Fighting to keep her fraying emotions under control, she moved away from him, but Damion Fortier’s gaze tracked her, setting her on edge. ‘I never thought you’d resort to blackmail to achieve your goals, Damion,’ she bit out.

‘And I never thought you’d take a lover three weeks after leaving my bed. Let’s agree to be deeply disappointed in each other, cherie, and move on.’

The ice in his tone froze her spine.

‘To sweeten the deal, I’ll even pay you handsomely. Two million dollars for locating both paintings.’

Her mouth dropped open at the astounding figure.

A mocking smile touched his lips. ‘I thought that might get your attention. Listen to your instinct. Take the deal.’

A sense of inevitability settled on her shoulders. Damion was going nowhere. She could fight, or she could take the money. That sort of money could make a huge difference—change the lives of so many. ‘I’ll do it. For the two million. But I want something else.’

Grey eyes darkened with thinly veiled contempt. ‘Of course you do. What?’

‘Invite me to your exhibition.’

‘Non,’ he negated immediately.

Her lips tightened. ‘My talents are good enough for tracking paintings but not good enough for your crowd?’

‘Precisely,’ he parried without blinking.

His insult bounced off her. He wasn’t the first to call her character into question and he wouldn’t be the last. Reiko liked it that way. With people busy examining the glossy, showy shell of her carefully honed character, they weren’t looking underneath to the scars, the pain of loss and the constant fear that lurked there; they couldn’t see the empty darkness in her soul that she battled every waking moment to hide.

She needed the camouflage just as she needed every wit to keep Damion Fortier from finding out just how damaged she’d become.

‘I’ve been out of circulation for a while. If you want me to find your paintings quickly, don’t deny me this lead.’

The lead would also give her the chance to find the final Japanese jade statue she’d been attempting to retrieve. Her client’s last desperate call rang in her ears—one she hadn’t been able to ignore. The digging Reiko had done this past week had pointed her in the direction of a prominent French politician who’d be attending Damion’s exclusive exhibition.

When Damion’s face remained impassive, she changed tactic. ‘Your guest list reads like something out of an art collector’s fantasy. I don’t think I’ll ever get another chance to mingle with people so influential in art or come within a whisper of the famous St Valoire Ing'enue collection.’

‘Your presence anywhere near my exhibition is not something I’d term a fantasy. In fact I’d call it more of a nightmare.’

Despite knowing he wouldn’t believe her, she said, ‘I’m not a thief, Baron.’

‘All evidence points otherwise.’

‘I’m an art connoisseur, like you. Just because we took different paths in our pursuit of art doesn’t make us any different from each other.’

His haughty expression added insult to injury. ‘I highly doubt we’re anything alike. You deal underneath the black market—’

‘I retrieve art no one else can and return it to where it belongs. Isn’t that why you’re here?’

One silky eyebrow shot up. ‘So you’re the Robin Hood of the art world?’

She grimaced. ‘Green tights aren’t my style. Besides, I don’t really like labels. Invite me to your exhibition. Who knows? Your squeaky-clean patrons might rub off on me and I’ll transform into a model citizen and find your precious paintings.’

His eyes narrowed.

Reiko held her breath, fought the urge to speak. Sometimes silence was a better weapon.

‘You can work on your transformation in your own time. First you’ll agree to use your every resource to find the paintings.’

The gravity and raw need behind his words caught her attention. Glancing at him, she saw something in his face she couldn’t give a name to—although she felt his near-hypnotic eyes pin her to the spot. In that moment she was almost ready to forget everything she knew about this man and believe the paintings meant something significant to him.

Almost … if she didn’t know for a fact that Damion Fortier was a heartless bastard. He’d said it himself—anything that didn’t earn him cold hard cash was sentimental and messy.