Yes. Please.

‘Do you have a swimming costume?’

Reluctantly she nodded. She had brought one, despite what she’d told Michel.

‘Well, then? What’s stopping you?’

You. Me. The physical temptation that the very idea of a swim with Khalis presented. The two of them, in the water and wearing very little.

And then there was the far more alarming emotional temptation … to draw closer to this man, to care about him when she couldn’t care about anyone. Never mind what restrictions her ex-husband had placed on her, her heart had far more stringent ones.

‘Grace.’ He said her name not as a question or a command, but as a statement. As if he knew her. And when he did that Grace felt as though she had no choice, and it both aggravated and amazed her. How could she fight this?

She reached out and took his hand. His fingers closed around hers with both strength and gentleness, and he glanced at her carefully, as if he needed to check she was OK. And, after the way she had yanked her hand away from his last night, he probably did.

Taking a breath, Grace met his questioning gaze—and nodded her assent.

Khalis felt an entirely triumphant thrill as he led her from the basement, up into the sunshine and fresh air. He felt as if he’d won a major victory, not against her, but for her. Something about Grace’s hidden vulnerability called out to him, made him want to offer her both protection and pleasure. He’d spent the better part of the day thinking about her, wondering what she was doing, thinking, feeling. Wondering about the man who had hurt her and how soft her lips would be if—when—he kissed her.

It had been a long time since he’d been in a relationship, even longer since a woman had aroused these kinds of protective feelings in him. Never before, if he were honest, at least not on a romantic, sexual level. The last woman who he’d been emotionally close to had been his sister. Jamilah.

And look what happened then.

Khalis resolutely pushed the thought away. It was just this island, these memories that were temporarily awakening his emotions.

This woman.

It would pass, Khalis told himself. He’d leave Alhaja and get back to his normal life soon enough. And in the meantime Grace provided a welcome distraction.

Except to think of her as a distraction was to think of her dismissively, as something disposable, and he knew he didn’t. Couldn’t. Already it had become something more, and he didn’t know whether to be alarmed, annoyed or amazed. Perhaps he was all three. But, for right now, all he wanted was a simple swim.

Up in the foyer, she stopped, pulled her hand away from his with firm purpose. ‘I need to change.’

‘Why don’t I meet you at the pool?’

‘All right.’

Fifteen minutes later a stiff and self-conscious Grace approached the pool area. He was sitting on the edge of the pool waiting for her, dangling his legs in the water, enjoying the last golden rays of sunshine. He took in her appearance in one swift and silent glance. Her swimming costume was appalling. Well, appalling might be too strong a word. It fitted, at least. But it was black and very modest, with a high neckline and a little skirt that covered her thighs. She looked like a grandmother. A very sexy grandmother, but still. Clearly she meant to hide her attractions. He smiled. Even a ridiculous swimming costume couldn’t make Grace Turner unattractive. Her long, slim legs remained on elegant display, and a swimming costume was, after all, a swimming costume. Her generous curves were also on enticing view.

She stiffened under his rather thorough inspection and then tilted her chin in that proud, defensive way he was coming to know so well. He stretched out his hand, which she ignored, instead moving gingerly to the steps that led into the shallow end.

‘The water’s warm,’ he offered.

‘Lovely.’ She dipped a toe in, then stood on the first step, up to her ankles, looking as if she were being tortured.

‘Lovely, you said?’ he teased, his voice rich with amusement, and she looked startled before giving him a very small smile.

‘I’m sorry. I’m not used to this.’

‘And here you told me you could swim.’

Impatiently, she shook her head, gesturing between them with one hand. ‘This.‘

And he knew—of course he knew—that she felt it, too. This connection, this energy between them. And, while it alarmed him, he had a feeling it terrified her. He saw that, felt it and, without thinking too much about what he was doing—or why—he slipped waist-deep into the water and strode towards her. She watched him approach with wide, wary eyes. He stopped a few feet away and gave her a little splash. She blinked, bewildered.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Having fun?’ Her mouth tightened and she looked quickly away. Intrigued, he asked softly, ‘Is there something wrong with that?’

‘No,’ she said, but she didn’t sound convinced. He splashed her again, gently, and to his relief he got a little smile, a sudden flash of fire in her eyes.

‘You’re asking for it, aren’t you?’

Desperately. He waited, watched as she trailed her fingers in the water. She had beautiful fingers, long and slim with elegant rounded nails. His gaze was still fixed on them when she suddenly lifted her hand and hit the water hard with the flat of her palm, sending a wave of water crashing over him, leaving him blinking and spluttering. And laughing, because it was just about the last thing he’d expected.

He sluiced the water from his face and grinned at her. She smiled back, almost tremulously, as if her lips weren’t used to it. ‘Got you.’

‘Yes,’ he said, and his voice came out in a husky murmur. ‘You did.’ Even in that awful swimming costume, she was incredibly, infinitely desirable. And when she smiled he was lost. He felt his fears fall away when he looked at her, any alarm that this was all going too fast and too deep seemed ridiculous. He wanted this. He wanted her. He took a step towards her and she stilled, and then another step so he was close enough to feel her breath feather his face, see the pulse beating in her throat. Then he leaned down and kissed her.

It was the gentlest kind of kiss, his mouth barely brushing over hers. She didn’t move away, but she trembled. Her lips parted, but it didn’t feel like surrender. It felt like surprise. He reached with one hand to cradle her face, his palm cupping the curve of her cheek, revelling in the satiny softness of her skin. It didn’t last more than a few seconds, but it felt endless and yet no time at all. And then it was over.

With a ragged gasp she tore away, stared at him with eyes wide with shock and even anger.

‘Grace—’

He didn’t get the chance to say any more. As if she had the devil himself on her heels, she scrambled out of the pool, slipping on the wet tiles and landing hard on one knee before lurching upright and running back into the villa.

CHAPTER FIVE

STUPID. Stupid, stupid, stupid idiot—

The litany of self-recrimination echoed remorselessly through her as Grace ran through the villa, pounded up the stairs and then into her room, slamming and locking the door behind her as if Khalis were actually chasing her.

She let out a shuddering breath and then turned from the door, tearing the swimming costume from her body before she went to the en suite bathroom and started the shower.

What had possessed her to go swimming? To splash him? Flirt? When he’d moved closer to her in the water she’d known—of course she’d known—what he intended to do. In that moment she’d wanted him to kiss her. And the feel of his lips on hers, his hand on her cheek, had been so unbearably, achingly wonderful—until realisation slammed into her and Katerina’s face swam in her vision, reminding her just how much she had to lose.

And not just Katerina, Grace thought with a surge of self-recrimination. What about herself? Her freedom? Her soul? Marriage to Loukas had nearly destroyed her. He’d levelled her identity, his words and actions a veritable emotional earthquake, and for years afterwards she’d felt blank, a cipher of a person. Working at Axis had helped restore some of her sense of self, yet she still felt as if she drifted through parts of life, had empty spaces and yawning silences where other people had companionship and joy. And perhaps she always would feel that way, as long as she didn’t have her daughter. But she’d at least keep herself, Grace thought fiercely. She’d keep her identity, her independence, her strength. She wouldn’t give those away to the first man who kissed her, even if his gentleness nearly undid her.

Grace stepped into the shower and let the hot water rush over her, wash away the memory of Khalis’s gentle touch. She felt that endless ache of loneliness deep inside, a well of emptiness she’d convinced herself she’d got used to. Preferred, even. Yet it had only taken one man—one touch—for her to realise just how lonely she really was. She might be strong and safe and independent, but a single kiss had made her achingly aware of the depths of her own unhappiness.

Swallowing hard, she turned off the taps and stepped out of the shower. Work. Work would help. It always did. Quickly she dressed, pulled her damp hair into another serviceable ponytail and then headed downstairs.

Eric had given her a temporary password for the lift’s security system and Grace used it, glancing around quickly in search of Khalis. He was nowhere to be found.

Squaring her shoulders, she entered the laboratory that Balkri Tannous had had built to verify the authenticity of the artworks, stolen or otherwise, he acquired on the black market. Grace had been reluctantly impressed by his thoroughness; the laboratory held all the necessary equipment for infrared photography, pigment analysis, dendrochronology and many of the other tests necessary to authenticate a work of art.

She opened her laptop, stared blankly at the catalogue she’d made of the vault’s inventory; she’d already checked most of it against the Art Loss Register. It would take another hour or two to finish, yet now she couldn’t summon the energy to do it. Instead she slipped off her stool and went back into the vault, past all the canvases in the main room, to the tiny little shrine in the back. She flicked on the lights and sat on the room’s one chair; clearly this room had been meant only for Balkri Tannous. She let out a shuddering breath as she stared at the painted wood panels.

The first one, of Leda and the Swan, she’d seen many times before. Not the original, of course, but very good copies. The original, for she didn’t really doubt this was the original, had been painted on three wooden panels. The panels had split apart—that had been documented four hundred years ago—but someone had very carefully repaired them. The damaged sections of the painting had been restored, although Grace could still see where the damage had occurred. Still, the painting was incredibly arresting. Leda stood naked and voluptuous, yet with her head bowed in virginal modesty. Her face was turned away as if she were resisting the advances of the sinuous swan, but she had a sensual little half-smile on her face, reminiscent of the Mona Lisa. Did she welcome Zeus’s attentions? Had she any idea of the heartbreak that lay ahead of her?

‘There you are.’

Grace tensed, even though she wasn’t really surprised that Khalis had found her. The overwhelming emotional response she’d felt when he kissed her had receded to a weary resignation that felt far more familiar. Safer, too. ‘Do you think she looks happy?’ she asked, nodding towards Leda.

Khalis studied the painting. ‘I think she’s not sure what she feels, or what she wants.’

Grace’s gaze remained fixed on Leda’s little half-smile, her face turned away from the swan. ‘I can’t become involved with you, in any way,’ she said quietly. ‘Not even a kiss.’

Khalis propped one shoulder against the doorway to the little room. ‘Can’t,’ he asked, ‘or won’t?’

‘Both.’

‘Why not?’

Another deep breath. ‘It’s unprofessional to be involved with a client—’

‘You didn’t sprint from the pool because it was unprofessional.’ Khalis cut her off affably enough, although she sensed the steel underneath. ‘How’s your knee?’

It ached abominably, but Grace had no intention of saying that, or explaining any more. ‘There’s no point in pressing the matter.’

‘You’re attracted to me, Grace.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Do you still not trust me?’ he asked quietly. ‘Is that it? Are you afraid—of me?’

She let out a little sigh and turned to face him. He looked so achingly beautiful just standing there, wearing faded jeans and a grey T-shirt that hugged the sculpted muscles of his chest. His ink-black hair was rumpled, his eyes narrowed even though he was smiling, a half-smile like Leda’s.

‘I’m not afraid of you,’ she said, and meant it. She might not trust him, but she didn’t fear him, either. She simply didn’t want to let him have the kind of power opening your body or heart to someone would give. And then, of course, there was Katerina. So many reasons not to get involved.

‘What, then?’ She just shook her head. ‘I know you’ve been hurt,’ he said quietly and she let out a sad little laugh. He was painting his own picture of her, she knew then, a happy little painting like one his god-daughter might make. Too bad he had the wrong paintbox.

‘And how do you know that?’ she asked.

‘It’s evident in everything you do and say—’

‘No, it isn’t.’ She rose from the chair, half-inclined to disabuse him of his fanciful notion that she’d been hurt. She had been hurt, but not the way he thought. She’d never been an innocent victim, as much as she wished things could be that simple. And she knew, to her own shame and weakness, that she wouldn’t say anything. She didn’t want him to look at her differently. With judgement rather than compassion, scorn instead of sympathy.

‘Why can’t you get involved then, Grace?’ Khalis asked. ‘It was just a kiss, after all.’ He’d moved to block the doorway, even though Grace hadn’t yet attempted to leave. His face looked harsh now, all hard angles and narrowed eyes, even though his body remained relaxed. A man of contradictions—or was it simply deception? Which was the real man, Grace wondered—the smiling man who’d rubbed her feet so gently, or the angry son who refused to grieve for the family he’d just lost? Or was he both, showing one face to the world and hiding another, just as she was?

It didn’t matter. She could not have anything more to do with Khalis Tannous except the barest of professional acquaintances. ‘It’s complicated, and I don’t feel like explaining it to you,’ she said shortly. ‘But if you’ve done any digging on the internet, you’ll be aware of the details.’

‘Is that an invitation?’

She shrugged. ‘Just a fact.’

‘I’m not some internet stalker,’ Khalis told her flatly. ‘I’d prefer to hear the truth from you, rather than some gossip website.’ She said nothing and he sighed, raking a hand through his hair. Grace nodded towards the exit he was still blocking.

‘I should get back to work.’

‘It’s after seven.’

‘Still. If I start running the preliminary tests now, you should have enough information to contact a legal authority in a day or two.’

‘Is that what you want?’ He gazed at her almost fiercely, and she felt a spasm of longing to walk into his arms, to tell him everything. To feel safe and desired all at once.

Ridiculous. Dangerous. To do such a thing would be to open herself up to all kinds of shame and pain, and it would certainly put an end to feeling safe or desired.

‘Of course it is,’ she said and made to walk past him. He didn’t move, so she had to squeeze past in the narrow doorway, her breasts brushing his chest, every point of contact seeming to sizzle and snap her nerve endings to life. She looked up at him, which was a mistake. His eyes blazed need and for an endless charged moment she thought he would kiss her again. He’d grab her and take her right there, with Leda watching with her half-smile. She wouldn’t resist, not in that moment. She wouldn’t be able to. But instead he stepped back and as she moved past he let out a shuddering breath. She kept walking.

Half an hour later he sent a dinner tray down to the lab. He’d included a snowy-white linen napkin, sterling silver cutlery, and even a carafe of wine and a crystal wine glass. His thoughtfulness made her ache. Did he realise how he was taking apart her defences with these little gestures? Could he possibly know how much they hurt, because they made her afraid and needy all at once?

She picked at the meal, alone in the sterile, windowless lab, feeling lonelier than ever and hating that she did. Then she determinedly pushed the tray away and turned back to her work.

She didn’t see him all the next day, although she felt his presence. At breakfast he’d left a newspaper by her plate, already turned to the Arts section. He’d even written a funny little comment next to one of the editorials, making her smile. She pushed the paper away and drank her coffee and ate her toast alone before heading back downstairs.

Work kept her from thinking too much about him, although he remained on the fringes of her mind, haunting her thoughts like a gentle ghost. She’d had Eric help her move the panels into the lab, and she started running a basic dendrochronology test on the wood. At noon the young woman—her name, Grace had learned, was Shayma—brought her sandwiches and coffee. The tray also held a narrow vase with a single calla lily. After Shayma had left Grace reached for the lily and brushed the fragrant petals against her lips. She closed her eyes, remembering how Loukas had sent her roses. She’d been so touched at the time, grieving her father’s death, needing someone’s attention and love. Only later did she wonder if the flowers had been a genuine expression of his affection, or just a rote seduction. Did it even matter when things had broken down, or what had been real? She’d learned her lesson. She’d learned it the hard way, which was why this had to stop.

She shoved the tray away and turned back to her work. She worked the rest of the day, through dinner, and went directly up to her room. Both exhausted and restless, she fell into an uneasy sleep.

The next day followed the same pattern. She analysed the pigments used in both the Leonardos, and ate from trays brought down by Shayma. And thought about Khalis. She could feel his presence in every thoughtful touch, from the different flowers on her tray to the newspaper left on the breakfast table, to the subtle changes in the lab: better lighting, a more comfortable chair. How did he even know? She didn’t see him at all, though, and she realised she missed him.

An emotion, she knew, she didn’t want and couldn’t afford to feel. Over the last four years loneliness was a price she’d always been willing to pay for her freedom. Yet in just the space of a few days Khalis had opened up a sweet yearning inside her, a longing for a closeness she’d denied herself and half-forgotten. A longing that terrified her on so many levels.

That night she left the lab craving fresh air, and slipped out of the doors in the back of the entrance hall that led to the interior courtyard of the villa. She stopped by the pool, now still and empty, and realised by the flash of disappointment she felt that she’d been hoping to see him there. Amazing, how deceptive her own heart could be. She’d convinced herself she simply wanted some air but, really, she wanted Khalis.

She pressed her hands to her temples, as if she could will the want away. Think what you have to lose. Your daughter. The precious moments you have with her. One Saturday a month. Just twelve days a year.

She started walking down one of the twisting garden paths as fast as she could, as if she could outrun her thoughts. But they chased her, relentless in their power. Let a man close and not only will you lose your daughter, you’ll lose yourself. Khalis can’t be that different. And, even if he is … you aren’t.

Yet right now she wanted to be different. She craved the possibility of a loving, generous, equal relationship.

Impossible. Even if it existed, she couldn’t have it. She couldn’t risk it, and yet, for the sake of one man, one unbearably kind and gentle man, she was tempted to try. To throw it all away—and for what? A kiss? An affair? She could not believe she could be so weak. again.

Suddenly a pair of strong hands clamped around her shoulders and she let out a shocked yelp.

‘It’s just me.’ Khalis loomed in front of her, his smile gleaming in the moonlight. She could feel the heat radiating from his lithe body.

‘You startled me.’

‘So I see.’ He released her and stepped back. ‘I was out here walking as well, and you almost crashed into me.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s OK.’

They stood there, a foot or so separating them, yet, considering the nature of her recent thoughts, it felt like an endless chasm. She wanted to walk into his arms and run away both at the same time. She was, Grace thought, an emotional schizophrenic. The sooner she got off this island the better.

‘Do you want to walk with me?’ Khalis asked and, after a charged pause, she nodded. Compromise. There was not room on the narrow little paths to walk side by side, so Khalis let her go first, wending her way among the fragrant foliage, the silver swathe the moon cut through the gardens their only guide.

‘Did you play out here?’ Grace asked. ‘When you were a child?’

Khalis shrugged. ‘Sometimes.’

‘With your brother?’

‘Not really. With my.’ A second’s pause. ‘With my sister.’

‘I didn’t realise you had a sister.’

‘She died.’

‘Oh!’ Grace turned around. Even in the darkness she saw how hooded his expression seemed. ‘So your whole family has died,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘So has yours.’

‘Yes.’ She felt a shudder run through her. ‘But it must be harder for you, to lose siblings—’

‘I do miss my sister,’ Khalis said, the words seeming to be drawn reluctantly from him, although he spoke with a quiet evenness. ‘I never had a chance to say goodbye to her.’

‘How did she die?’

‘A boating accident, right off the coast here. She was nineteen.’ He sighed, digging his hands into his pockets. ‘She was about to be married. My father had arranged it, but she didn’t like the chosen groom.’

Grace frowned, connecting the pieces, threaded together by the darkness of Khalis’s tone. ‘Do you think it … it wasn’t an accident?’

He didn’t answer for a long moment. ‘I don’t know. I hate to think that, but she was determined in her own way, and it would have been a way to escape the marriage.’

‘A terrible way.’

‘Sometimes life is terrible,’ Khalis said, and his voice was bleak. ‘Sometimes there are only terrible choices.’

‘Yes,’ Grace said quietly. ‘I think that’s true.’

He gave her a wryly sorrowful smile, his teeth gleaming in the darkness. ‘I never speak of my sister. Not to anyone. What is it about you, Grace, that makes me say things I wouldn’t say to another soul? And want to say them?’

She shook her head, her heart thudding treacherously. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Do you feel it?’ he asked in a low voice, and in the soft darkness of the garden she couldn’t deny or pretend.

‘Yes,’ she said, the word no more than a thread of sound.

‘It scares you.’

Of course it does. She took a deep breath. ‘I told you before, I can’t—’

‘Don’t give me that,’ Khalis said almost roughly. ‘You think this is easy for me and hard for you?’

‘No—’ Yet she realised she had thought that. He seemed so relaxed and assured, so comfortable with what stretched and strengthened between them, and she was the only one quaking with nerves and memories and fear. She let out a wobbly laugh. ‘Maybe it’s just the island.’

‘The island?’

She gestured to the dense fragrant foliage around them. ‘It’s like a place and time apart, separate from reality. We can say what we want here. Feel what we want.’

‘Except,’ Khalis said quietly, ‘I don’t think you know what you want to feel.’

She felt a sudden spark of anger. ‘Don’t patronise me.’

‘Am I wrong?’

She swallowed and looked away. ‘I already explained to you—’

‘You didn’t explain anything,’ Khalis said, cutting her off. He sighed, stepping towards her, his hand resting on her shoulder. ‘Life hasn’t been very fair to you, has it, Grace?’

She tensed under his touch, as well as his assumption. ‘Life isn’t very fair,’ she said in a low voice.

‘No,’ Khalis agreed. His hand was warm and heavy on her shoulder, a comforting weight she longed to lean into. ‘Life isn’t very fair at all. I think we’ve both learned that the hard way.’

Her whole body tensed, fighting the desire to lean into him. It was like trying to resist a magnetic force. ‘Maybe,’ she said, the word half-strangled.

‘And here we are,’ he mused softly, ‘two people completely alone in this world.’

Her throat tightened with emotion. This man made her feel so much. ‘I feel alone,’ she whispered, the words drawn from her painfully. She almost choked on them. ‘I feel alone all the time.’

His hand still rested on one shoulder, and he laid his other hand on her shoulder and drew her gently to him. ‘I know you do,’ he said quietly. ‘So do I.’ She rested in the circle of his arms for a moment, savouring the closeness as she breathed in the woodsy scent of his aftershave, felt the comforting heat of his body. It felt so good, so safe, and it would be so easy to stay here, or even to tilt her head up for him to kiss her. So easy, and so dangerous.

Think what you have to lose.

Resolutely she turned away from him, jerking away from his grasp, not wanting him to see the storm of unwilling need she knew would be apparent on her face. She plunged down the twisting path, only to stop abruptly when it ended against a stone wall. The wall that surrounded the villa, the moon illuminating the evil shards of broken glass on its top, reminding her that she was a prisoner. Always a prisoner.

In a sudden burst of fury, Grace slapped her hands against the stone, her palms stinging, as if she could topple it over. ‘I hate walls,’ she cried in frustration, knowing it was a ridiculous thing to say, to think, yet feeling it with every breath and bone.

‘Then let’s leave them behind,’ Khalis said and reached for her hand. Too surprised to resist, she let him lead her away from the wall and down another dark path.

Khalis kept hold of her hand as he guided her down several paths and then finally to a door. The high, forbidding wall had a door, and Khalis possessed the key. Grace watched as he activated the security system, first with his fingerprint and then a number code, before swinging the door open and leading her out to freedom.

The air felt cooler, fresher and more pure without the walls. Khalis led her away from the compound and down a rocky little path towards the shore.

He still held her hand, his fingers wrapped warm and sure around hers as he guided her down the path to the silky sweep of sand. She heard the roar of the waves crashing onto the shore and saw the beach nestled in a rocky cove, now washed in silver.

‘This feels better,’ she said, as if she’d just had a little dizzy spell.

‘Why do you hate walls so much?’

She tugged her hand out of his. ‘Who likes them?’

‘Nobody really, I suppose, but it seems personal to you.’

Grace kept her gaze on the silvered sea. ‘It is. I used to live on an island like this. Private, remote, with high walls. I didn’t like it.’

‘Couldn’t you leave?’

‘Not easily.’

She could feel him staring at her, trying to figure her out, even though her back was to him. ‘Are you saying,’ he asked finally, ‘you were some kind of prisoner?’

She sighed. ‘Not really. Not literally. But other things can imprison you besides walls.’ She turned so she was half-facing him. ‘Hopes. Fears.’ She paused, her gaze sliding to and then locking with his. ‘Mistakes. Memories.’

She felt tension snake through him, even though he kept his voice light. ‘That sounds like psychobabble.’

‘It probably is,’ she admitted with a shrug. ‘But can you really deny this island has an effect on you?’

Khalis didn’t answer for a moment. ‘No,’ he said finally, ‘I can’t.’

Neither of them spoke for a moment, the truth of what he’d said seeming to reverberate through them. ‘What will you do with this place?’ Grace asked eventually. ‘Will you live here?’

He gave a harsh laugh. ‘After what you just observed? No, never. Once I’ve finished going through my father’s assets, I’ll sell it.’

‘Will you manage Tannous Enterprises from the States, then?’

‘I don’t intend to manage Tannous Enterprises at all. I’m going to dismantle it and sell it off piece by piece, so no one has that kind of power again.’

‘Sell it?’ Even in the moonlit darkness she could make out the hard set of his jaw, the flintiness in his eyes. ‘I thought you were going to turn it around. Redeem it.’

He looked away from her, out to the sea. ‘Some things can’t be redeemed.’

‘Do you really think so?’ She felt a sudden sorrowful twist of disappointment inside her. ‘I like to think they can. I like to think any … mistake can be forgiven, if not rectified.’

‘My father is not alive for me to forgive him,’ Khalis said flatly. ‘If I even wanted to.’

‘You don’t?’

‘Why should I? Do you know what kind of man my father was?’

‘Sort of, but—’

‘Shh.’ Smiling now, Khalis drew her to him and pressed one finger to her lips. His touch was soft and yet electric, the press of his skin against her lips making the bottom of her stomach seem to drop right out. ‘I didn’t bring you to this moonlit cove to talk about my father.’

‘I could tell you about what I’ve discovered about the panels—’ Grace began. Her heart beat hard in her chest for she could not mistake the look of intent in Khalis’s eyes. Or the answering pulse of longing she felt in herself.

He laughed softly. ‘I didn’t bring you here for that, either.’

Her heart thudded harder. ‘Why, then?’

‘To have you kiss me.’

Shock made her mouth drop right open and he traced the curve of her parted lips with the tip of his finger. A soft sigh escaped her before she could suppress it. ‘Kiss you—’

‘The reaction when I kissed you was not quite what I was hoping for,’ Khalis explained, a hint of humour in his voice although his gaze blazed into hers. ‘So I thought perhaps we’d try it the other way.’

His finger still rested on her mouth, making her dizzy. ‘How do you know I even want to kiss you?’ she challenged.

‘Do you?’

How could she lie? His gaze was hungry and open; he hid nothing. And she hid so much. From him, and even from herself. For even if she didn’t want to want him, she knew she did. And she wouldn’t hide it. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, and Khalis waited.

Grace took a shuddering breath. Just one kiss. One kiss no one would ever know about. And then she’d walk away, go back to being safe and strong and independent. Slowly she reached out and touched his cheek, his own hand falling away from her mouth. She took a step towards him so her breasts brushed his chest. He gazed down at her, still, steady. Trustworthy.

Her palm cradled his cheek, the tips of her fingers brushing the softness of his hair. She leaned closer, so her body pressed fully against his and she could feel the hard thrust of his arousal. And then she kissed him.

CHAPTER SIX

HER lips barely brushed his, but Khalis held himself still, and Grace knew he was purposely letting her control the kiss. She closed her eyes, luxuriating in the feel and taste of him. He tasted like mint and whisky, a sensual combination. His lips were soft and yet his yielding touch was firm, so that even though she was in charge she knew it was only because he allowed it. And somehow that made her feel safe rather than threatened or repressed.

Gently she touched her tongue to his lips, exploring the seam of his mouth, the caress a question. She felt a shudder go through him but he didn’t move. She pulled away, blinking up at him with a new shyness. She saw his eyes were closed, his body rigid. He looked almost as if he were in pain, but surely he couldn’t be … unless it was costing him to remain so still.

‘A kiss involves a bit of give and take, you know,’ she told him.

He opened his eyes, giving her a wry smile. ‘I didn’t want to scare you off.’

‘I don’t scare quite that easily.’ At least she hoped she didn’t.

‘No?’ His arms came around her, gently, slowly, giving her time to pull away. She didn’t. She’d allow herself this one moment, that was all. In a minute she’d step away. ‘Good,’ Khalis murmured, and Grace slid her hands up along the hard wall of his chest, lacing her fingers around his neck as she pulled his mouth down towards her. And then she kissed him again, deeply this time, a plunging sensation in her stomach as he responded in kind, their tongues tangling in a blaze of exquisite sensation. When had she last kissed like this? Felt like this?

You know when.

A shudder ran through her, a shudder of both longing and loss. It felt so wonderful and it had been so long, and yet just the memory of a man holding her made the memories rise up, the shame rushing through her in a hot, fast river, along with the desire and the hope. She closed her eyes and kissed Khalis more deeply, pressing herself against him, wanting desperately to banish the memories that taunted her even now.

You kissed a man like this. You wanted a man like this. And it cost you your daughter.

She felt Khalis’s hands span her waist, then slide under her T-shirt. The warmth of his palm against her skin made her shudder again and he stilled, waiting. He was so careful, so caring, yet she could not halt the relentless encroaching of her memories and that cold hard logic that swamped even her desire, and she knew he felt it, too.

‘Grace …?’

She pulled away from him, her head bowed, her hair falling in front of her face. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No need to be sorry.’ He took her chin in his hand so he could study her face. See her blush. ‘We don’t need to rush this, do we?’

Yes, she wanted to say, we do. Because this is all we have.

‘I shouldn’t have kissed you.’

‘It’s a little late for regrets,’ he said wryly and Grace jerked her chin from his hand.

‘I know that.’

‘Why shouldn’t you have kissed me, Grace?’

‘Because—’ Her breath came out in a rush. Because I’m scared. Of so many things. Of losing myself in you, and losing my daughter as well. How could she explain all that? She couldn’t, didn’t want to, because to explain was to open herself up to all kinds of vulnerability and pain. She just shook her head.

Khalis let out a slow breath, the sound of controlled impatience. ‘Are you married or something?’

She forced herself to meet his gaze levelly. ‘No. But I was.’

He stilled, his eyes narrowing. ‘You’re divorced?’

‘Yes.’

‘I still don’t understand.’

‘It’s … complicated.’

‘That much I could guess.’

She turned away, wrapping her arms around herself. Now the wind felt cold. ‘I just can’t be involved with you,’ she said quietly. ‘My marriage wasn’t. It wasn’t happy. And I’m not.’ She let out a little weary sigh. ‘I can’t.’ She stopped again, her throat too tight for any more words.

‘What,’ he asked, ‘would it take for you to trust me?’

Grace turned back to him, and she saw a man who had only been gentle and patient and kind. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘But it doesn’t matter, Khalis. I wish it did matter, in a way. But, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t be in a relationship with you.’ Belatedly she realised he’d never actually said that word. Relationship. It implied not just intimacy, but commitment. ‘Or anything,’ she added hurriedly. ‘There can’t be anything between us.’ And, before he could answer, she walked quickly down the beach, back towards the door and that high, high wall.

That night she slept terribly. Memories came in fragments, as dreams, bizarre and yet making too much sense. Khalis kissing her. Her kissing Khalis. The sweet yearning of it, suddenly obliterated by the shame and guilt as she stared into Loukas’s face so taut with anger, his lips compressed into an accusing line.

How could you do this to me, Grace? How could you betray me so?

With a cry she sat up in bed, the memory roiling through her mind, racking her body with shudders. Knowing she would not be able to get back to sleep, she rose from the bed and pulled on a pair of jeans and a light cotton jumper. She piled her hair up with a clip and slipped out of her room, along the cool, dark corridors and downstairs.

The basement felt eerily still in the middle of the night, even though Grace knew it should make no difference. The place had no windows. She switched on the lights and gazed down at the panels laid out on a stainless steel table.

She’d spent most of her time so far authenticating the first painting of Leda and the Swan, but now she let her gaze turn to the second painting, the one that caused a fresh shaft of pain to lance through her. Leda and her children.

Over the centuries there had been speculation about this painting; Leonardo had done several studies, a few sketches of Leda sitting, her face downcast, her children by her side. Yet the reality of the actual painting was far more powerful than any sketch. Unlike the other painting, in this one Leda was seated and clothed, the voluptuous temptress hidden or perhaps forgotten. Two children, Castor and Polydeuces, stood behind her, sturdy toddlers, their hands on her shoulders as if they were anchoring themselves, or perhaps protecting their mother. Clytemnestra and Helen were rotund babies, lolling in Leda’s lap, their angelic faces upturned towards their mother.

And Leda. What was the expression on her face? Was it sorrow, or wistfulness, or even a wary joy? Was there knowledge in those lowered eyes, knowledge of the terrible things to come? Helen would start a war. Castor would die in it. And Clytemnestra would lose a daughter.

Abruptly Grace turned away from the painting. If she worked for a few hours, she could present Khalis with a file of her findings tomorrow, enough for him to go on with, and for her to leave Alhaja. Leave Khalis. And they could both get on with their lives.

Khalis watched as a wan and fragile-looking Grace entered the breakfast room the next morning. She looked as if she’d barely slept, although her pale face was composed and as lovely as ever. She was dressed in a slim-fitting black skirt and white silk blouse and carried a file, and Khalis knew exactly what she was about. After last night’s frustrating and half-finished kiss, he’d expected something like this. He sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee, waiting for her to begin.

‘I’ve completed most of the preliminary tests on the Leonardos.’

‘You have?’

She placed the file on the table, her lips pressed together in determination. ‘Yes. The analyses of the pigments and the wood panels are consistent with the time period that he would have completed these paintings. There are also several—’

‘Grace.’

She stopped, startled, and Khalis smiled at her. ‘You don’t need to give me a lecture. I’ll read the file.’

Her lips thinned even more. ‘All right, then.’

Khalis took a sip of his coffee. ‘So you feel you’ve finished?’

‘I’ve done all that I can do on my own. You really need to call a legal authority to—’

‘Yes, I’ll take care of that.’

She stopped, her eyes narrowing, and Khalis felt a sliver of hurt needle his soul. Did she still not trust him about the damn art? Then slowly, resolutely, she nodded. Acceptance, and he felt a blaze of gratified triumph.

‘Very well.’ She straightened, pressed her hands down the sides of her skirt. ‘Then my work here is done. If you could arrange—’

‘Done? Good.’ Khalis smiled, saw the flash of hurt in her chocolate eyes that was quickly veiled. Suppressed, but he’d seen it and it gave fire to his purpose. No matter what she’d said last night, no matter how her ex-husband had hurt her so badly she trembled at the thought of a kiss, she still wanted to be with him. ‘Then you can take the day off.’

‘What … what do you mean?’

‘A day of leisure, to enjoy yourself. With me.’

‘I don’t—’

‘Your work was expected to take a week. It’s been three days. I think you can take a day off.’

‘I told you before—’

‘One day. That’s all. Surely you can allow yourself that?’

She hesitated, and he saw the longing in her eyes. What, he wondered yet again, kept her from enjoying herself? From living? ‘You want to.’ He leaned forward, not bothering to hide the need he was sure she could see in his eyes. The need he was sure she felt, too. ‘I want to. Please, Grace.’

Still she hesitated. Khalis waited. ‘All right,’ she said at last. She offered him a rather tentative smile. ‘All right.’

Khalis couldn’t keep himself from grinning. ‘Wonderful. You’d better change into something a bit more serviceable, and I’ll meet you in the foyer in five minutes.’

‘That’s rather quick.’

‘I want to take advantage of every moment with you.’

A flush tinted her cheeks rose-pink and she turned away. ‘One day,’ she murmured, and he couldn’t tell if she was warning him—or herself.

Grace hadn’t brought too many serviceable clothes with her, at least not the kind she thought Khalis had in mind. While working she dressed with discreet professionalism, clothes that were flattering without being obvious. After a few moments’ consideration she chose the slim black trousers and white fitted T-shirt she’d worn earlier in the week, and threw a cardigan in charcoal-grey cashmere over her shoulders, in case the breeze from the sea was strong.

Where could he be taking her? Alhaja Island hadn’t looked that large from the air. Besides the enclosed compound, there were only a few stretches of beach and a tangle of trees. Yet Grace knew it didn’t even matter where he might be taking her, because she simply wanted to be with him—for one day. One day that posed no risk to her heart or her time with Katerina. One day out of time and reality, a memory she would carry with her in all the lonely days and nights ahead.

Khalis was already waiting in the foyer when she came down the stairs, wearing jeans and a white button-down shirt, open at the throat, so Grace’s gaze was inexorably drawn to that column of golden-brown skin, the pulse beating strongly. She jerked her gaze upwards and gave him a tentative smile.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Just to the beach,’ he said, but there was a glint in his eye that told her he had something planned. Grace followed him outside to an open-topped Jeep waiting in the drive. She climbed in and fastened her seat belt as Khalis drove through the forbidding-looking gates and then out along a rutted dirt road that looked to circumnavigate the island.

Grace pushed her hair from her face and shaded her eyes as she glanced at the rocky outcrops and the stretch of golden beach, the sea jewel-bright and winking under the sun in every direction. ‘This island’s not very big, is it?’

‘Two miles long and half a mile wide. Not large at all.’

‘Did you ever feel … trapped? Living here?’

Khalis slid her a speculative glance and Grace pretended not to notice. ‘Yes,’ he answered after a moment, his hands tightening reflexively on the steering wheel, ‘but not because of the island’s size.’

‘Why, then?’

His mouth curved grimly. ‘Because of the island’s inhabitants.’

‘Your father?’

‘Mainly. My brother and I didn’t get along very well, either.’

‘Why not?’

He shrugged. ‘Ammar was my father’s heir, and my father poured everything into him. He was tough with him, too tough, and I suppose Ammar needed to take it out on someone.’

‘He was a bully? Your brother?’

Khalis just shrugged again. ‘Boarding school was a bit of a relief.’

‘What about your sister?’

He didn’t answer for a moment, and Grace felt the tension in his body. ‘I missed her,’ he finally said. ‘I’m sure she felt more trapped here than I did. My father didn’t believe in educating daughters. He employed a useless governess for a while, but Jamilah never had the opportunities Ammar and I did. Opportunities she would have had if—’ He stopped suddenly, shaking his head. His expression, Grace saw, had become shuttered. Closed. ‘Old memories,’ he said finally. ‘Pointless.’

‘Do you think,’ she asked after a moment, ‘the helicopter crash was an accident?’

‘It’s not outside the realm of possibility that one of his enemies—or even his allies—tinkered with the engine. I don’t know what they would have hoped to gain. Perhaps it was an act of revenge—my father did business with the dregs of every society. People like that tend not to die in their beds.’

Grace felt a chill of trepidation at how indifferent Khalis sounded, as if the way his father and brother had died was a matter of little concern. His attitude towards his family was so different from the affable man she’d come to know and even to trust. Again she glimpsed a core of hard, unyielding iron underneath all that easygoing friendliness. ‘You sound rather heartless,’ she told him quietly.

‘I sound heartless?’ Khalis gave a short laugh. ‘Good thing you never met my father.’

Grace knew she could not explain to Khalis why his opinion of his father disquieted her so much. She had heard rumours of Balkri Tannous, the bribes he took, the kind of shady business he conducted. Why was she, in her own twisted way, trying to defend him?

Because you still feel guilty. In need of forgiveness. Just like him.

‘How did you find out?’ she asked and Khalis did not pretend to misunderstand.

‘I was sixteen,’ he said quietly. ‘Home from school for the summer holidays. I went looking for my father, to tell him I’d won the mathematics prize that year.’ He lapsed into a silence and Grace knew he was remembering, saw the pain of that memory in the tautness of his face. ‘I found him in his study. He was on the telephone, and he waved for me to sit down. I couldn’t help but overhear him—not that he was trying to hide it. At first I didn’t understand. He said something about money, and asking for more, and I thought he was just talking about business. Then he said, “You know what to do if he resists. Make sure he feels it this time.” It sounded like something a school bully would say. I’d certainly heard such talk at school. But coming from my father—I couldn’t credit it. So much so that when he got off the telephone I asked him about it, almost as if it were a joke. “Papa,” I said, “it almost sounded like you were ordering someone to be beaten up!” My father gave me one hard look and then he said, “I was.”’

Khalis said nothing more. He’d pulled the Jeep onto a flat stretch of beach and killed the engine, so the only sound was the crash of waves onto the shore and the distant raucous cry of gulls. ‘And what then?’ Grace asked, for she knew there was more.

He lifted one shoulder in something close to a shrug. ‘I was shocked, of course. I don’t remember what I said—something stupid about it being wrong. My father came over to me and slapped my face. Hard.’ With a small smile he gestured to a tiny white scar on the corner of his mouth. ‘His ring.’

‘That’s terrible,’ Grace said quietly.

‘Oh, it’s not that terrible. I was sixteen, after all, almost a man. And he didn’t hit me again. But it was shocking to me because he’d never hit me before. I’d adored him, and he loved to be adored. Ammar had it much worse. My father didn’t pay much attention to me, although I always wanted him to. Until that day, when I realised just what kind of man he was.’

‘But you didn’t leave until you were twenty-one.’

Khalis’s mouth tightened before he gave a hard smile. ‘No. I made justifications for his activities, you see. Excuses. It was only the one time. The person he was dealing with was difficult or corrupt. So many absurd excuses because I didn’t have the courage to just leave.’

‘You were young,’ Grace said softly. ‘And that’s easy to do.’

‘For a while, perhaps, but then it’s just wilful blindness. Even when I didn’t want to, I started noticing things. The way the servants shrank from him, the telephone conversations he had. And then I started doing a bit of digging—I went through his desk once when he was away on business. He hadn’t even locked his office—too arrogant to think his family would nose about. I probably saw enough in that one afternoon to put him in prison.’ He shook his head. ‘He helped rig an election in an island country that was desperately poor. My father lined his pockets and the people got poorer.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘Nothing.’ Khalis practically spat the word. ‘I was nineteen, about to start Cambridge, and I knew I couldn’t manage on my own. So I just put it all back and tried to forget about it—for a little while at least. But I couldn’t forget. I’ll never forget.’ Khalis shook his head, his eyes narrowed against the harsh glare of the sun, or perhaps just in memory.

Grace swallowed. ‘And so you left.’

‘Finally.’ The one word was harsh with self-recrimination. ‘I took his money to go to university first. I didn’t work up the courage to leave until I knew I could make a go of it on my own.’ His mouth twisted in condemnation of his own actions. ‘So I wasn’t really much better than he was.’

‘That’s rather harsh,’ Grace protested. ‘You weren’t responsible for your father’s actions.’

‘No. But doing nothing can be as damaging as the action itself.’

‘You were young—’

‘Not that young.’ He turned to her with a quick smile, his expression clearing although Grace still saw the storm clouds lurking in the depths of his agate eyes. ‘You’re very forgiving, much more forgiving than I am.’ Grace looked away. Yes, she tried to be forgiving because she knew how easy it was to fall. The only person she couldn’t forgive was herself. ‘We’ve talked about this enough,’ Khalis said. ‘I didn’t intend to spend the day with you raking up bitter memories. What is done, is done.’

‘Is it?’ Grace asked, her voice hoarse as she stared out to sea. ‘Or does it just go on and on?’

Khalis gazed at her for a moment. ‘It is done,’ he said quietly. ‘Whatever it is, Grace, it is done.’

She knew he didn’t know what he was talking about, what secrets she still hid, and yet even so she wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that things could really be finished, sins truly forgiven. His father’s … and hers. She wanted to believe in a second chance even if she never got one. Silently she took his hand and let him lead her out of the Jeep.

They walked down the beach, Khalis’s hand still loosely linked with her own, until they came to a sheltered spot, the rocks providing protection from the relentless wind. Grace stopped in surprise at the sight of two gorgeous horses, a bay mare and a chestnut stallion, saddled and waiting, a groom holding their reins.

‘What—?’

‘I thought you might like to go riding.’

She shot him a sideways glance. ‘How do you even know if I ride?’

‘You mentioned a horse-mad phase,’ Khalis said with a smile. ‘That first night.’

‘So I did.’ She’d forgotten. She’d almost forgotten how to ride. She stared at the horses, reached out to stroke the bay’s satiny coat. ‘And I suppose you’ve been riding since the day you were born?’

‘Only since I was two. But it’s been a while.’

‘For me, too.’

‘We can take it slowly.’

Were they talking about riding, Grace wondered, or something else? It didn’t really matter. She was touched Khalis had thought of this, had remembered her offhand comment. And she wanted to ride. With a smiling nod she let the groom help her to mount. She was glad Khalis had told her to wear serviceable clothing.

Khalis mounted his own horse and smiled at Grace. ‘Ready?’

She nodded again, surprised and gratified by how much she enjoyed the feel of riding again, the wind at her back, the sun shining down. She nudged the horse into a canter and Khalis followed suit, the horses happy to trot down the length of the beach.

The breeze ruffled her hair and gulls cried raucously overhead. Grace felt a grin bloom all over her face. She’d forgotten how free she felt when she rode, how everything seemed to shrink to a point of a pin, the cares and fears and even the memories. Nothing mattered but this moment. Without even realising she was doing so, she urged her mount into a gallop. She heard Khalis laugh as he matched her pace.

‘Are we racing?’ he shouted to her, his words torn away on the wind.

‘I think we are,’ she called back and leaned low over her horse, her heart singing. It felt so good to be free.

The horses’ hooves churned up damp sand and her hair streamed out behind her as they raced down the beach. Grace saw a rocky inlet ahead and knew instinctively that it would be their finish line. Khalis pulled ahead and she urged her own mount onwards so they were neck and neck, both of them laughing. In the last moment Grace pulled ahead by half a length and the mare jumped neatly over the scattering of rocks that had comprised their impromptu finish line.

Laughing, she wheeled her mount around and brushed her hair from her eyes. ‘I hope you didn’t let me win.’

‘Never.’

Khalis looked so utterly at ease on his mount, his eyes flashing humour, his skin like burnished gold in the sunlight, that Grace suddenly felt quite dizzy with longing. She knew there was no way she’d won on her own merit, not when she hadn’t ridden in over a decade, and Khalis probably having grown up on a horse. Again it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but this day, this one perfect golden day Khalis was giving her, a gift. ‘Liar,’ she said, smiling, and slipped off the horse. ‘But I’ll still take the victory. It felt so good to race like that. I’d forgotten how much I like riding.’

‘I’m glad you rediscovered it,’ Khalis said. He smiled as he brushed a tendril of hair away from her face and her stomach dipped in response to that casual touch. She stood there, blinking up at him, unable to move away. She might as well ask him out loud to touch her again. To kiss her.

He didn’t, though, just led their horses up the beach to where the groom was waiting; he must have driven there to meet them. The groom took control of the horses and Khalis reached for Grace’s hand. She let him lace his fingers with hers, reminded herself that just for today it was allowed. Today was separate from the rest of her life, alone on this island with a man she could so easily fall in love with.

The thought jolted her, made her hand tense in Khalis’s. She couldn’t fall in love, not with Khalis, not with anyone. She’d half-convinced herself that she could have this day—just one day—and she would walk away with no one the wiser, her heart intact. But to fall in love? That surely could only mean heartbreak … and discovery.

‘Come,’ Khalis said. ‘Our picnic is waiting.’

He led her to a secluded little cove surrounded by rocks, a blanket already spread across the sand and a basket waiting. Grace gave a soft laugh. ‘This took some planning.’

‘A little,’ he allowed. ‘It’s easy when you have staff.’

‘I can only imagine.’

He drew her down to the blanket and Grace tucked her legs underneath her. Khalis opened the basket and withdrew a bottle of champagne and two glasses. ‘A toast,’ he said, and popped the cork.

Grace accepted the glass, pushing away the reservations and regrets that still crouched in the corners of her mind. She wasn’t falling in love; she was stronger than that. She just wanted to enjoy this moment. This brief and fragile happiness.

‘What are we toasting?’ she asked.

‘To a perfect day,’ Khalis suggested.

‘To a perfect day,’ she echoed, and drank. As she lowered her glass she felt Khalis’s gaze rest heavily upon her. ‘One perfect day,’ she said, and she knew she was reminding herself as well as him.

Khalis watched Grace drink, enjoyed the sight of her looking happy and relaxed, her hair tousled and free, her face flushed with pleasure. He still saw the fear and sadness lurking in her eyes, and he longed to banish those shadows—not just for one day, but for ever. The fervent nature of his own thoughts didn’t alarm him any more, which surprised him. He was ready for this. Over the years he’d had a couple of serious relationships, yet he’d never found a woman who really reached him before. Who touched him and made him say and feel things he hadn’t to anyone else. Not until Grace.

From the moment he’d met her he’d been intrigued by her. But he felt more for her than a mere fascination. He admired her dedication to her career, her strength of purpose. He sensed, like him, she was a survivor. And he ached not just to touch her—although he certainly felt that—but to see her smile and hear her laugh.

Smiling, he reached over and plucked the glass from her fingers. ‘Ready to eat?’

‘OK.’

He fed her strawberries and slices of succulent melon, ripe juicy figs and the softest bread dipped in nutty olive oil. He loved watching her eat, loved to see her finally enjoying herself, the lines of strain around her mouth and eyes relaxing at last. He loved the sensuality of feeding her, of watching her lips part, her eyes widen, her pupils dilate. It felt quite unbearably erotic.

She finally shook her head, refusing the last lone strawberry, her lips still red from the juice. ‘You’re spoiling me.’

‘You deserve to be spoiled.’

The very air around them seemed to tense, freeze. Grace shook her head, her gaze sliding from his. ‘No, I don’t.’

Khalis had stretched out beside her on the blanket, one arm pillowing his head, and with the other he wound a tendril of soft blond hair around his finger. ‘Why do you say that?’ he asked quietly.

She shook her head, hard enough for that silky tendril to slip from his finger. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

He wanted to tell her that it did matter, that everything about her mattered to him, but he swallowed down the words. She wasn’t ready to hear them, and perhaps he wasn’t ready to say them. Whatever existed between them now was too new and fragile to test it with brash proclamations. Like her, he wanted to enjoy this day. They had plenty of time to learn about each other—learn to trust and maybe even to love—after today. Today—this perfect day—was just the beginning.

Grace watched as Khalis reached for her hair again, winding one silky strand around his finger. He did it almost without thinking, the gesture so relaxed and sure, and yet that simple little touch rocked her to her very core. She shouldn’t even feel it—hair, after all, was made up of dead cells, with no nerves. Yet while the scientific part of her brain was reciting these dusty facts, her body blazed to life.

She felt it. Forget science, forget reality, she felt it. She gazed up at him, her eyes wide as she drank him in, his bronzed skin and grey-green eyes now crinkled at the corners as his sensual mouth curled into a knowing smile. Grace’s whole body tingled as awareness stole through her, a certain and lovely knowledge that he was going to kiss her.

He lowered his lips to hers slowly, one hand still fisted in her hair as his mouth came down on hers. Her hands slid along his sun-warmed shoulders to clench in the softness of his hair. He lifted his mouth from hers a fraction and his smile deepened; she could feel that smile. ‘You taste like strawberries.’

She smiled back. ‘So do you.’

He let out a little huff of laughter and lowered his head so his mouth claimed hers once more. Grace revelled in that kiss, in this moment, for surely nothing had never been so pure or perfect. Khalis kissed his way slowly along her jawline to the nape of her neck; she let out a sound that was something between a shudder and a laugh as his lips tickled that sensitive spot. He moved lower, to the neckline of her T-shirt, his tongue flicking along her skin, and he tugged it down to press a kiss against the vee between her breasts. Grace arched upwards, her body unfurling like a flower in the sun.

Khalis slid a hand along her waist, his seeking fingers lifting the hem of her T-shirt to touch the sensitized skin beneath. He kissed her again, deeply, and Grace pressed against him. Her own hands sought his skin, tugged up his shirt, slid along the warm, silky stretch of his bare back. She felt his hand slide down along her middle, his palm caressing the tender skin of her tummy.

Behind them a bird suddenly cawed raucously and Grace lurched upright, panic replacing desire. With her clothes in disarray, her hair mussed and her mouth swollen, she felt as if she’d been caught out. Trapped and shamed.

Khalis still reclined on one elbow, looking relaxed. He’d obviously noticed her overreaction, though he said nothing, just let his gaze sweep lazily over her.

‘I’m sorry—’ she began.

‘There’s no need to be sorry.’

She let out a shuddering breath. ‘I’m not … I haven’t …’

‘I know.’

He sounded so sure, and it made Grace flinch. He didn’t know. The assumptions he was making so easily and arrogantly were wrong. Completely, utterly wrong. ‘Actually,’ she told him, her voice low, ‘you don’t know.’

‘Then tell me.’

No. She tried for a smile. ‘We’ve spent enough time today talking about old memories.’

‘That’s a brush-off if I’ve ever heard one.’ He didn’t sound annoyed, just accepting or perhaps amused. He rolled to a sitting position and began packing the remains of their picnic. Was their perfect day over already?

‘We don’t have to go yet—’

He touched her heated cheek. ‘You’re getting sunburn. We’re very close to the coast of Africa, you know. The sun is incredibly hot.’

Silently Grace helped him pack up their things. She felt a confused welter of emotions: frustration that the afternoon had ended, as well as relief that it hadn’t gone too far. And over it all like a smothering blanket whose weight she’d become so unbearably used to, guilt. Always the guilt.

‘Cheer up.’ Chuckling softly, Khalis touched her cheek again, his fingers lingering on her skin. ‘Don’t look so disappointed, Grace. It’s only one day.’

Exactly, she wanted to say. Shout. One day—that was all she had. All she’d allow herself, and Khalis knew that. He’d said so himself—hadn’t he? Doubt suddenly pricked her. Had she assumed he understood because it was easier to do so? Easier to be blinded by your own desires, to justify and excuse and ignore. But if he didn’t understand. if he hadn’t accepted her silent, implied terms that today was all they would ever share … what did he want? What did he expect?

Whatever it was, she couldn’t give it to him, and a poignant sorrow swept over her as she realised for the first time she wanted to.

CHAPTER SEVEN

WHEN Grace returned to her room she was surprised to find Shayma in attendance, along with an impressive array of clothes and beauty products. Grace stared at a tray of make-up and nail varnish in bewilderment.

‘What is all this …?’

Shayma smiled shyly. ‘Mr Tannous, he wishes me to help you prepare.’

‘Prepare?’ Grace turned to gaze at the half-dozen gowns spread out on the bed in bewilderment. ‘For what?’

‘He is taking you somewhere, I think?’

‘Taking me …’ Where on earth could he take her to? Not that it mattered; she couldn’t go anywhere. She couldn’t be seen in public with Khalis, or with any man. Not on a proper date, at least.

‘Are they not beautiful?’ Shayma said, lifting one of the gowns from the bed. Grace swallowed as she looked at it.

‘Gorgeous,’ she admitted. The dress was a body-hugging sheath in ivory silk, encrusted with seed pearls. It looked like a very sexy wedding gown.

‘And this one as well.’ Shayma lifted a dress in a blue so deep it looked black, the satin shimmering like moonlight on water.

‘Amazing.’ The dresses were all incredible, and she could not suppress the purely feminine longing to wear one. To have Khalis see her in one.

‘And shoes and jewels to match each one,’ Shayma told her happily.

Grace shook her head helplessly. She could not believe the trouble and expense Khalis had gone to. She could not believe how much she wanted to wear one of the gowns, and go on a date—a proper date—with him.

See how it happens? her conscience mocked her. Temptation creeps in, slithers and stalks. And before you know it you’re doing things you never, ever thought you’d do. And telling yourself it’s OK.

She knew the rules of her agreement with Loukas. No inappropriate behaviour. No dating. No men. It wasn’t fair or really even legal, but in the four years since her divorce she hadn’t really cared about the restrictions Loukas had placed upon her. Her heart had its own restrictions. Don’t trust. Don’t love. Don’t lose yourself. She hadn’t wanted any of it—until Khalis. Khalis made her long to feel close to someone again, to feel the fire of physical desire and the sweetness of shared joy. For the first time in four years she was tempted to let someone in. To trust him with her secrets.

Grace turned away from the sight of those tempting dresses. It was impossible, she reminded herself. Even if her contrary heart had changed, the conditions of her custody arrangement had not.

‘Miss …?’ Shayma asked hesitantly, and Grace turned back with an apologetic smile.

‘I’m sorry, Shayma. I can’t wear any of these dresses.’

Shayma stared at her in confused dismay. ‘You do not like them?’

‘No, I love them all. But I’m not. I can’t go out with Mr Tannous.’ Shayma looked more confused, and even worried. Grace patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll explain to him myself.’

She took a moment to brush her hair and steel herself before heading towards the part of the compound that housed Khalis’s study.

Khalis sat behind his desk, and he smiled as she came in. ‘I need to tell you—’

He held up one hand. ‘You’d like to thank me for the dresses, but you won’t go out with me tonight.’

Grace stopped short. ‘How did you know?’

‘I’d expect nothing less from you, Grace. Nothing about you is easy.’

She bristled; she couldn’t help it. ‘I’m not sure why you bother, then.’

‘I think you do. We share something unusual, something profound—don’t we?’ He didn’t sound remotely uncertain. Grace said nothing, but her silence didn’t seem to faze Khalis in the least. ‘I’ve never felt that before with any woman, Grace. And I don’t think you’ve felt it with any man.’ He paused, his gaze intent and serious. ‘Not even your ex-husband.’

She swallowed. Audibly. And still didn’t speak.

‘You fascinate me, Grace. You make me feel alive and open and happy.‘

Grace shook her head slowly. Did he know what his heartfelt confessions did to her? How hungry and heartbroken they made her feel? ‘I’m really not that fascinating.’

He smiled wryly. ‘Perhaps I’m easily fascinated, then.’

‘Perhaps you’re easily misguided.’

He arched an eyebrow, clearly surprised by this turn in the conversation. ‘Misguided? How?’

Her throat tightened around the words she couldn’t say. ‘You don’t really know me,’ she said softly.

‘I’m getting to know you. I want to know you.’ She shook her head again, unwilling to explain that she didn’t want him to get to know her. She didn’t want him to know. ‘Why won’t you go out with me tonight?’

‘As I’ve told you before, I can’t.’

‘Can’t,’ Khalis repeated musingly. His body remained relaxed, but his gaze was hard now, unyielding, and Grace knew she would bend beneath that assessing stare. She would break. ‘Are you afraid of your ex-husband?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Stop talking in riddles.’

Grace knew she’d prevaricated long enough. Khalis had been gentle, patient, kind. He deserved a little honesty. Just a little.

‘I have a daughter,’ she said quietly. ‘Katerina. She’s five years old.’

Khalis’s expression didn’t change, not really, beyond the slight flare of realisation in his eyes, turning them darker, more grey than green, like the ice that covered a lake. You had no idea how hard or thick it was until you stepped on it, let it take your full weight. And then heard the resounding crack in the air as it broke beneath you.

‘And?’ he finally asked softly.

‘My ex-husband has custody of her. I get to see her once a month.’

She could almost hear the creak of the ice, the cracks like spiderwebs splintering the solid ground beneath them. What Khalis had thought was solid ground. ‘Why is that?’ he asked, his tone carefully neutral.

She swallowed, words sticking in her throat, jagged shards of truth she could not dislodge. ‘It’s complicated,’ she whispered.

‘How complicated?’

‘He’s a very powerful and wealthy man,’ she explained, choosing each word with agonised care. ‘Our marriage was … troubled and … and our divorce acrimonious. He used his influence to win complete custody.’ Her throat closed up over those unsaid jagged shards so they cut her up inside, although surely they’d already done all their damage? She’d lived with the loss of her daughter and her own painful part in it for four years already. Yet it hurt more to tell Khalis now because she never spoke of it. Never to anyone she cared about. And she cared about Khalis. She’d tried not to, still wished she didn’t, but she couldn’t deny the truth he’d spoken. They did share something. She felt her mouth wobble and tried to look away.

Khalis walked towards her, his expression softening, a sad smile tipping the corners of his mouth. ‘Oh, Grace.’ She closed her eyes, not wanting to see the undeserved compassion in his gaze. He put his arms around her though she didn’t lean into his embrace as she longed to. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It was my fault … partly …’ A big part.

Khalis brushed this aside, his arms tightening around her. ‘Why didn’t you fight the custody arrangement? Most judges are inclined favourably towards the mother—’

Except when the mother was thought to be unfit. ‘I … couldn’t,’ she said. At least that was true. She hadn’t possessed the strength or courage to fight a judgement her heart had felt was what she deserved.

Khalis tipped her chin up so she had to face him. He looked so tender it made her want to cry. To blurt out the truth—that she didn’t deserve his compassion or his trust, and certainly not his love. ‘What does this have to do with you and me?’

You and me. How she wanted to believe in that idea. ‘Loukas—my ex-husband monitors my behaviour. He’s made it a requirement that I don’t become … romantically involved with any man. If I do, I lose that month’s visit with Katerina.’

Khalis drew back and stared at her in complete bafflement. ‘But that … that has to be completely illegal. And outrageous. How can he control your behaviour to such an absurd degree?’

‘He has the trump card,’ Grace said. ‘My daughter.’

‘Grace, surely you could fight this. With a pro bono solicitor if money is an issue. There’s no way he should be able to—’

‘No.’ She spoke flatly, although her heart raced and her stomach churned. What on earth had possessed her to tell him so much—and yet so little? Now he’d paint her as even more of a victim. ‘No, don’t, please, Khalis. Leave it. Let’s not discuss this any more.’

He frowned, shaking his head. ‘I don’t understand—’

‘Please.’ She laid a hand on his arm, felt the corded muscles leap beneath her fingers. ‘Please,’ she said again, her voice wobbling, and his frown deepened. She thought he’d resist, keep arguing and insisting she fight a battle she knew she’d already lost, but then he sighed and nodded.

‘All right. But I’d still like you to go out with me.’

‘After what I just told you?’

Smiling, although his eyes still looked dark and troubled, he reached for her hand and kissed her fingers. ‘I understand you can’t be seen in public with me—yet. But we can still go out.’

She felt the brush of his lips against her fingers like an electric current, jolting right through her and short-circuiting her resolve. She longed to open her hand and press it against his mouth, feel the warmth of his breath against her flattened palm. Step closer so her breasts brushed his chest. With the last vestiges of her willpower she drew her hand back and dredged up a response. ‘Go out where?’

‘Out there.’ He gestured towards the window, the wall. ‘Away from this wretched compound.’

‘But where—?’

‘Grace.’ He cut her off, stepping closer so she could feel the intoxicating heat of his nearness and knew her resolve was melting clean away. ‘Do you trust me,’ he asked, ‘to take you somewhere your ex-husband could never discover? A place where you’ll be completely safe—with me?’

She stared at him, fear and longing clutching at her chest. One day. One date. It had been four long years and she’d never, never known a man like Khalis—a man so gentle he made her ache, so kind he made her cry. A man who made her burn with need. She nodded slowly. ‘All right. Yes. I trust you.’

His mouth curled in a smile of sensual triumph and he reached for her hand, kissed her fingers again. ‘Good. Because I really would like to take you out to dinner. I’d like to see you in one of those dresses, and I’d like to peel it slowly from your body as I make love to you tonight.’ He gave her a wry smile even as his gaze seared straight into her soul. ‘But I’ll settle for dinner.’

The images he’d conjured brought her whole body tingling to life. ‘I can’t imagine a place where we can go to dinner that’s not—’

‘Leave that to me.’ He released her hand. ‘You can spend some time being spoiled by Shayma.’ He pressed a quick, firm kiss against her mouth. ‘We’ll have a wonderful evening. I’m looking forward to seeing which gown you pick.’

Two hours later, having been massaged and made-up and completely pampered, Grace was dressed in the dress of deep blue satin. She’d wanted to wear the ivory gown, but it had looked too bridal for her to feel comfortable wearing it. She wasn’t innocent enough for that dress.

In any case, the blue satin was stunning, with its halter top and figure-hugging silhouette before it flared out in a spray of paler blue at her ankles. Shayma had fastened a diamond-encrusted sapphire pendant around her neck and given her matching earrings as well. She felt like a movie star.

‘You look beautiful, miss,’ Shayma whispered as she handed Grace her gauzy wrap and Grace smiled her thanks.

‘You’ve been wonderful to me, Shayma. It’s been one of the most relaxing afternoons I’ve had in a long time.’

Khalis was waiting for her at the bottom of the staircase, and he blinked up at her for a moment before he gave her a wide, slow smile of pure masculine appreciation. ‘You look,’ he told her, reaching for her hand, ‘utterly amazing.’

‘You look rather nice yourself.’ He wore a suit in charcoal-grey silk, but Grace knew he’d look magnificent in anything. He was, simply and utterly, an incredibly attractive man. The suit emphasised the lean, whipcord strength of his body, its restrained power. ‘So where are we going?’

‘You’ll see.’

He led her by the hand out of the compound, through the forbidding gates and then towards the beach. Night was already settling softly on the island, leaving deep violet shadows and turning the placid surface of the sea to an inky stretch of darkness.

Khalis led her to a launch where an elegant speedboat bobbed gracefully in the water. ‘We’re going by boat?’ Grace asked a bit doubtfully, glancing down at her floor-length evening gown. ‘I hate to tell you, but I’m feeling a bit overdressed.’

‘Well, you look magnificent.’ He helped her into the boat, taking care to keep the hem of her gown from trailing in the water. ‘I will confess, I had an elegant little hotel in Taormina in mind when I originally had those gowns brought over. But it doesn’t really matter where we go, does it? I just want to be with you.’ He smiled at her, and Grace’s heart twisted.

You’re saying all the right things, she wanted to cry. All the sweet, lovely things any woman wants to hear, and the worst part is I think you mean them. That was what hurt.

‘I am curious,’ she murmured, ‘where this secret place of yours is.’ And nervous. And even afraid. In the four years since her divorce, she’d lost her monthly visits with Katerina twice. Once for going out for a coffee with a colleague, and another time for being asked to dance at a charity function she’d attended for work. She’d refused, but it hadn’t mattered. Loukas just liked to punish her.

Khalis headed towards the helm and within a few minutes he was guiding the boat through the sea, the engine purring to life and thrumming beneath them. Grace sat behind a Plexiglas shield, but even so her careful chignon began to fall into unruly tendrils, whipped by the wind.

‘Oh, dear.’ She held her hands up to her hair, but Khalis just grinned.

‘I like seeing you with your hair down.’

She arched her eyebrows. ‘Is that a euphemism?’

His grin turned wicked. ‘Maybe.’

Laughing a little, feeling far too reckless, she took the remaining pins out of her hair and tossed them aside. Her hair streamed out behind her in a windblown tangle. She probably looked a fright but she didn’t care. It felt good. She felt free.

‘Excellent,’ Khalis said, and the boat shot forward as he accelerated.

Grace still had no idea where they could be going. All around them was an endless stretch of sea, and as far as she knew there were no islands between Alhaja and Sicily. And he couldn’t be taking her to Sicily, could he? He’d said somewhere private; he’d asked her to trust him. And she did, even if her stomach still churned with nerves.

‘Don’t worry,’ Khalis told her. ‘Where we’re going is completely private. And it won’t take long to get there.’

‘How,’ she asked ruefully, ‘do you always seem to know what I’m thinking?’

He paused, considering. ‘I’d say your every emotion is reflected in your face, but it isn’t. It just feels that way.’

Her heart seemed to turn right over. She knew what he meant. Even at his most carefully expressionless, she felt as if she knew what Khalis was feeling, as if she could feel it, too, as if they were somehow joined. Yet they weren’t, and in twenty-four hours it would be over. The connection would be severed.

Unless …

For a brief blissful moment she imagined how it could go on. How she’d tell Khalis everything and somehow they’d find a way to fight the custody arrangement. Was this connection they shared strong enough for that?

She glanced at Khalis, her gaze taking in his narrowed eyes, the hard line of his cheek and jaw as he steered the boat. She thought of how he refused to grieve for his family. Forgive his father. Under all the grace and kindness he’d shown her she knew there was an inflexible hardness that had carried him as far as he’d got. A man like that might love, but he wouldn’t forgive.

She swallowed, those brief hopes blown away on the breeze like so much ash. They’d been silly dreams, of course. Happy endings. Fairy tales.

‘You look rather deep in thought,’ Khalis said. He’d throttled back so the noise of the engine was no more than a steady purr, and Grace could hear the sound of the waves slapping against the sides of the boat.

‘Just thinking how beautiful the sea is.’ And how, now that I want to live and love again, I can’t. Khalis had been right. Life wasn’t fair, and it was her own fault.

‘It is, isn’t it?’ Khalis agreed, but Grace had the distinct feeling that she hadn’t fooled him, and he knew she’d been thinking about something else. About him.

‘So are we almost there yet?’ she asked, peering out into the unrelieved darkness. A sudden thought occurred to her. ‘Are we. are we going to stay on the boat?’

Khalis chuckled. ‘You think that’s my big surprise? Sausages over a propane stove on a motorboat? I’m almost offended.’

‘Well, it is a rather nice boat,’ Grace offered.

‘Not that nice. And I don’t fancy eating my dinner on my lap, bobbing in the water. Come on.’ He held out his hand and, surprised, Grace took it. She couldn’t see much in the darkness, the only light from the moon cutting a pale swathe of silver across the water. She had no idea where Khalis might be taking her.

He led her to the front of the boat and, even more surprised, Grace realised they had come up next to a small and seemingly deserted island. A slender curve of pale beach nestled against a tangle of foliage, palm fronds drooping low into the water.

‘What is this place?’

‘A very small, very secluded island my father happened to own. It’s not very big at all—a couple of hundred metres across. But my father valued his privacy, and so he bought all the land near Alhaja, even if it wasn’t much bigger than a postage stamp.’ He vaulted out of the boat easily and then held out his hand to her. ‘Come on.’

Grace reached for his hand, teetering a bit in her high heels and long dress, until Khalis put both of his hands firmly on her waist and swung her down off the boat onto the beach. Her heels sunk a good two inches into the damp sand and, ruefully, she slipped them off.

‘I think these are designer. I don’t want to get them ruined.’

‘Much more sensible,’ Khalis agreed and kicked his own shoes off. Grace looked at the empty stretch of dark, silent beach, the jungle dense and impenetrable behind it. Everything was very still, and it almost felt as if they were the only two people in the entire world, or at least the Mediterranean.

She turned to Khalis with a little laugh. ‘Now I really feel overdressed.’

‘Feel free to take your clothes off if you’d be more comfortable.’

Her heart rate skittered. ‘Maybe later.’

‘Is that a promise?’

Grace gave a little smile. She couldn’t believe she was actually flirting. And it felt good. ‘Definitely not.’

She picked up her dress and held it about her knees as she picked her way across the sand. She hadn’t felt so relaxed and even happy in a long, long time. ‘So we’re not having sausages on the boat. A barbecue on the beach?’

‘Wrong again, Ms Turner.’ Grinning, Khalis reached for her hand. ‘Come this way.’ He led her down the darkened beach, towards a sheltered inlet. Grace stopped in surprise at the sight that awaited her there. A tent, its sides rippling in the breeze, had been set up, its elegant interior flickering with torchlight.

It was a tent, but it was as far from propane stoves and camping gear as could be possible. With the teakwood table, silken pillows and elegant china and crystal, it looked like something out of an Arabian Nights fantasy.

‘How,’ Grace asked, ‘did you arrange this in the space of a few hours?’

‘It was easy.’

‘Not that easy.’

‘It did take some doing,’ Khalis allowed as he reached for the bottle of white wine chilling in a silver bucket. ‘But it was worth it.’

Grace accepted a glass of wine and glanced around at the darkness stretching endlessly all about them, cocooned as they were in the tent with the flickering light casting friendly shadows. Safe. She was safe. And Khalis had made it happen. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly.

Khalis gazed at her over the rim of his wine glass, his gaze heavy-lidded with sensual intent and yet also so very sincere. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘for trusting me.’

‘Finally,’ she said, and he smiled.

‘It didn’t take as long as all that.’ He started to serve them both hummus and triangles of pitta bread. ‘So you must live a very quiet life, with these restrictions your ex-husband has placed on you.’

‘Fairly quiet. I don’t mind.’

He gave her a swift, searching glance. ‘Don’t you? I would.’

‘You can get used to things.’ She’d rather talk about anything else. ‘And sometimes,’ she half-joked, ‘I think I prefer paintings to people.’

‘I suppose paintings never let you down.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said lightly, ‘a few paintings have let me down. I once found what I thought was a genuine Giotto in someone’s attic, only to discover it was a very good forgery.’

‘Isn’t it interesting,’ Khalis mused, ‘how a painting that looks exactly like the original is worth so much less? Both are beautiful, yet only one has value.’

‘I suppose it depends on what you value. The painter or the painting.’

‘Truth or beauty.’

Truth. It always came back to truth. The weight of what she wasn’t telling him felt as if it would flatten her. Grace took a sip of her wine, tried to swallow it all down. ‘Some forgeries,’ she said after a moment, ‘are worth a fair amount.’

‘But nothing like the original.’

‘No.’

She felt her heart race, her palms slick, even though they were having an innocuous conversation about art. Except it didn’t feel innocuous because what Khalis didn’t know—or maybe he already suspected—was that Grace herself was the most worthless forgery of all.

An innocent woman. A maligned wife. Both false, no matter what he thought or how she appeared. No matter what he seemed determined to believe.

‘Come and eat,’ he said, gesturing to the seat across from him, and Grace went forward with relief. Perhaps now they could talk about something else.

‘Had you ever been to this island before?’ she asked, dipping a triangle of pitta bread into the creamy hummus. ‘As a boy?’

‘My brother and I sailed out here once.’

‘Once?’

He shrugged. ‘We didn’t do much together. Everything was a competition to Ammar, one he had to win. And I started not to like losing.’ He smiled wryly, but there was something hard about the twist of his lips, a darker emotion that hinted at more than the average sibling rivalry.

‘Do you miss him?’ Grace asked quietly. ‘Your brother, at least, if not your father?’

Khalis’s face tensed, his body stilling. ‘I already told you I don’t.’

‘I just find it hard to understand.’ Why she felt the need to press, she couldn’t say. It was the same kind of compulsion as picking a scab or probing a sore tooth. To see how much it hurt, how much pain you could endure. ‘I miss my parents even now—’

‘My family was very different from yours.’

‘What about your sister? You must miss her.’

‘Yes,’ Khalis said after a moment. ‘I do. But there’s no point in going on about it. She’s been dead fourteen years.’

He spoke so flatly, so coldly, that Grace could not keep from blurting out, ‘How can you. How can you just draw a line across your whole family?’

For a second Khalis’s face hardened, his eyes narrowing, lips thinning, and Grace had to look away. This was the man of unrelenting, iron control. The man who never looked back. Never forgave.

‘I haven’t drawn a line, as you say,’ he said evenly, ‘across my whole family. I simply see no point in endlessly looking back. They’re dead. I’ve moved on. From mourning them and from this conversation.’ He leaned forward, his tone softening. ‘My father and brother don’t deserve your consideration. You are innocent, Grace, but if you knew the kinds of things they’d done—’

‘I’m not as innocent as you seem to think I am.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound patronising. And I did not intend to talk about my family tonight. Surely there are better ways for us to spend our time.’

‘I’m sure there are,’ Grace agreed quietly. Why had she pressed Khalis when she had not wanted to talk about her own past? She’d wanted to enjoy herself tonight, and losing themselves in dark memories was not the way to do it.

Khalis served her the next course and she watched the firelight flicker over his golden skin, saw the strength of the corded muscles in his wrist as he ladled fragrant pieces of chicken and cardamom onto her plate. Suddenly the memory of this afternoon, of Khalis’s lingering kiss, his hand sliding along her skin, rose up so Grace’s whole body broke out into a prickly heat, every muscle and nerve and sinew remembering how heartbreakingly wonderful it had felt when he’d touched her.

She felt her face heat and she reached for her glass. Khalis smiled, his eyes glinting knowingly. ‘I think we are both thinking of one way in particular we could spend our time.’

‘Probably,’ Grace managed, nearly choking on her wine. She could imagine it all too well.

‘Let us eat.’ The food was delicious, the evening air warm and sultry, the only sound the whisper of the waves against the sand and the rattle of the wind in the palms. Khalis moved the conversation to more innocuous subjects, and Grace enjoyed hearing about how he had built up his business, his life in San Francisco. Khalis asked her about her own life, too, and she was happy to describe her job and some of her more interesting projects. It felt wondrously simple to sit and chat and laugh, to enjoy herself without worry or fear. She’d been living too long under a cloud, Grace thought. She’d needed this brief foray into the light.

All too soon they’d finished their main course and were lingering over thick Turkish-style coffee Khalis had boiled in a brass pot and dessert—a sinful tiramisu—as the stars winked above them and were reflected below upon a placid sea. Grace didn’t want the night to end, the magic to stop, for it surely felt like a fantasy, wearing this gown, gazing at the sea, being with Khalis on this enchanted island.

Yet it didn’t have to end … not yet, anyway. Her body both tingled in anticipation and shivered with trepidation as she imagined how this magical night could continue. How Khalis could fulfil his promise and slip this gown from her shoulders. Make love to her. as she wanted him to.

Her fingers trembled and she returned her coffee cup to its saucer with a clatter. It had been so long since she’d been with a man. So long since she’d allowed herself the intimacy and vulnerability of being desired. Loved. It scared her still, but she also wanted it. More than she ever had before.

‘Why do you look afraid?’ Khalis asked quietly. ‘We’re safe here.’ Grace heard both tender amusement and gentle concern in his voice and he reached over to cover her hand with his own.

‘I’m not afraid.’ She lifted her head to meet his gaze directly, even boldly. She was not afraid, not of him anyway, and not even of Loukas. There was no way he could discover her here. No, she was afraid of herself, and this intense longing that had seized her body and mind and maybe even her heart. Tomorrow she would have to walk away from it.

‘Do you wish to return to Alhaja now?’

‘Not unless we have to.’ She smiled, her eyebrows arched even as her heart thudded. ‘Do we?’

‘No,’ Khalis said in a low thrum of a voice. ‘We could stay here.’

Grace didn’t know if he meant a little longer or all night. She glanced at a large pillow of crimson and cream striped silk, the torchlight shimmering off the rich material. It looked incredibly soft and inviting, and she could imagine sleeping on it. She could also imagine not sleeping on it.

‘More coffee?’

She shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’ Impulsively she leaned forward. ‘Let’s dance.’

Khalis raised his eyebrows. ‘Dance?’

‘Yes, dance. On the beach.’ The idea had come to her suddenly; this was a date, the only date she’d ever have, and she wanted to enjoy it. She wanted to do all the things she was never able to do because of Loukas and his restrictions. She wanted to dance with Khalis.

A small smile quirked the corner of Khalis’s mouth. ‘But there’s no music.’

Grace held out her arms, gesturing to the rich blue satin of her dress. ‘I’m wearing an evening gown on a deserted island. Do we really need music?’ She smiled, longing to grab this fragile happiness with both hands. ‘Does it really matter?’ she echoed his own words back to him.

‘Not at all.’ In one swift movement Khalis rose from the table and led her out to the beach. The sand was cool and silky beneath her bare feet and the darkness swirled around them, the moon shimmering on the surface of the sea, giving it a fine pearl-like sheen. Khalis turned to her. ‘Since there’s no music, we can pick the kind we like.’

Grace could hardly see him out here on the dark beach, but she felt the heat and intensity of him, the desire pulsing between them, a sustaining and life-giving force. Impossible to resist. Necessary for life. ‘Which kind?’ she asked in a voice that sounded a little hoarse.

‘Something slow and lazy,’ Khalis said. He reached out and pulled her towards him so her hips collided gently with his and heat pooled in her pelvis. She let her hands slide up his shoulders, lace around his neck as he started to sway. ‘A saxophone, maybe. Do you like sax?’

‘Sax,’ Grace repeated dazedly. Khalis had slid his hands from her shoulders to her waist to her hips, and now his fingers were splayed along her bottom as he pulled her even closer, against the full thrust of his arousal. ‘I. Yes, I think so.’

‘Good,’ he murmured, and they swayed silently together. Grace could have sworn she heard music, the lonely wail of a saxophone as they danced on the empty beach, their bare feet leaving damp footprints in the sand.

Above them the sky was scattered with stars, a hundred thousand glittering pin-pricks in an inky, endless sky. Grace laid her head on Khalis’s shoulder, felt the steady thud of his heart against her own chest. After a moment she lifted her head and tilted back so she could look up into his eyes. His lips were a whisper away. The sleepy sensuality of the dance was replaced by something far more primal and urgent, something whose force was overwhelming and irresistible.

‘Grace,’ Khalis said and it almost sounded like a warning.

But Grace didn’t want warnings. She didn’t want memories or guilt or fear. She just wanted this. ‘Khalis,’ she whispered and his fingers brushed her cheek.

‘I love it when you say my name.’

‘I was amazingly resistant to saying it.’ She turned her head so her lips brushed his fingers. She felt carefree to the point of wantonness, and after four years of being completely buttoned-up it felt good. Khalis let out a little shudder as her tongue darted out and touched his fingers, tasted the salt of his skin. He took her chin in his hand and gazed down at her with a ferocity that would have frightened her if she hadn’t felt it herself.

Then he kissed her hard, so different from the gentle caresses of this afternoon, and yet so right. The very air seemed to ignite around them, the stars exploded in the sky as Grace kissed him back and Khalis pulled her even closer, his mouth moving from her lips to her jaw to her throat and she heard the primal sound of her own desperate moan of longing.

He pressed another kiss in the curve of her neck and she tilted her head back, allowing him access. The feel of his lips against her skin gave her a plunging sensation deep inside, turned her mind into a whirlpool of need.

‘This dress is going to get very sandy,’ Khalis murmured against her throat and Grace gave a shaky laugh.

‘I don’t care. Although I suppose you might.’ She had to find the words from somewhere deep inside her, for thought of any kind was proving virtually impossible. Khalis had undone the halter top of the dress and was slowly peeling it away from her, just as he’d promised.

‘I find,’ he murmured as he slid the gown down her body, ‘I don’t care about this dress at all.’

‘It is beautiful,’ Grace gasped as he finished removing it and tossed it onto the sand. ‘Was,’ she amended, and Khalis let out a hoarse laugh as his gaze roved over her.

‘Grace, you are beautiful. Utterly and shockingly beautiful.’

She should have felt embarrassed, standing in her knickers in the middle of a beach, but she didn’t. She wasn’t even wearing a bra because she hadn’t brought one that fitted the halter-style top of the dress. The cool breeze puckered her bare skin into gooseflesh.

‘Shockingly?’ she repeated. ‘That sounds rather alarming.’

‘It is alarming,’ Khalis told her. He stepped closer to her, ran his hands lightly over her shoulders before cupping her breasts. His palms were warm and dry and still Grace shivered under his touch. ‘It’s alarming to me, what I feel for you,’ he said in a low voice.

Grace’s heart lurched. Yes, it was alarming to her, too. Terrifying and wonderful at the same time. ‘Kiss me,’ she murmured, and as Khalis brushed his lips against her own she closed her eyes.

He deepened the kiss, but only for a moment, pulling away from her to brush her lids with his fingers. ‘Open your eyes.’

‘Wh-what?’ Her eyes fluttered open and she stared at him, the mobile curve of his mouth hardening just a little bit as he gazed back at her.

‘Don’t turn your mind off, Grace. I’m making love to you, body and mind and soul.’

‘You don’t ask for much, do you?’

‘Just everything.’ And then he claimed her mouth in a kiss that was as hard and unrelenting as she knew the core of him to be, reminding her that no matter how gentle this man was, how tender and even loving, he was still a dangerous proposition. ‘Kiss me back,’ he muttered against her mouth, and she did, returning the demand, answering it.

He pulled her closer, her breasts crushed against his chest as his hands slid down the bare expanse of her back and tugged off her knickers. Then, his gaze still locked on hers, he stepped back and reached for the buttons of his own shirt. Mesmerised, Grace watched as he began to undress, her own nakedness almost forgotten as he slid his shirt off and revealed the lean, muscled chest underneath. His skin was golden with a satiny sheen, a light sprinkling of hair veeing down to his waistband. Her breath hitched. Khalis undid his belt.

Seconds later, they were both naked. Grace tried not to shiver. Khalis’s heated gaze was enough to fire her body, yet she could not shake the feeling of vulnerability that stole over her and made her cold. She’d forgotten how intimate this all was. How revealing. She’d been on her own for so long, buttoned-up and barricaded, protected. Now there was nothing. Now she was bare.

At least physically. Emotionally, Grace knew, she was still as guarded as ever. And now more than ever, as Khalis led her back to the tent and drew her down to the pillows’ opulent softness, she wanted to tell the last of her secrets. She wanted to bare her soul. She wanted, Grace knew, to be understood and accepted. Forgiven. Loved.

Yet she didn’t know how to begin. Her thoughts were a ferment of uncertainty, even as pleasure began to take over.

Khalis trailed kisses from her throat to her tummy and desire dazed her senses, scattering her thoughts. His mouth moved lower, his tongue flicking against her skin, and then, thankfully, she had no more thoughts at all.

Something was missing. Even as he heard Grace’s little gasps and mews, even as his own libido ran rampant, Khalis knew it wasn’t enough. He wanted more from Grace, more than this physical response, overwhelming as it was. He wanted to destroy the defences she’d put around herself. He wanted her completely open to him, body and mind, heart and soul.

You don’t ask for much, do you?

He’d never wanted so much from a woman before, but then he’d never felt so much for a woman before. And yet, even as her body lay naked to him, even as she parted her legs and arched up towards his caress, Khalis knew she was closing off her mind. Her heart.

‘Look at me, Grace.’

Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and dazed with passion. ‘What—’ He braced himself on his elbows, poised over her as her breath came in little pants. ‘Please—’

He knew what she wanted. God knew he wanted it, too. In one stroke he could be embedded deep inside her and satisfy them both. He stayed still. ‘Say my name.’

Confusion clouded her eyes. Her lips parted. ‘Why—?’

‘Say my name.‘

It wasn’t much, but it was, at least, a beginning. She would acknowledge him, own this connection between them. He wouldn’t let her memories or fears crowd him out. He wouldn’t let her try to banish him along with her ghosts. She didn’t speak and sweat beaded on his brow. He could not hold himself back much longer. ‘Please. ‘

Her expression softened and the sudden tears that shimmered in her eyes nearly broke him. ‘Khalis,’ she whispered, and with a primal groan of satisfaction he drove inside her, felt her welcoming warmth wrap around him. ‘Khalis,’ she said again, her nails digging into his shoulders, her body arching upwards, and triumph tore through him as they surged towards a climax. Grace cried aloud, her head thrown back as her legs wrapped around him. His name sounded like both a supplication and a blessing as her body convulsed around his. ‘Khalis.’

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