“This is gold dust,” said Guy, his phone camera capturing the images laid out on the desk.

“You think you can help?”

“Definitely. I did some searches into the De-Veers after you messaged me. This is a great story.”

With steady hands, Guy turned page after page of Heba’s sketchbooks, carefully documenting every single painting.

“You need to let me speak to Isaac before you go to print, okay?”

“I said yes already,” he said, still snapping.

“I need you to promise me.”

“I pinky-promise swear,” he said sarcastically.

“Guy, this is important to me.”

He lowered his phone momentarily. “I promise I won’t break the story until you’ve spoken to Isaac and he’s given me the okay.”

“The reason he hasn’t done it himself is because the family have been burned before. He can’t afford a big legal battle,” said Nory.

She was starting to have second thoughts. Guy was a brilliant investigative journalist, but he was also a giant arsehole. He wouldn’t screw her over, would he?

“If this goes the way I think it will, he won’t have any legal fees at all. The De-Veers won’t want to be seen as condoning the actions of ancestors who stole the paintings of a poor immigrant woman for their own personal gain. Certainly not with Marcus De-Veer hoping for a place in the next Cabinet reshuffle. They don’t need that kind of negative heat.”

Nory bit her lip and picked at the skin on the side of her thumb. Guy leafed through the final sketchbook, snapping every page until he had a comprehensive gallery of Heba’s secret artworks.

“Done,” he said. “When is Isaac due back?”

“Not for a while, but I don’t want to take any chances. I’ll get these back in the trunk. Can you let yourself out?”

She began to gently close the sketchbooks and pile them up. Guy rustled about in his messenger bag. Suddenly she felt his hands at her waist.

“Guy!” She tried to shake him off, but he tightened his grip, spinning her around to face him. His legs were splayed on either side of hers so that she was trapped between him and the desk. “Guy, I’m serious, let me go.” She shoved at his chest, but he only leaned closer, so that she was bending backward over the desk.

“Come on, Nory, you wouldn’t have asked for my help if you didn’t still want me on some level,” he said huskily.

“I mean it, Guy, fuck off!”

Guy loosened his grip. He looked suddenly shamefaced, his face ashen.

“Sorry, Nory, I thought . . .” He was still leaning over her, horror in his eyes.

“What did you think?” she hissed at him. “For fuck’s sake!”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m so sorry.” He reached his hand around to support her back and help her straighten up.

“What the fuck is this?”