A diffuse restlessness hummed in his body as he dressed himself for the Blackstone dinner. He couldn’t shake a sense of caution about accepting the invitation. There were good reasons for attending: one, to advance the charm offensive on Lady Catriona, and two, every dinner was a potential gold mine for new business acquaintances. What gave him pause was that according to his wife, Mr. Blackstone had once dealt in antiques, and the circle of such dealers in Europe was small enough for people to know of one another. Elias had never heard the name Blackstone during his involvements, and since he was at best an incidental actor in the dark web on the continent, there was no pressing reason to avoid the man. And yet, some instinct warned him to step carefully tonight.
* * *
—
He should have listened to his gut feeling. Too late now; he was already in Blackstone’s richly decorated reception room, shaking hands with the man. While the name Blackstone had never come to his attention in artifact circles, there had been talk of “the scarred Scotsman.” His host had greeted him with a faint but undeniable Scottish accent. A scar bisected Blackstone’s upper lip and his nose had been broken at some point. Elias stared at the bump on the man’s nasal bridge a bit too intently while memory fragments, deemed irrelevant at the time, resurfaced and clicked into place.
The Scotsman’s dark brow rose. “Would you care for some refreshments, Mr. Khoury?”
He motioned a waiter with a champagne tray closer and picked up two glasses. “Mrs. Blackstone is sorting out some issue with the cook,” he told Elias. “She’s very pleased that you are joining us at such short notice.”
“My pleasure,” Elias said, already composed again. He had heard of Blackstone. Blackstone wouldn’t have heard of him.
There were perhaps thirty people in the reception room. A musical quartet played soft classical tunes in one corner, and the sweet fragrance of hothouse roses wafted over from antique vases. A painting depicting the abduction of Persephone took up the wall above the fireplace and presided over a notably animated group of guests. The blond Lady Lucinda was part of the group, but a woman in blue with severe hair was nowhere in sight. He imagined Catriona’s face, should she find out about his past dealings thanks to Blackstone tonight, and an emotion tightened his chest. It felt suspiciously like guilt. He had nothing to feel guilty about. Wester Ross had absconded to sell his land before Elias could disclose his perfectly honorable intentions to him.
“The champagne is from the Montagne de Reims,” Mr. Blackstone said, his pronunciation terrible. “Do you reside in France by any chance, Mr. Khoury?”
Elias met the sharp gray gaze over the rim of his glass. “No. I’m based in Beirut.”
“It’s a booming city, I understand.”
“It is.”
“Mrs. Blackstone says you’re an expert on artifacts?”
“She’s too gracious,” Elias replied. “I understand you deal in antiques?”
Blackstone’s face remained a mask. “Not in years. My wife showed me the error of my ways over a pair of Han vases. My interest is in modern British paintings now. You’re welcome to visit my gallery in Chelsea.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Good, good. Ah, there she is.”
Mrs. Blackstone’s curly red head had appeared at the door. Next to her was Catriona. Elias lowered his champagne goblet before it met his lips. She wore red. A deep, rich shade of claret that appeared almost black. The velvet hugged her figure as seamlessly as though she had been poured into the fabric. A stiff little collar closed snugly around her neck, but the bodice had a cutout that exposed a generous triangle of smooth skin from the hollow of her throat to the tops of her breasts. Heat licked over the surface of his chest. Their eyes met in a flash of raw appraisal, and her composed posture quavered.
Mrs. Blackstone tugged her toward the men, chattering about a kerfuffle in the kitchen.
“Do have another drink or two, and some fruit,” she urged Elias, a hand on his sleeve. “Goodness, at this rate we’ll all be sozzled before the first course.” She touched her husband’s arm. “Dear, a word?”
The pair moved over to the sideboard.
Elias turned to Catriona just as she faced him, and his shoulders loomed over hers. He couldn’t bring himself to step back. Her dark hair was gathered up in a pile of soft ringlets, and a curl had come loose and grazed her left cheekbone. The flower-scented air suddenly felt heavy in his lungs. Her breasts were rising and falling rather rapidly against the velvety neckline, too. He dragged his gaze up again and was met with another surprise.