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‘We had a couple,’ he said, shrugging, as if they’d just been lying about the house.
‘Anyone else I should know about?’ she asked, almost forgetting the game.
‘My father had a penchant for the Italian Renaissance—Giotto, Fra Angelico, Filippo Lippi... But my...mother preferred twentieth century artists. Rothko, Klee, Francis Bacon.’
Sia was so awed at the idea of growing up with authentic paintings by the artists he’d named, she’d missed the way that he’d stumbled over the reference to his mother. Without realising, he’d evoked her childhood fantasy and she imagined walking down grand mahogany hallways with the masters hanging on every wall. But she couldn’t prevent herself from asking, ‘Etienne Durrántez?’
‘Amongst others,’ he replied, without taking his eyes from her. She’d been watching closely for any sign, the smallest of movements, but there had been none.
Had she got it wrong? Before making the call to Célia she’d spoken to an old university friend who’d gone to work at Interpol. She’d not heard anything on the grapevine about a stolen Durrántez, and clearly Sebastian had no need for the money. She couldn’t even begin to fathom why he might have wanted the painting. But he clearly had wanted it enough to make several public and incredibly generous attempts to buy it. Though she’d not found any record of him trying to buy any of the other Durrántez for sale. There must have been something in particular about that painting.
‘I have a table. Would you care to join me?’
Sebastian half expected her to say no and half resented the slight burst of adrenaline he felt when she inclined her head and gestured for him to lead the way. Sebastian might have recognised her but, beyond knowing that Sia Keating had been sent by Bonnaire’s to Sharjarhere as a last-minute replacement to evaluate the Durrántez, he knew nothing. There’d been little or no point doing a check on her by that stage. Besides, she was sure to be just as corrupt as the rest of them. She’d arrived at the palace, done her job and left. If he’d known for even one second that she’d be as feisty, playful and smart as she’d proven herself to be in just a short conversation he might have done things a little differently.
Because she was proving to be a worthy adversary. An adversary it would be worth knowing a little more about.
Victoriana had been a favourite of his ever since he’d leased his apartment in Mayfair. Very few people knew about either the club or his apartment and he liked it that way. His sister had liked to think that she was completely independent in her little flat in Camberwell, and Sebastian knew how important it was for her to feel that way. But he’d been looking after her since she was eight years old and he wouldn’t stop just because she’d wanted to come to London for art school.
He caught the eye of one of the staff, who nodded in return and proceeded to lead them to a more private area of the members only club. He gestured for Sia or Henri—he sensed there was something about that name that gave her confidence somehow—to precede him and when he, in turn, joined the procession he instantly regretted his courtesy. The demure high necked dress’s secret caused him to inhale sharply. From how she’d been sitting, he’d not seen this angle before and now it caused an arousal so acute he was momentarily wordless and witless. The silk fell from her shoulders into a deep cowl that apexed at the base of her spine, revealing inches and inches of smooth creamy skin and showing clearly that Sia was bare beneath the silk. His mouth watered and he clenched his jaw against the need he felt coursing through his veins. And if the gentle sway of her hips was anything to go by, she knew exactly what kind of effect she was causing.
He knew from previous visits that he had approximately forty steps to get his raging libido under control before they would be directed to their table and he was going to need every single one of them. Because, instinctively, he knew he’d need all of his brain cells to tackle the dilemma that was Sia Keating.
They were shown into the Orangery, which would during the day look out onto an exquisite garden, cultivated and completely secluded. But, at this hour of the night, the outside was nothing more than a deep dark cocoon held at bay by the glass panes encased in white painted leadwork. Fairy lights hung from the ceiling, reflected in the windows, creating a canopy of thousands of stars above them.
The garden had been brought inside with hanging baskets of strings of pearls, strings of hearts, long trailing ivy and many more vivid bursts of green, the names of which Sebastian could hardly guess at. Every time he came in here, it never failed to impress him. But, within the large high space, there was more that really drew the eye. Huge bird cages in distressed white, old forest green and black, of all different shapes, some classically rounded at the top, some square—one even had tiers and a swinging perch—filled the space. Ivy grew around the ironwork, winding through and around the bars of the cages, giving the people inside them a feeling of privacy and secrecy.
Large enough to fit tables and chairs, some even large enough to fit groups of eight or ten, they were quite incredible and, from the look in Sia’s eyes, almost the very last thing she’d expected. They were shown to one of the smaller cages, with cushioned seats on either side of a small round table clinging to the curve of the bars.
Two glasses of champagne were placed on the table and the discreet waiter disappeared. As she took one side, he took the other. Sebastian couldn’t shake the feeling that they were combatants on opposite sides. Because he didn’t think for one minute that it was a coincidence that she had referred to Durrántez, using a name which he knew to be fake, appearing the same night as he in a private club when he knew her salary would barely cover a drink, let alone membership to Victoriana.
Oh, Sebastian knew all about the backroom deals Bonnaire’s pretended not to do and he’d hardly been surprised when the Sheikh had chosen them
to fence his ill-gotten painting. But the moment the Sheikh had agreed that the painting had been a fake all along, Sebastian thought it done and dusted. Victory in his grasp. Revenge against Abrani for him and the others.
The last thing he’d expected was for Bonnaire’s to send in some Mata Hari in a blue silk dress.
‘We were talking about art. I’m curious,’ he said, and he meant it, ‘what is it that you value in an artist?’
Sia tried to prevent the tug of a frown at his choice of word. Surely it was her imagination. But as her mind picked over the possibilities her subconscious supplied a word that surprised her and spoke far too much of a past she wanted to leave behind.
‘Authenticity.’
‘A woman with a good eye then,’ Sebastian returned without missing a beat.
‘I’ll take that as a compliment from a man with a good eye.’
The smile that broadened his lips was pure sin and Sia was horrified to find that she liked it.
‘My friend?’
‘She is truly beautiful,’ Sia replied honestly.
‘As are you.’
It took everything in Sia to hold his gaze. To not shrug off the easily given compliment, shy from it or deny it.
‘You don’t think so?’ he asked, sounding genuinely intrigued and cocking his head to the side as if observing something fascinating.
