It had been on the tip of his tongue to say something crass. It was what she expected of him, it was exactly what he’d set himself up as being, but then he caught the look in her startling blue eyes.
There, beneath the false bravado, because it clearly was false, was something else. Something that pierced a conscience he professed not to have. It was too much like the way his sister had looked at him—not that there was anything brotherly in his thoughts about the woman in front of him. No. But it was the vulnerability beneath the defiance. It was worthy of more than he had planned to offer her.
‘Biondina,’ he eventually replied.
Obviously the same pale skin, auburn hair, but there was also something similar about the eyes. Not now, not from the moment that he’d come to stand beside her, but before then. Just after he’d said goodbye to Aliah, setting her on the path towards a much happier future than she’d ever been offered by her father.
He’d stood watching the way a golden curl swept down her arm as she reached blindly for her drink. He’d wanted to know what she was thinking, because her mind hadn’t been on the present, he was sure of it.
‘Excuse me?’
‘By Frederic Leighton,’ he answered, returning to the present at her question.
‘I know who painted Biondina.’
The offence in her tone, the pure indignation, pulled his lips into a broad smile. ‘Oh, do you work in the arts?’ he asked, all mock ignorance. The tease was too easy for him, and she was a terrible actress who seemed only to remember after the fact that she wasn’t Sia Keating.
There was something in his tone...something that made Sia feel that he might be toying with her. Playing her even? If he had stolen the painting, then in all probability he would have researched Bonnaire’s. It was a possibility she hadn’t had the time to think through before now and if she had then, rather than letting her tongue run away with her, she might just have owned up to being Sia Keating in the first place. But she’d said Henri and now some deeply hidden sense of mischief was winding within her. The desire, the need to challenge him. To best him.
‘I work for Bonnaire’s,’ she said, watching closely for his reaction.
‘Isn’t that some kind of art dealership? Like Christie’s?’
Mentioning their main competitor was just mean and, despite her suspension, she couldn’t help the bloom of loyalty unfurl in her chest.
‘Yes, but better,’ she replied condescendingly—a tone she didn’t think she’d ever used before.
‘Wasn’t there some kind of scandal there recently...?’ She watched, fascinated, as he clicked his fingers twice as if trying to remember. ‘Ah, I know. Didn’t a painting get damaged at an auction?’
She was so surprised that he’d taken the conversation there that no words came.
‘Or was it a fake? Or was it both?’ He shrugged, the smile on his face seemingly one of bemused ignorance, yet to Sia it was like a red rag to a bull...until Henri took over, transformed the fire of helpless fury striking her silent into determination and action. She matched his tone and manner, joining in with the playful flirtation with the truth.
‘Both apparently,’ she said easily. ‘Though may I tell you a secret?’
‘Of course,’ he replied, leaning in as if for her to confide.
‘I
don’t think it was a fake,’ she mock whispered behind her hand. ‘At least, not before it was stolen and replaced with a forgery,’ she concluded.
‘Now that would be a scandal,’ he said, as if impressed by the idea. ‘Though I can’t imagine for one minute an art house with a reputation like Bonnaire’s would be willing to admit to such a thing,’ he all but taunted.
Behind her smile, Sia’s jaw was clenched with anger. Because he was right. They weren’t. And that was why she was there, engaging in some insane cat and mouse game with an international playboy. Sia would have walked away, but Henri dug her heels in. Henri was the girl who had drawn on walls, who had laughed until she’d cried with her father, who had dressed up in the beautiful turquoise silks her mother had left all over their home in Peckham, who at the age of six had worn bright red lipstick and walked in too large high heels. It was time to see what she could do now as an adult.
‘I’m surprised that a hotelier has his fingers on the pulse of the international art scene.’
Sia had to bite her lip to keep the smile from spreading, seeing the outrage that crossed Sebastian’s features at the word ‘hotelier’ and at how easy it had been to pierce that clearly healthy ego of his.
‘My hotels are four-starred, the restaurants have Michelin stars, celebrities beg to stay in my penthouse suites. I have one in every major European city, more off the beaten track internationally and at least two that are so exclusive they are not even known to the press, one of which is on an island.’
Despite herself, and the arrogance with which the information was delivered, Sia was impressed. Because, if the articles she’d managed to read online before coming here tonight were right, Sebastian’s family had been exiled with little more than the clothes on their backs.
‘And Leighton comes into this...?’ she asked, as if bored of his list of achievements.
For the first time since he’d appeared at her side, Sebastian seemed to bite his tongue. ‘Family heirloom.’
‘You had a Leighton as an heirloom?’ she blurted out, unable to keep the awe from her tone or prevent her eyes from widening.