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Suddenly his eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Antonio. Emerging onto the terrace, he was making his way slowly in Raphael’s direction, surrounded by a small crowd of devotees. He was dressed as immaculately as ever, in a perfectly cut silvery-grey suit with his trademark white rose in the buttonhole, but Raphael was alarmed to see how much his father had aged in the time he had been away. As Antonio approached Raphael could see the unhealthy pallor of his lips, and the lines of exhaustion etched into his elegant, haughty face.
‘Father.’
Caught off-guard, Antonio was unable to disguise his shock. Swiftly recovering his composure, he managed a chilly smile.
‘Raphael. What a surprise. What are you doing here?’
‘I had to come back for the Press Photography Awards in Venice on Saturday, but I have some business to attend to in Florence as well. Lazaro business, actually.’
Antonio’s eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘Si? After all this time? You walked out on Lazaro two years ago, Raphael. I cannot imagine what business you would have here now.’
‘I need to have a look at the company accounts.’
Antonio’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are short of money? Is that it? Maybe you should have thought of that before you left your job here to go off and photograph peasants in the back of beyond. Awards don’t pay the bills, Raphael.’
A muscle flickered in Raphael’s cheek. When he spoke, his voice was dangerously quiet. ‘As far as I know I’m still listed as one of the company directors, so I am perfectly within my rights to have access to the accounts. Tomorrow, if that suits you. I’ll need to see you once I’ve finished going through them.’
‘Tomorrow is impossible. I have an interview about the retrospective with Italian Vogue in the morning, and the perfume launch in the afternoon.’ Antonio looked suddenly exhausted, and seemed anxious to get away. ‘Anyway, Raphael, you know how I loathe having anything to do with money. Luca is Financial Director, I leave everything to him. He’s here somewhere—why don’t you speak to him about it?’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Luca is your brother. All that nonsense with Catalina is in the past—you can’t still hate him for something that happened—what?—two years ago?’
Raphael felt his mouth twist into a sneer of contempt. ‘Believe me, Father, I’ve discovered plenty more things to hate him for since then.’
But Antonio wasn’t listening. With a dismissive wave of his hand in the direction of the palazzo he said, ‘There he is. Sort something out with him.’
Luca Di Lazaro was leaning nonchalantly against the open French door, his broad frame filling the doorway and effectively blocking the escape of whichever unfortunate girl he had ensnared. Raphael’s heart gave a lurch of pure loathing as he watched Luca lean down to say something to the girl. Something meaningless and flattering, no doubt. Something guaranteed to put her at her ease and charm her into a false sense of security. It was a routine he had perfected on countless naïve young models over the years, as Raphael knew to his cost. His own girlfriend had been one of them, after all.
At that moment Luca shifted slightly to one side, coming to rest with deceptive ease, his back against the door frame. The movement gave Raphael a clear view of the girl he had trapped.
She had changed the transparent dress for a silk slip that, in hiding her delicious body, only seemed to emphasise its voluptuousness. The soft light from the room beyond cast a halo around the contours of her curves.
Adrenalin pulsed through him, hot and powerful. Without hesitating, or giving his father so much as a backward glance, Raphael found himself shouldering his way through the crowd towards them. Company accounts were the last thing on his mind as he wrestled with the primitive urge to push everyone out of the way, grab the girl from Luca and take her as far away as possible.
Luca straightened up as he approached.
‘Well, well. The prodigal son returns.’ His voice was slippery with sarcasm, and Raphael raked a hand through his hair in an attempt to stop himself punching that bland, handsome face. ‘I would introduce you, but we’ve only just met and I haven’t found out this beauty’s name yet…’
Raphael’s reaction was instant. Giving Luca a smile that would have frozen the Mediterranean, he turned to the woman with a light inclination of his head, praying she wouldn’t give him away.
‘Cara? Is there anyone else you’d like to meet, or are you ready to go?’
He allowed himself a small moment of triumph as he watched the look of surprise and something that resembled anxiety spread across Luca’s face before turning his attention back to the girl.
Her eyes were the clear turquoise-green of old glass, and they glinted, catlike, in the light of the crystal chandeliers. Lust sliced through Raphael with the painless precision of a razor-blade as he registered the spreading darkness at their centre.
There was the smallest hesitation before she replied. Her accent was English, her voice low and breathless.
‘I’m all yours…darling.’
OK, for one night only Eve Middlemiss—BA hons and general clever clogs—was prepared to admit she’d been wrong.
There was such a thing as destiny. And he was standing right beside her.
They crossed the main reception area of the palazzo, his hand resting lightly in the small of her back, his thumb gently caressing the hollow at the base of her spine. Away from the main buzz of the party a few guests stood talking quietly in small groups, and uniformed staff hovered discreetly. Eve was dimly aware of their curious glances as she passed, but was almost beyond caring.
Almost. And then she remembered Ellie.
‘I have to get back…I really shouldn’t…’
As the words left her lips she knew they were completely unconvincing. She’d tried to adopt a firm, businesslike tone, but failed spectacularly. Something odd had happened to her voice, so that she sounded as if she was auditioning as a sex-line operator, and above the storm of hormone-fuelled emotions inside her a demonic alter-ego whispered, Forget Ellie just for one night. Do something for your own sake for a change.
He looked down at her. His face was completely expressionless.
‘You don’t, and you should. Believe me.’
His grip tightened on her waist, sending another shower of shooting stars down her spine and turning her stomach to water. She tried to laugh, but it came out as a gasp.
‘I don’t understand…I don’t make a habit of this sort of thing…’
His beautiful mouth twitched into the ghost of a smile. ‘Do you think that isn’t obvious? That’s exactly why I had to get you out of the clutches of that…low-life.’
‘He seemed very charming.’
‘Appearances can be deceptive.’
He pulled her into a quiet gallery off the main hallway, dimly lit by lamps placed on tables along the length of its walls. Just inside the door he stopped and turned to her, his face shadowed. God, her stomach wasn’t the only thing he turned to water, she thought, feeling liquid heat seeping into the silk and lace of her tiny thong.
‘Shouldn’t I be allowed to decide that for myself?’ she whispered.
His hair was raven-dark, falling over his forehead and accentuating the hollows beneath cheekbones that looked as if they had been chiselled in marble. Despite the perfection of his features, he carried with him an aura of exhaustion and despair, and she had to curl her hands into fists to stop herself reaching out and touching him, trying to soothe away the tension in his jaw and the haunted look in his dark eyes.
‘I couldn’t risk you making the wrong decision.’
‘What makes you think I’d do that?’
He gave a hollow laugh. ‘It’s happened before.’ Reaching out, he slipped a finger under the slender silk strap of her dress, which had slipped down her arm, and with infinite gentleness slid it back into place. In the silence Eve heard her own small whimper of longing as his fingers brushed her quivering skin.
Wrenching his hand away, he half turned, his haughty, aristocratic face a mask of reserve. Only the dark, glittering pools of his eyes betrayed his desire as he swung back to face her.
The moan that escaped him as his mouth found hers was the sound of a man surrendering control. His hands entwined themselves in the thick silk of her hair, pulling her to him, imprisoning her lips with his, so that her cries of naked desire were consumed in the furnace of his kiss. With savage urgency his tongue explored the velvet depths of her mouth, then, leaving her gasping her pleasure and desperation into the stillness of the empty room, moved downwards to her jaw, her neck, the perfumed, pulsing hollow at the base of her throat. Helplessly she felt her fingers sliding into his hair, willing him onward, downward, to where her nipples strained against the silk of her dress, yearning for the exquisite warmth of his mouth…
A discreet cough from the doorway stopped him in his tracks.
‘Signor di Lazaro? Signor Raphael di Lazaro? Scusi, but it’s your father. I’m afraid it’s urgent.’
And then he was gone, leaving her dazed, disorientated, and struck dumb with horror.
This man wasn’t her destiny. He was her nemesis.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS just a small scrap of paper, torn from the back of a pocket diary or notebook.
Lying in the darkness beneath crisp hotel sheets, Eve held it close to her body, absentmindedly sliding it through her finger and thumb so that she could feel the difference in texture along the torn edge and the slight stiffness where at some point coffee been spilled on it.
She didn’t need to switch the light on and look at it to know that the coffee stain was in the shape of a rather fat rabbit, or to read the numbers 592, which were the only remainders of the phone number that had once been written there. She had studied that scrap of paper in such minute detail so often over the last two years that she even knew that the smooth bit underneath her thumb right now was where the words Raphael di Lazaro were written. And just below and to the left of that, just by the rabbit’s ear, was where it said drugs.
The girl Ellie had shared a flat with in Florence—Catalina someone or other—had sent her things back to England following her death, and when Eve had finally been able to face going through them she had found this tucked into one of the pockets of Ellie’s jeans. The rest of the writing might have been consigned to eternal oblivion by the coffee, but Eve hardly needed to have it spelled out to her. These had to be the contact details of the person who had supplied Ellie with heroin. And that person was Raphael Di Lazaro.
By the time Eve had found the paper di Lazaro had already disappeared into darkest Columbia, and the Italian authorities had recorded a verdict of accidental death on Ellie and closed the case. But as far as Eve was concerned it wasn’t over. She had vowed to expose Raphael di Lazaro for what he was, no matter how long it took her to do it. Which was why, when Lou had called her at work two days ago, to report that a paparazzi contact had spotted him arriving back at Florence’s airport, she hadn’t hesitated in going along with Lou’s ridiculous plan. After all, strutting down a catwalk and pretending to be a fashion journalist were pretty insignificant hoops to jump through in order finally to come face to face with the man who was responsible for Ellie’s death.
Her fingers tightened around the piece of paper until it was scrunched up in the palm of her hand. She had certainly succeeded in doing that.
Big style.
Face to face, lip to lip, body to body…
Oh, sweet heaven…
She started violently as her mobile phone burst into noisy life on the bedside table, letting out a shrill explosion of sound whilst simultaneously vibrating madly and glowing fluorescent green in the darkness. Eve made a clumsy grab for it, knocking over a glass of water in the process, and accidentally switching it on just as she swore graphically.
‘Eve?’
Oh, God. It was Marissa Fox, editor of Glitterati, sounding terrifyingly brisk and efficient.
‘Sorry. I mean—yes. Sorry’
Mercifully, Marissa cut her off mid-stutter. ‘Look, Eve, I know the whole idea is that you’re shadowing Sienna, but can I be an awful bore and ask you to tear yourself away from her for an hour or so and pop down to cover the press conference this morning?’
Eve sat bolt upright in the hope it would make her sound more awake. ‘Press conference?’ she echoed faintly.
‘Yes, darling.’ There was a steely edge to Marissa’s voice that was more effective than any alarm clock. ‘Di Lazaro’s doctors are giving a press conference this morning on his prognosis. Not good, according to my sources.’
Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Eve felt the blood drain from her head.
Was Raphael hurt?
‘Eve? Are you still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘You do know that Antonio di Lazaro suffered a heart attack as he was leaving the party last night, don’t you?’
‘Antonio?’ Relief flooded through her, followed by a wave of self-disgust. Why should she care whether Raphael was hurt or not? If someone else had got there first it would save her the bother of doing it herself. But deny her the satisfaction.
‘Right. Yes, sorry—of course I knew that he’d been taken ill,’ she lied hastily. ‘Everyone I spoke to sort of played it down. Is it serious?’
‘Well, you’ll find that out at the press conference, darling,’ Marissa replied acidly. ‘Ten o’clock at the Santa Maria Nuova hospital. I’d go myself, but miraculously I’ve managed to get an appointment in the hotel spa for a Seaweed Body Wrap and Triple Oxygen Facial. I’ll be cutting it fine for the perfume launch as it is.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Such a shame that Lou’s got this hideous shellfish allergy—she’s always rather good at the whole press conference circus. But I’m sure you can manage just as well—can’t you, darling?’
Eve groped for her glasses and pushed them on, almost swearing out loud again as she squinted at her watch in the gloom. Nine-twenty.
‘Press conference? Absolutely. No problem. I’ll be there.’ Stumbling out of bed, she made a huge effort to sound like the professional journalist that Lou had told Marissa she was. ‘So…is it a…big press conference?’ She pulled open the lavishly swagged curtains, wincing as bright sunlight highlighted the chaos in the room, and the fact that Sienna’s bed was the only thing that was still neat and unused. ‘Are we expecting…er…statements from just the medical team, or will the family be present as well?’
‘Family? Good heavens, darling, I shouldn’t think so. Antonio’s heart attack didn’t stop Luca partying till the early hours, so I doubt he’ll be in any state to face the press—which just leaves Raphael, and he’s utterly allergic to publicity in any form. He’s quite pathologically anti-journalists and paparazzi. Ah! Here’s breakfast. Do you know, darling, this is supposed to be Florence’s top hotel, and they don’t do wheatgrass juice! Can you believe it? Anyway, darling, must dash. Give my love to Sienna, won’t you? Hope you’re getting lots of juicy gossip for the interview—can’t wait to see the copy. I’ll catch up with you both at the launch. Ciao, darling!’
Head reeling, Eve exhaled slowly into the sudden silence, and for a moment considered throwing herself onto the bed and screaming very loudly into a pillow. It was tempting, but ultimately not very constructive. And right now she needed help.
Picking her way through the ankle-deep mulch of discarded designer clothing that was the only sign of Sienna’s occupancy in the room, Eve speed-dialled Lou.
Waiting for her to pick up, Eve felt her panic start to subside. Lou would know what to do—about the press conference and the case of the disappearing supermodel and yesterday’s embarrassing incident, where the guy she’d thought was the man of her dreams had actually turned out to be—oops, sorry—the dark figure who stalked her nightmares.
No. No. Noooo! Please, please don’t be…
Voicemail.
With a wail of anguish Eve threw her phone down and stood motionless for a moment in the middle of the room, as the panic returned and threatened to overwhelm her. Lou always said that when things went wrong all you had to do was imagine a way in which they could be worse. At that particular moment Eve couldn’t think of one.
But a minute later, examining her reflection in the enormous Hollywood-style bathroom mirror, she was spared the bother of trying.
Her face, above a skimpy T-shirt with a picture of Shakespeare on the front, was deathly pale, with last night’s mascara still smudged beneath her eyes. Her hair, cut yesterday for the fashion show into what the stylist had called ‘sexy tousled layers’ was now so sexily tousled that she looked as if she’d enjoyed a non-stop, all-night love-fest. All things considered, out of the two of them it was Shakespeare who looked the livelier. And the more attractive. And he’d been dead for nearly four hundred years.
She had just fifteen minutes to turn the day around and transform herself into a sleek, professional fashion journalist.
Fifteen minutes…and the entire cosmetic collection of one of the world’s hottest supermodels.
How hard could it be?
She might have left the hotel without her glasses, but it wasn’t hard to find the conference room at the Santa Mariá Nuova hospital. All she had to do was follow the click-clack of kitten heels and the wafts of expensive fragrance of a hundred fashionistas.
Finding a space beside a tarty-looking blonde from one of the less salubrious celebrity gossip magazines, Eve rummaged in her bag for the little tape recorder Lou had lent her and, unable to see properly without her glasses, took three attempts to insert a new tape.
The blonde girl threw her a sympathetic glance. ‘Tough night last night?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Me too. My hangover’s so bad I could do with joining di Lazaro in Intensive Care.’
Eve smiled. Thankfully she was spared the necessity of explaining that she was suffering the after-effects of intoxication of a different kind by the appearance of a woman, and two men in doctor’s coats on the platform at the front of the room. A searing flare of disappointment tore through her like a physical pain at the realisation that Raphael was not amongst them.
She had to see him again, she rationalised silently, gritting her teeth. What had happened last night had raised more questions than it had answered, and whichever way you looked at it she had a whole lot of unfinished business regarding Raphael di Lazaro.
Taking their places at a starched white table, the trio on the platform looked as if they were about to ask for the wine list. Eve recognised the woman from the retrospective as Alessandra Ferretti, Lazaro’s formidable and deeply attractive press officer. She took the centre seat, with a doctor on either side of her, and for a moment the three of them spoke quietly between themselves, before Ferretti checked her watch and leaned forward to speak into the microphone in a ridiculously husky voice.
‘Buongiorno.’
The army of reporters shifted expectantly, pens, cameras, tape recorders poised. But then a door at the back of the room opened, and everyone swung round to look at the latecomer.
