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He nodded. ‘When did it happen?’ he demanded.
She glanced down and moved her food around her plate. ‘Two years ago.’
‘How?’ he fired back.
She shook her head. ‘I’ve answered your question. Now it’s my turn. You weren’t around when your grandfather sold the paintings. Where were you?’
The sudden tension in his frame made her breath stall in her chest. His features hardened, his fingers clenching around his wine glass as his gaze pinned her to her chair. When he answered, his voice held an edge that grated on her nerves.
‘I was here in Paris for a while. Then I went to Arizona.’
‘Arizona. Of course.’ Reiko didn’t frame it in a question because she already suspected the answer.
Isadora.
Bile rose in her mouth, along with nausea. Appetite lost, she crumpled her napkin and threw it on the table.
He followed suit and settled the bill.
The walk back to his apartment was tense. His shoulders were held in rigid anger. He made no move to take her elbow, for which she was … glad. Just before they reached his building, he turned to her, eyes narrowed.
‘What did you mean by “of course”?’
She glared back at him. ‘I heard the Arizona rumours. You confirmed it.’
‘What else did you hear?’ he asked, tension escalating until it was a living force field around them.
‘Nothing that matters.’
His face grew colder.
When he opened his mouth, she held up her hand. ‘Seriously, I don’t need any more details.’
‘I wasn’t about to offer any. Merely to suggest that whatever you think you know, keep it to yourself.’
Because he didn’t want Isadora Baptiste upset? Despite being close-lipped about the famous designer, everyone knew the truth about their sordid affair.
She shrugged. ‘I think we’ve exchanged enough delightful morsels about ourselves for one day, don’t you?’ Mounting the shallow steps, Reiko prayed he’d drop the subject.
In silence, he led her into his apartment. She looked around and drew in a stunned breath.
The mezzanine apartment was overwhelmingly beautiful.
Black and white tiles reminiscent of the floor tiles in Versailles gleamed with a high polish. Tall, light-emitting windows overlooked the winding Seine and the Place des Vosges, and in the distance the iconic Tour Eiffel rose proudly.
There wasn’t a single curtain or drape in sight, which, for a man who valued his privacy as much as Damion did, surprised her. Beyond the slightly opened window, sounds emitted from the street, bringing with them a soft breeze that flowed into a sunken living room decorated with deep blue wide sofas, boldly designed coffee tables and a state-of-the-art entertainment centre.
And, of course, being the home of a French art connoisseur, it had sculptures, paintings and tasteful works of art displayed in a wealthy tapestry that made the art-lover in her want to fall to her knees in adoration.
Damion dropped his keys onto a nearby table, startling her from her avid inspection of the breathtaking space.
She whirled away from a miniature marble depiction of Psyche and Cupid locked in an embrace set underneath a low light and slammed straight into the hard-packed body of Damion Fortier. She stumbled. Pain ripped through her pelvis. Sucking in a breath, she tried to free herself from the arms that banded her.
But her struggles only made her more aware of the heat and sensual energy emanating from his body.
All the time and effort she’d expended on wrestling back control started to crumble. Reiko wanted to weep.
He frowned. ‘Are you all right?’
