Playing the Billionaire's Game - Pippa Roscoe Page 0,14

ever so slightly, and this time it was her lips at his ear when she whispered, ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Really?’ he said, leaning back and questioning her. Although the smile was steady on his lips, there was a dark shadow twisting in his eyes.

‘Yes,’ she said, locking her gaze with his. ‘I’m very good at spotting fakes.’

The accusation struck a nerve he honestly didn’t think he had. It made him angry. Oh, he’d been called fake before, but not in the sense that she had meant it. That Sia Keating, of all people, might just have seen behind his carefully constructed façade was untenable.

But, if he was being honest with himself, it wasn’t her words that had struck deepest. It was that moment when she had turned to him, her lips barely a second from his and he’d wanted so much to take them with his own, to press against them, feel them, taste them.

Which was the only conceivable reason for him to say, ‘You’re not the only one, Sia.’

He watched as her head jerked back slightly as if she’d been struck and clenched his jaw against the wave of guilt. He abhorred violence against women, even verbally, and although no harsh words had been spoken a gauntlet had been thrown down. And now he’d started he just couldn’t stop. ‘But being able to spot fakes is a nice touch, given your occupation. I have to say, Bonnaire’s has gone up in my estimation, sending such a tempting morsel my way.’

‘I don’t know what to be more offended by. Being described as a “morsel” or your assumption that I’m here because of Bonnaire’s. I assure you, Mr Rohan de Luen I am here for myself.’

‘I may have been exiled, but I’m still a duke, Ms Keating,’ he said with all the imperiousness he didn’t feel in that moment.

‘Forgive me, Your Grace, a slip of the tongue,’ she said insincerely.

He stifled a growl of arousal before it could reach the back of his throat as his mind suggested colourful displays of what he would very much like to do with her tongue.

‘If you are here for yourself and not on Bonnaire’s business, then why the use of a fake name?’

‘If you knew it was fake, why entertain the deception for so long?’ she quickly returned.

He could have pushed for an answer to his question—part of him wanted to, but now was not the time. Instead, he answered hers. ‘Perhaps I wanted to see how far you would take it.’

‘All the way,’ she replied, determination flashing in her eyes.

‘And, just so there isn’t any misunderstanding, what does that look like to you?’

‘To prove that you stole the painting.’

‘Ah,’ he said, for a moment regretting the images her accidental double entendre had thrust into his mind. ‘The painting which I believe Sheikh Abrani has himself stated is a fake?’ The careless tone of his own voice was barely audible over the pulse pounding in his ear. Bonnaire’s, the Sheikh...they had done as expected. Hidden within the lie and taken the hit. But Sia? Now the gloves were off and she’d admitted her true intention—an intention that went far beyond what he’d have expected a corrupt Bonnaire’s employee to have admitted. If the painting had been valued by Sean Johnson this wouldn’t have been a problem at all. But Sia Keating was a new player and as such all the more dangerous for them all.

‘But it wasn’t,’ Sia ground out, repeating her insistence that the painting she’d valued wasn’t a fake.

‘And you are sure that you didn’t just make a mistake?’

She scowled and Sebastian thought that for a moment he saw more than just professional ego shimmering in her eyes.

‘Very. You stole that painting and replaced it with a forgery. I have absolutely no idea why you would then have arranged for the painting to be damaged in a way that revealed the whole thing, nor why Abrani would claim it to have been a fake all along. And, to be honest, I don’t care. But I know you did.’

‘How?’ he asked, genuinely curious.

‘In the last ten years you have made twelve offers for that painting. Each one has been turned down. You have shown zero interest in any other Durrántez painting, yet this one clearly holds a fascination for you. At the private viewing, of every single person there, you alone did not watch in fascinated horror the damage being done to a painting valued at one hundred million pounds. And why? Because