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‘Wow, did you just hear yourself? You’re seriously amped up on your own power juice, aren’t you? I guess five hundred years of lording it over humanity would do that to you, huh? But you don’t know what’s around the corner.’ A look—part pain, part bitterness—crossed her face, shadowing her sunlit features. ‘One minute you’re walking around thinking you own the world, the next it can all be taken from you.’
‘Is that what happened to you?’ His gaze drifted to the left side of her face, where the heavy fringe was once again in place. Damion had a meeting in twenty minutes. He needed to leave. ‘Tell me about it.’
Her fingers shredded the croissant. When her gaze finally lifted to his, her eyes were devoid of emotion. ‘Stop prying into my life, Damion.’ She stood, and Damion was reminded how tiny she was without her heels. ‘I don’t want to be stuck in the queue outside the Louvre for hours. I need to spend at least one hour with the Odalisque.’
‘Why?’
‘Because anything less than an hour with her is an insult. See you later.’ She wiggled her fingers in a careless wave, but he sensed a brittle fragility in her that struck an unsettling chord within him.
He cast another impatient glance at his watch. ‘Dinner will be ready by seven. Make sure you’re back by then.’
She looked ready to protest. He deliberately turned away to pick up his suitcase. By the time he straightened, she was leaving, her oversized handbag banging against her hip. He watched her walking away, unable to tear his gaze from the lustrous mane swinging down her back to touch her pert little backside. With a frown he noticed her jeans were far too tight, moulding her hips in a way a lover’s hand would.
Another stab of white heat pierced his groin. He swore low and hard.
Reiko moved from room to room, determined to use the richness around her to obliterate thoughts of Damion.
But it seemed even the paintings and sculptures in the Louvre were conspiring against her. The strong, perfectly sculpted body of Oedipus brought to mind Damion’s hard-packed body when she’d slammed into him yesterday. The eroticism of David and Bathsheba reminded her of last night’s twisted erotic dreams, heavily featuring Damion Fortier.
By the time she entered the Richelieu Wing, frustration lurked a tiny scream away. Maintaining a neutral expression for Philippe, the curator’s personal assistant, whom she’d found waiting with a VIP pass when she’d arrived at the museum, was intensely difficult.
She refused to let the fact that Damion had arranged this for her touch her in any way. The only reason she could think of was that he really wanted her back by seven.
‘Do you wish to return to Goya’s Countess, or perhaps the Odalisque?’ Philippe asked. ‘The room containing the Odalisque has been cleared for your personal viewing.’
‘What? Why?’
Philippe smiled. ‘I believe the curator was told it i
s your favourite room in the Louvre.’
‘It is … but … he can’t just clear it!’
‘We don’t do it often. Only for special guests of Baron de St Valoire.’
‘And how many “guests” have there been?’ The words tripped out of her mouth before she could stop it. ‘Oh, please—ignore me. I’m not normally this … Ignore me.’ She touched Philippe’s sleeve and his perturbed look dissipated.
Reiko followed Philippe back to the Sully Wing, myriad feelings churning through her belly.
Special guests of Baron de St Valoire.
Reiko shoved the emotion she was reluctant to acknowledge as jealousy aside and stood in quiet contemplation, studying the woman who’d been doomed to die but had faced her death with such dignity and courage.
Who cared who else Damion had done this for? It was a rare treat, and she had every intention of enjoying it.
After an eternity, she turned to thank Philippe—only to find herself alone.
With one last look at the haunting painting, she hitched her bag over her shoulder and slowly made her way outside.
Walking along Rue de Rivoli, she stopped at a patisserie and ordered a panini and a café au lait.
Weariness tugged at her senses. Nightmares had plagued her again last night—this time in even more vivid detail. She’d awoken on the couch in a sweat, heart pounding, with images of burning bodies in her mind. Luckily she hadn’t screamed. For hours she’d been afraid to go back to sleep. When she finally had, she’d dreamt of dancing with Damion—again in exquisite, erotic detail. They’d touched almost everywhere except their lips. Again he hadn’t kissed her, but she’d read the intent in his eyes, in his every breath.
The ache in her belly and between her thighs when she’d woken this morning had taunted her—a cruel reminder of what she could never have pressing down on her until tears had welled in her eyes.
But even her quiet sobs hadn’t erased the intense feelings. She’d barely been able to look Damion in the eye at the breakfast table.
She jumped as her phone rang. Frowning at the unfamiliar number, she answered it.
