Playing the Billionaire's Game

After that, it had been the children at school. Her hair would have been target enough had the newspapers not been full of photos of her father—the most notorious art forger in England. Ever. Mothers refused to let their children near her, and teachers eyed her as if she would steal the shoes from their feet if they didn’t watch her closely enough.

And while her aunt had given her food and board, there was little money for anything else. So when Sia hadn’t had her head in her books, feeling an illicit pang as she traced her fingers over images of paintings she had once seen her father delight in copying, she had held down two after-school jobs, knowing that, whatever shape her future would take, it would have to involve university. Because it would have to 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 bitt

en 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 she’d been told far too many times were ‘strong’ in a way that clearly meant ‘masculine’.

By the time she’d reached the suited man by the sleek black door of Victoriana she’d half convinced herself that all of that preparation had been for nothing and she’d be turned away, despite Célia’s involvement, and was almost breathing a sigh of relief that she could simply go back home and curl up on the sofa, when the man greeted her by name and the door swung open, inviting her in.

She bit her tongue as she was greeted by a young woman dressed in a pair of tweed breeks and a contrasting waistcoat over a white shirt. Sia found herself looking around for a riding crop, such was the effect. Victoriana indeed.

Sia’s coat was taken and she was led down the corridor towards what could have been called a drawing room but was so large that the word simply didn’t do it justice. Along one side was a marble bar that stretched the entire length of the room. Behind it stood barmen and women, dressed similarly to the girl presently guiding Sia towards a seat, who was explaining the different rooms spinning off from the hallway behind, words like library, billiard room, morning room, orangery...all of which disappeared into the gentle hum of the conversations of the people.

Sia soon found herself deposited into a beautiful mahogany stool lined with a worn green leather seat at the bar, in front of a man looking expectantly at her with a broad smile.

‘What’s your poison?’

Sebastian Rohan de Luen, she thought.

The barman interpreted her silence as confusion and pressed on, not unkindly, with another question. ‘What flavours do you like?’

‘Ginger. Rum,’ she decided. Not usually much of a drinker, Sia decided that some Dutch courage wouldn’t go amiss. But she would stop at the one. Because instinctively she knew that she would need all her wits about her.

While the barman created her cocktail Sia scanned the room, trying not to show her surprise at the number of famous faces she saw. A TV star sat with the male model currently gracing Piccadilly Circus’s illuminated advertising boards. A politician was pressing far too closely into someone he really shouldn’t have been, and a news presenter was having a heated debate with a foreign dignitary.