Playing the Billionaire's Game - Pippa Roscoe Page 0,8

hair to the point of her diamond-encrusted blue heels and back again. He knew that the gaze was insolent and tried to cling to that feeling instead of succumbing to the simple desire to relish her. She was exquisite.

He challenged any man to refute the allure of her hair. Stunning long, honeyed, golden tendrils fell in waves down her back. This close, he could see that her make-up was subtle, allowing an incredible innate beauty to shine. The sheen from the silk glowed beneath the subtle lighting of the room, the shadows showing the shapely outline of her legs, crossed at the knee, legs that were so long Sebastian thought she might actually stand face to face with his six-foot frame. The slash of silk across her collarbone perfectly displayed a long elegant neck and the sleeveless cut showed off arms that were slender but shapely. There was a concealed power to both her body and the whip-smart mind he could tell was running through myriad possibilities and reactions to the words that would next come from his mouth.

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