be proper, it would have to be beyond reproach. It would have to be something that no one could take away from her.
But they had taken it away from her. Even when she’d followed the rules. Done everything perfectly and absolutely right. As the reality of her suspension began to sink in, so did the maths. She might have held down two after-school jobs as a teenager, but her university education had cost her greatly. She had debts of nearly twenty-eight thousand pounds that her position at Bonnaire’s had barely managed to scratch the surface of. And even a month’s suspension could seriously damage her credit history, let alone her housing.
As nausea rose in her stomach, the grainy black and white image of Sebastian Rohan de Luen, smirking into his whisky rose in her mind. She knew that he was involved as sure as she knew a real painting from a fake. And she was going to do whatever it took to prove it.
INTERVIEWER TWO: So, despite direct orders from your manager, you approached the Duque de Gaeten.
INTERVIEWER ONE: [low laugh] And how did that go down?
It had taken Sia less than twenty-four hours to decide her course of action and track him down. The man had a social media page that was as effective as Google Maps, so it wasn’t finding him that had taken the most time. No. It was finding her courage. Her plan was simple. Seduce him, find the painting, steal the painting. Or re-steal it anyway. Sia tucked her morals away on that front. Because surely it couldn’t be illegal if she was returning stolen property?
No, she decided. It wouldn’t. Even if she did benefit from it. Because surely if she returned the painting, the real painting, she would prove that she hadn’t made a mistake and Bonnaire’s would reinstate her. She would prove that she was good at her job.
That she was nothing like her father.
She shook the thought from her head as she approached what looked to be just another row of impossibly rich houses in Mayfair, each fronted with two Ionic columns either side of a sleek, shiny black door with a bronze lion’s head door knocker. In fact, only the door with the large suited man in front was in use as, beyond the door, the partitions between the houses had been knocked down and the entire row had been converted into one of London’s most sought-after private clubs.
When she’d discovered where Sebastian would be she’d known that she’d need help. No way would she have been allowed within fifty feet of the place—even with her surname. But her friend Célia on the other hand... Even before she’d married Greek shipping tycoon Loukis Liordis, Célia had a company with a reputation that would have opened many doors, including this one.
‘Even if I get you in, chérie, you’re going to have to look the part. And, of course, you always look incredible, but you need to look...rich.’
Sia’s heart had sunk a little at her friend’s declaration.
‘This is important, oui?’
‘Yes.’
‘D’accord...’
Two hours later Sia had walked, wide-eyed, towards the green domed doors of Harrods where she met a lovely woman called Penelope who had been instructed to provide her with a complete outfit, hair and make-up for that evening and discreetly send any bill back to Célia.
She’d spent the next three hours in a complete daze. Dress after dress were given to her to try on, each one more beautiful than the last. When she had first conceived of her hare-brained scheme she had imagined herself in black, her hair pulled back into an efficient bun at the nape of her neck, her make-up simple. Something espionage-ish.
But now, as she looked down at the slash of silk peeking through the rich cashmere coat, she felt a tendril of excitement. Penelope had described the dress as teal and Sia had bitten her tongue. It wasn’t teal at all. The colour was more closely Prussian blue, her—and her father’s—favourite colour. She’d never once worn it, but when she’d seen in the mirror how well it complemented her pale skin and made her light auburn hair glow like gold she’d been speechless.
The stylist had batted Sia’s hands away when she’d insisted on having her hair up and then accused her of committing some great crime, which had made Sia blush more than necessary. So she’d sat back and let him have her way. Sia’s hair had been spun into large, seemingly careless waves that softened features that