soul. It was insane to feel anything now—and especially for a man like Khalis Tannous, a man who was now the CEO of a terrible and corrupt empire, a man she could never trust.
Instinctively she walked a little faster, as if she could distance herself from him, but he kept pace with ease.
‘Turn right,’ he murmured, and she heard humour in his voice. ‘You are amazingly adept in those very high heels, Ms Turner. But it’s not a race.’
Grace didn’t answer, but she forced herself to slow down. A little. She turned and walked down another long corridor, the shutters open to a different side of the villa’s interior courtyard.
‘And now left,’ he said, his voice a soft caress, raising the tiny hairs on the back of Grace’s neck. He’d come close again, too close. She turned left and came to a forbidding-looking lift with steel doors and a complex security pad.
Khalis activated the security with a fingerprint and a numbered code while Grace averted her eyes. ‘I’ll have to give you access,’ he said, ‘as all the art will need to stay on the basement level.’
‘To be honest, Mr Tannous—’
‘Khalis.’
‘I’m not sure how much can be accomplished here,’ Grace continued, undeterred. ‘Most appraisals need to be done in a laboratory, with the proper equipment—’
Khalis flashed her a quick and rather grim smile. ‘It appears my father had the same concerns you do, Ms Turner. I think you will find all the equipment and tools you need.’
The lift doors opened and Khalis ushered her inside before stepping into the lift himself. The doors swooshed closed, and Grace fought a sudden sense of claustrophobia. The lift was spacious enough, and there were only two of them in there, but she still felt as if she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. She was conscious of Khalis next to her, seeming so loose-limbed and relaxed, and the lift plunging downwards, deep below the earth, to the evil heart of this awful compound. She felt both trapped and tempted—two things she hated feeling.
‘Just a few more seconds,’ Khalis said softly, and she knew he was aware of how she felt. She was used to hiding her emotions, and being good at it, and it amazed and alarmed her that this stranger seemed to read her so quickly and easily. No one else ever had.
The doors opened and he swept out one arm, indicating she could go first. Cautiously Grace stepped out into a nondescript hallway, the concrete floor and walls the same as those in any basement. To the right she saw a thick steel door, sawn off its hinges and now propped to the side. Balkri Tannous’s vault. Her heart began to beat with heavy thuds of anticipation and a little fear.
‘Here we are.’ Khalis moved past her to switch on the light. Grace saw the interior of the vault was fashioned like a living room or study and, with her heart still beating hard, she stepped into that secret room.
It was almost too much to take in at once. Paintings jostled for space on every wall, frames nearly touching each other. She recognised at least a dozen stolen paintings right off the bat—Klimt, Monet, Picasso. Millions and millions of dollars’ worth of stolen art.
Her breath came out in a shudder and Khalis laughed softly, the sound somehow bleak. ‘I’m no expert, but even I could tell this was something else.’
She stopped in front of a Picasso that hadn’t been seen in a museum in over twenty years. She wasn’t that experienced with contemporary art, but she doubted it was a forgery. ‘Why,’ she asked, studying the painting’s clean geometric shape and different shades of blue, ‘did you ask for a Renaissance expert? There’s art from every period here.’
‘True,’ Khalis said. He came to stand by her shoulder, gazing at the Picasso as well. ‘Although, frankly, that looks like something my five-year-old god-daughter might paint in Nursery.’
‘That’s enough to make Picasso roll in his grave.’
‘Well, she is very clever.’
Grace gave a little laugh, surprising herself. She rarely laughed. She rarely let a man make her laugh. ‘Is your god-daughter in California?’
‘Yes, she’s the daughter of one of my shareholders.’
Grace gazed at the painting. ‘Clever she may be, but most art historians would shudder to compare Picasso with a child and a box of finger paints.’
‘Oh, she has a paintbrush.’
Grace laughed again, softly, a little breath of sound. ‘Maybe she’ll be famous one day.’ She half-turned and, with a somersault of her heart, realised just how close he had come. His face—his lips—were mere inches away. She could see their mobile fullness, amazed at how such a masculine man could have such lush, kissable, sexy lips. She felt a shaft of longing pierce her and quickly she moved onto the next painting. ‘So why me? Why a Renaissance specialist?’
‘Because of these.’
He took her hand in his own and shock jolted through her with the force of an electric current, short-circuiting her senses. Grace jerked her hand away from his too hard, her breath coming out in an outraged gasp.
Khalis stopped, an eyebrow arched. Grace knew her reaction had been ridiculously extreme. How could she explain it? She could not, not easily at any rate. She decided to ignore the whole sorry little episode and raised her chin a notch. ‘Show me, please.’
‘Very well.’ With one last considering look he led her to a door she hadn’t noticed in the back of the room. He opened it and switched on an electric light before ushering her inside.
The room was small and round, and it felt like being inside a tower, or perhaps a shrine. Grace saw only two artworks on the walls, and they stole the breath right from her lungs.
‘What—’ She stepped closer, stared hard at the wood panels with their thick brushstrokes of oil paint. ‘Do you know what these are?’ she whispered.
‘Not precisely,’ Khalis told her, ‘but they definitely aren’t something my god-daughter could paint.’
Grace smiled and shook her head. ‘No, indeed.’ She stepped closer, her gaze roving over the painted wood panels. ‘Leonardo da Vinci.’
‘Yes, he’s quite famous, isn’t he?’
Her smile widened, to her own amazement. She hadn’t expected Khalis Tannous to amuse her. ‘He is, rather. But they could be forgeries, you know.’
‘I doubt they are,’ Khalis answered. ‘Simply by the fact they’re in their own little room.’ He paused, his tone turning grim. ‘And I know my father. He didn’t like to be tricked.’
‘Forgeries can be of exceptional quality,’ Grace told him. ‘And they even have their own value—’
‘My father—’ Khalis cut her off ‘—liked the best.’
She turned back to the paintings, drinking them in. If these were real … how many people had seen these ever? ‘How on earth did he find them?’
‘I have no idea. I don’t really want to know.’
‘They weren’t stolen, at least not from a museum.’
‘No?’
‘These have never been in a museum.’
‘Then they are rather special, aren’t they?’
She gave a little laugh. ‘You could say that.’ She shook her head slowly, still trying to take it in. Two original Leonardo paintings never seen in a museum. Never known to exist, beyond rumours. ‘If these are real, they would comprise the most significant find of the art world in the last century.’
Khalis sighed heavily, almost as if he were disappointed by such news. ‘I suspected as much,’ he said, and flicked out the lights. ‘You can examine them at length later. But right now I think