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alcove as if looking for exits. The little nook was enclosed by thick foliage on every side but one that led back into the villa. Did she feel trapped?
    ‘You seem a bit tense,’ he told her mildly. ‘Granted, this island has a similar effect on me, but I wish I could put you at ease in regard to my intentions.’
    ‘Why didn’t you simply hand the collection over to the police?’
    He gave a short laugh. ‘In this part of the world? My father may have been corrupt, but he wasn’t alone. Half of the local police force were in his pocket already.’
    She nodded, her back still to him, though he saw the tension radiating along her spine, her slender back taut with it. ‘Of course,’ she murmured.
    ‘Let me be plain about my intentions, Grace. After you’ve assessed the art—the da Vincis, mainly—and assured me they are not forgeries, I intend to hand the entire collection over to Axis to see it disposed of properly, whether that is the Louvre, the Met, or a poky little museum in Oklahoma. I don’t care.’
    ‘There are legal procedures—’
    He waved a hand in dismissal. ‘I’m sure of it. And I’m sure your company can handle such things and make sure each masterpiece gets back to its proper museum.’
    She turned suddenly, looking at him over her shoulder, her eyes wide and dark, her lips parted. It was an incredibly alluring pose, though he doubted she realised it. Or perhaps he’d just been too long without a lover. Either way, Grace Turner fascinated and attracted him more than any woman had in a long time. He wanted to kiss those soft parted lips as much as he wanted to see them smile, and the realisation jarred him. He felt more for this woman than mere physical attraction. ‘I told you before,’ she said, ‘those Leonardos have never been in a museum.’
    He pushed away that unwanted realisation with relief. ‘Why not?’
    ‘No one has ever been sure they even existed.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Did you recognise the subject of the paintings?’
    ‘Something in Greek mythology, I thought.’ He racked his brain for a moment. ‘Leda and the Swan, wasn’t it?’
    ‘Yes. Do you know the story?’
    ‘Vaguely. The Swan was Zeus, wasn’t it? And he had his way with Leda.’
    ‘Yes, he raped her. It was a popular subject of paintings during the Renaissance, and depicted quite erotically.’ She’d turned to face him and in the flickering torchlight her face looked pale and sorrowful. ‘Leonardo da Vinci was known to have done the first painting downstairs, of Leda and the Swan. A romantic depiction, similar in style to others of the period, yet of course by a master.’
    ‘And yet this painting was never in a museum?’
    ‘No, it was last seen at Fontainebleau in 1625. Historians think it was deliberately destroyed. It was definitely known to be damaged, so if it is genuine your father or a previous owner must have had it restored.’
    ‘If it hasn’t been seen in four hundred years, how does anyone even know what it looked like?’
    ‘Copies, all based on the first copy done by one of Leonardo’s students. You could probably buy a poster of it on the street for ten pounds.’
    ‘That’s no poster downstairs.’
    ‘No.’ She met his gaze frankly, her eyes wide and a soft, deep brown. Pansy eyes, Khalis thought, alarmed again at how sentimental he was being. Feeling. The guarded sorrow in her eyes aroused a protective instinct in him he hadn’t felt in years. Hadn’t wanted to feel. Yet one look from Grace and it came rushing back, overwhelming him. He wanted, inexplicably, to take care of this woman. ‘In fact,’ Grace continued, ‘I would have assumed the painting downstairs is a copy, except for the second painting.’
    ‘The second painting,’ Khalis repeated. He was having trouble keeping track of the conversation, due to the rush of his own emotions and the effect Grace was having on him. A faint flush now coloured her cheekbones, making her look more beautiful and