The Darkest of Secrets. Кейт Хьюит
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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.