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Or was that her trick? Recalling the way she’d touched him last night and this morning, Damion felt his gut tighten. The contact had been in no way sensual, and certainly not what he was used to from women, but it had captured his attention. So much so he hadn’t been able to dismiss it from his mind.
A grande dame tottered past with several dogs on a leash. Reiko didn’t seem to notice her. He grabbed her arm to steer her clear of the menagerie and felt the fragile bones of her elbow beneath his touch. He waited for her to make a comment and glanced at her when she didn’t.
‘What?’ she enquired.
He nodded to the old lady. ‘You once mentioned how cute you thought that whole grande dame with dogs thing. So very French.’
Her mouth dropped open. She looked after the old woman and her dogs, then back at him. ‘You remember?’
He remembered a great deal about their six weeks in Tokyo; he had spent far too much time last night thinking about it. Was spending too much time thinking about it now. What the hell was wrong with him?
Everything Reiko had said to him at the vault had been true. He had sent her the money to salve his conscience after he’d learnt of her grandfather’s death. But deep down he’d hoped she wouldn’t take it—that she’d call or come and find him and rip the cheque to shreds in his presence.
When she hadn’t, he’d returned to Tokyo, foolishly believing he’d find her, apologise and resume what they’d started. How wrong he’d been.
Ruthlessly, he pushed the images in his brain away. ‘Oui, I remember.’ Bitterness slashed through him, mingling with an arousal he refused to acknowledge. Looking away, he glimpsed the discreet entrance to the restaurant. ‘We’re here.’
He went to take her elbow again, but she pulled away from him under the pretext of greeting the maître d’.
Damion suppressed a grim smile. It seemed this new Reiko had developed a penchant for touching at will, but curiously she didn’t like the favour returned. He tucked that little morsel to the back of his mind.
‘You didn’t finish telling me about the exhibition.’ When he hesitated, Reiko shrugged. ‘I’m going to find out eventually.’ She sipped her water, gripping the glass firmly to hide her trembling.
Damion’s revelation outside the restaurant had shaken her. So Damion remembered one tiny comment she’d made during their time together? Big deal. It made no sense for her emotions to skitter out of control because of it.
‘The Ingénue is a collection of firsts—first poems, first paintings, first sculptures. Even the first haute couture gown created by Michel Zoltan.’
She was reluctantly impressed. ‘Wow, how did you manage that?’ The temperamental and very reclusive designer had created the most perfect wedding gown for the last European royal bride, and then promptly declared it to be his last-ever creation.
He shot her a droll look. ‘I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you. And all that blood on this perfect parquet floor …’
‘Ha-ha—very funny.’
One side of his mouth lifted in a half-smile as he beckoned the hovering sommelier. Once Damion had inspected the chilled bottle and the Chablis was poured, she chose her entrée and main and handed the menu to the waiter.
‘These works were done before the influence of the outside world—before the artists’ innocence was stolen, as it were. The world has never seen an exhibition like this. Most artists believe their first works aren’t worthy of publicising.’
‘I don’t think it’s so much that as an unwillingness to bare their souls to the public—especially in the presence of other artists. Artists have very fragile egos.’
‘With the right incentive, even fragile egos are malleable.’
Her fingers tightened around the glass. ‘Does that translate as everyone can be bought?’
‘In my experience, oui,’ he responded without an ounce of regret, his cold gaze locked on hers.
She carefully swallowed. ‘What a jaded life you’ve led.’
‘As opposed to your unsullied existence in an ivory tower? Why do you really want to attend my exhibit? And don’t tell me it’s because of your love of art.’
Reiko was eternally grateful she’d perfected her poker face long before she could speak, because the grey eyes boring into hers made shivers dance down her spine. ‘I told you—to explore whatever lead I can to establish the whereabouts of your painting.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘So you won’t be blatantly poaching my business?’
She shrugged. ‘If you’re that bothered about it, we could come to an agreement.’
On cue, haughty distaste filled his eyes. ‘I don’t do backroom deals.’
‘Never say never.’
