But it was her mouth—a sensual mouth so like Damion’s that Reiko had to steel herself not to glance at it—that set the woman’s beauty apart from the ordinary. The painting was alive. The oils, even after over a half-century, were vibrant and passionate. It was a true masterpiece.

‘She was truly stunning, your grandmother,’ Reiko murmured, unable to take her eyes off Gabrielle Fortier’s image.

‘Oui, she was.’ His tone was firm, but where she’d expected fondness or a little warmth, she heard nothing.

A glance at his face showed the same stony demeanour he’d worn since they stepped out of the car into the quiet London side street.

Curiosity made her continue. ‘My grandfather told me she had the whole of the Sorbonne at her feet the two semesters she was there.’

His smile did nothing to alleviate his icy, harsh features. ‘I’ve no doubt that is what happened, because at her feet was exactly where Grandmère preferred her men.’

Her shocked gasp made him raise an eyebrow.

‘I’ve surprised you?’

‘I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, but I wasn’t expecting … Wow—just … wow.’

‘It’s the truth. You expect me to mouth platitudes where there are none?’

‘Platitudes? Probably not, seeing as you don’t do sentiment. But isn’t it a harsh thing to say about your own grandmother?’

‘You know nothing about my life.’

Pain struck sharp. ‘Of course I don’t. Damion Fortier is a stranger to me. I spent six weeks with a man I knew as Daniel Fortman. But I do know about social etiquette and the art of polite conversation. I wouldn’t denounce a member of my family the way you do without even blinking. Especially when your family goes to great lengths to project a pristine image.’

‘Even angels fall, mademoiselle. And I hid my identity simply to avoid this very situation.’

‘What situation?’ she demanded.

He waved his hand at her. ‘This false affront. This pretence that what I did caused any lasting damage. We both know you got over me very quickly, don’t we?’ he flamed at her.

Heat crept up her neck and engulfed her face. His condemning gaze raked her face but she refused to look away. ‘You have no right to look down your nose at me when you lied to me consistently for six weeks. And I don’t really care about your reasons for lying. I trusted you enough to give you my body. You didn’t return the favour; instead you sent a cheque for a million dollars to salve your conscience. And now you’re disappointed I took it? If the money was some sort of test I was expected to pass to be deemed worthy in your eyes, then screw you, Damion. I’m glad I failed—’ Reiko bit her lip to stem the flow of words.

The last thing she wanted him to know was how devastated she’d been when she’d received the money after her grandfather’s death in place of an explanation. Yes, she could have taken the high road and ripped the cheque to shreds. Instead she’d taken delight in giving away every last cent to her favourite charity.

‘… sorry.’

The low, deep word drifted over her, pulling her back from dark recollections. When she glanced at him, he looked slightly shaken—taken aback, even.

‘What did you say?’

His features remained taut. ‘Perhaps the situation could’ve been handled differently.’

‘No kidding, Sherlock.’

‘And for that I’m sorry.’

She heard the words but the condemnation in his eyes didn’t dissipate. Slowly it dawned on her what was really bothering Damion. ‘It’s not about the money, is it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Even though you’ve apologised, you’re still staring at me like I’m pond scum. But it’s got nothing to do with the money, has it? It’s because you think I sl—’

‘I prefer not have this conversation here, Reiko, or indeed at all.’ He nodded to the vault attendant who’d been listening raptly to their conversation. The young man hurried forward with the crate.

‘That’s fine by me.’ Reminiscing … sentiment … led to nothing but pain. She needed to be as clinical as Damion, see this job through, and make sure the next time she disappeared she stayed hidden for good.

Jaw set in concrete, Damion packed the Femme en Mer himself, his gentle but efficient handling of the painting a testament to his years of experience in art-dealing.

The St Valoire auction house dated back to the turn of the nineteenth century, when it had been opened by one of Damion’s illustrious forebears, but Damion himself had been the one to open the now world-famous Gallerie Fortier.

In its very short history it had grown to rival Sotheby’s and Christie’s, specialising in holding prestigious exhibitions exclusively for royalty and heads of state. Only two months ago the Paris headquarters of Gallerie Fortier had held the first ever exhibit of twelve stunning diamond-and-emerald-encrusted Matryoshka nesting dolls, rumoured to have belonged to the wife of a long-dead tsar. The art world had been abuzz with the news for weeks, especially as no one had claimed the bounty.

Wrestling to bring things back to neutral ground, she asked, ‘Did you ever find out who owned those Matryoshka nesting dolls?’

Cold eyes looked up from his wrapping of the painting. ‘The rightful owner was tracked down eventually, yes.’

She passed him tape to secure the thick paper around the painting. Again their fingers touched. Again the surge of heat made her insides clench. ‘Want to share with me who it is?’

‘No, I don’t. What’s your interest anyway? I thought you were retired?’

She shrugged. ‘Semi-retired from art retrieval. I broker from time to time, and I may have a buyer who’s interested in acquiring the whole collection.’

‘An anonymous one who prefers to hide in the shadows, no doubt?’

‘Naturally,’ she responded drolly.

‘Use the right channels, and my people will happily supply you with the owner’s details.’ He picked up the crate and headed towards the exit.

Reiko hurried to catch up. She reached the car just as Damion stowed the crate in the boot, next to her suitcase.

Slamming the boot, he turned to her. ‘Have you ever given any thought to going straight? Giving up the sordid underworld in favour of using your talents legitimately?’

‘Straight is boring. I like what I do.’

‘Serial killers like what they do, too, but they eventually get caught.’

Unexpected laughter bubbled up from her chest and spilled out into the mid-morning sunshine. ‘You did not just compare me to a serial killer! I thought you French were supposed to be charming?’

The barest hint of a mocking smile lightened his face and his gaze dropped to her feet. ‘If the Ferragamos fit …’

Confronted with the less haughty features she’d once been captivated by, Reiko stared. Just then a light wind whipped between them. She felt it tug her fringe away from her face, threatening to expose her scar. Hurriedly she smoothed her hair down and tucked it behind her ear.

But not before she caught Damion’s frown. A dart of anxiety stabbed her. What would he think if he saw her scars? Would he be disgusted and pitying? Or would he strive for false indifference as some did when she inadvertently exposed them, as she almost had last night?

The thought made a silent scream rip through her. His lips parted and she knew he was going to ask what she was hiding. The urge to curtail the question made her reach out. With her free hand she gripped his biceps. His gaze stayed on her hair for several seconds, then dropped to her hand on his arm.

Despite the sensation crawling over her skin, Reiko kept the smile on her face. ‘We have a plane to catch, I believe?’

Grey eyes snapped back to hers. Their gleam told her he knew what she was doing. Thankfully, he didn’t push.

The worst of the rush-hour traffic was clearing by the time they rejoined the motorway. Damion handled the sleek sports car with the ease and efficiency of an expert. Slowly Reiko became less tense as the miles flew by.