Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | The Forbidden Touch of Sanguardo

The Forbidden Touch of Sanguardo
Julia James
Her heart-rate was raised, rapidly. And she knew exactly what had caused it. Rafael Sanguardo…Celeste Philips’s night was meant to be about raising money for charity. Not trying to douse the flames of attraction between herself and Rafael Sanguardo. The millionaire who always gets what he wants.But the more Celeste’s head tells her to walk away and protect her fragile heart…the more she craves his forbidden touch!



‘Goodnight, Mr Sanguardo,’ Celeste said, her smile flickering uncertainly.
For a moment she just went on standing there, looking at him.
Letting the impact he made on her retinas be absorbed into her.
‘Goodnight, Celeste,’ Rafael answered. He gave her a brief nod of farewell and got back into the car. The chauffeur slammed the door and went to the driver’s seat.
Celeste stepped inside the entrance hall, shut the door and went upstairs. Her heart-rate was raised, she knew.
It’s the stairs—just the stairs—because I’m hurrying too much!
But it was not the stairs. For as she turned on the light in her flat and went to the living room windows to pull the curtains, and looked down to the pavement at the car starting to pull into the road now that she was safely inside, she could feel her heart’s hectic beating.
And she knew exactly what had caused it.
Rafael Sanguardo …
His name echoed in her head. Circling around. Not letting her go.
JULIA JAMES lives in England with her family. Harlequin Mills & Boon
were the first ‘grown-up’ books she read as a teenager, alongside Georgette Heyer and Daphne du Maurier, and she’s been reading them ever since. Julia adores the English and Celtic countryside, in all its seasons, and is fascinated by all things historical, from castles to cottages. She also has a special love for the Mediterranean—’The most perfect landscape after England!’—and considers both ideal settings for romance stories. In between writing she enjoys walking, gardening, needlework, baking extremely gooey cakes and trying to stay fit!
Recent titles by the same author:
PAINTED THE OTHER WOMAN
THE DARK SIDE OF DESIRE
FROM DIRT TO DIAMONDS
FORBIDDEN OR FOR BEDDING?
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
The
Forbidden Touch
of Sanguardo
Julia James


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To the utterly unforgettable holidays I’ve been privileged to have in Hawaii, which inspired the romantic setting for Celeste and Rafael. (And, yes, I did go on a star-gazing expedition—just like they did!!!!)
Contents
CHAPTER ONE (#uf5c5b378-450f-5fab-b5a1-e171b8cf9f3a)
CHAPTER TWO (#u55b31249-420b-5f28-a3c8-d395be8cf47c)
CHAPTER THREE (#u9bb19a6f-b9b3-5524-a942-8892b72bbac9)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u0527b0e3-02f7-5f79-900d-e648cf218aee)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
EXTRACT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
CELESTE STOOD POISED at the head of the long curving flight of marble stairs that led down into the great hall below. It was already crowded with people in black tie and evening clothes, and servers were circulating with trays of champagne and canapés. Her fellow models for the evening were mingling in evening dress, prior to the charity fashion show that was about to start. She had arrived slightly late at the stately home in Oxfordshire that was the evening’s venue, but had seized the last-minute opportunity to be here tonight, well away from London—and from Karl Reiner.
Celeste’s expression tautened even just from her thinking about the man. She had known when she became the new face of Blonde Visage, one of the skincare ranges belonging to Reiner Visage—one for each complexion type—that Karl Reiner liked to have a more than professional relationship with the Reiner Visage models, but because he had been preoccupied with another ‘face’—Monique Silva—Celeste had felt it safe to allow herself to be tempted by the lucrative contract. Making good, regular money was, even after years in the fickle and intensely competitive modelling business, not something to turn down lightly.
A bleak expression lit the back of her eyes.
There was never, ever, any such thing as easy money—
She of all people should know that...
For now Karl had tired of Monique and was turning his attention to Celeste—and he assumed she would be as willing as Monique had been.
Celeste’s expression hardened. Karl Reiner could assume what he liked, but he would not get what he was after from her. Not even now he had flown in from New York this weekend specifically to pressure her to extend her contract—and pay the price he wanted her to pay for it.
Well, she would not be extending it. Yes, the money had been good, but these days making money was not the be all and end all of her preoccupations. A cold miasma seemed to touch at her skin. Not any more...
Her refusal was a message Karl Reiner didn’t want to hear, and he had demanded she make herself available to have dinner with him in London tonight. To evade him Celeste had been obliged to volunteer at a late hour for the charity fashion show that was shortly to take place in the grand salon.
Just thinking about Karl Reiner and what he wanted of her—what he thought she would provide—intensified the feeling of a cold miasma on her skin. It was penetrating into her like a toxic memory, fetid and foul...
With effort, she pushed it from her mind.
No! She would not think—would not remember.
She had dealt with those memories long ago! Paid the price for dealing with them—a price she was still paying, must always pay—and it was a price she paid because there was no alternative. Could never be.
All she could do was what she had done for years now—build her career, focus only on that. Be dedicated, hard-working.
On her own.
Always on her own.
For a last fleeting moment the bleakness showed in her eyes again. She knew far too well the price she was paying for those memories whose dank tendrils dragged across her flesh.
A stab of self-revulsion jabbed at her. Once she had lacerated herself with such stabs, but she gave herself a mental shake. She would not let anything drag her mind down such dark pathways. She was here tonight to do a job. One she had done a hundred times before.
Yet as she gathered her long skirts gracefully, preparing to descend into the thronged hall below, something stayed her for one last moment. She felt as if something were different tonight. As if she were poised on the edge of her familiar world. On the threshold of a new one.
Then, with a sharp, dismissive intake of breath, she took a step forward and started to move down the staircase. There was no new world awaiting her. There could not be.
She did not need the echo of that trailing miasma across her skin to tell her that...
* * *
Rafael Sanguardo stood, empty champagne glass loosely held in long fingers, and let his dark gaze rest on his opulently baroque surroundings, painted and gilded to profusion. It was an irony not lost on him that, as one of the sponsors of the charity, he should be a guest here—considering that it had been the exploited wealth of the Americas that had built this eighteenth-century splendour and that it had been the labour of his peon ancestors, albeit under Spanish colonial masters and not British ones, who had so signally contributed to this display of old-world wealth.
But now history had turned its wheel of fortune. In the global village of the twenty-first century it was the industrious entrepreneurship of former colonials who generated much of the world’s wealth—and Rafael Sanguardo knew he could count himself one of their number.
Thanks to his own intelligence, determination and drive, he had transformed himself in little more than a dozen years from an orphaned teenager living in one of the smallest of the string of countries stretching from Mexico to Colombia, via a philanthropic scholarship to a prestigious North American university, into a serial entrepreneur who had backed a succession of highly successful companies and who could now, had he so wished, have made his home in just such a palatial pile as the one he was tonight a guest in.
That was not his preference, however. He was footloose, preferring to rent apartments in London and New York and stay in hotels in whichever other countries he did business in. ‘Settling down’ was not on his agenda.
Not any more.
Madeline had seen to that.
Into his head stabbed the last words she had thrown at him. Mocking. Furious. Thwarted.
‘Why, Rafe, darling, what a puritan you are!’
But her taunting had masked anger, lashing out at him. Repelling him as much as what she had disclosed to him had repelled him.
Repelled him still...
He pulled his thoughts away. Madeline was history. Out of his life. And she should be out of his head, too. She was not worth even the memory...
There was only one thing Madeline was worth—had only ever been worth—and that was what was most precious to her.
Money.
Rafael’s mouth tightened. His eyes darkened. Well, now Madeline had all the money she craved—but money was all she had. Even though she had once craved more. Memory darkened his expression again. She had once craved him—craved everything that had once been between them.
Their affair had lit up like a torch between them. It had been a match that had seemed to be ideally cast. He the self-made, darkly handsome Latino multimillionaire, she the British flame-haired British beauty whose business abilities had made her as rich as him. They had been a wealthy, glamorous couple, cutting a swathe wherever they went.
Then it had ended.
Like an unwelcome replay, he saw the scene inside his head yet again.
Madeline was looking at him. Looking at him with her almond-shaped emerald eyes from where she lay on the bed, her fabulous auburn hair tumbling sensuously around her naked shoulders. Her lush, peaked breasts were on show for him. So was the rest of her curved, enticing body. She lay, lounging back on the pillows. Alluring. Seductive.
‘Now tell me you don’t want me, Rafe, darling,’ she purred.
She let her thighs slacken, easing her hand sensually along the divide between her legs.
He walked to the bedroom door. Turned to look at her. Still repelled.
‘Be gone by the time I get back,’ he told her.
Then he left.
He heard her laughter—that rich, mocking laughter—infused with what he knew was a jibing anger at him for his rejection of her, following him as he shut the front door of his apartment behind him.
It tried to follow him still, that mocking, jibing, angry laughter, as he knew she wanted it to.
But its power was gone.
Just as Madeline had gone. Out of his life—totally.
Now even the thought of Madeline repelled him. As did everything about her...her looks, her attitude, her ambition, her values. Everything.
A hovering waiter pulled him back to where he was, and with a slight smile of thanks Rafael placed his glass on the extended tray. As he turned back, something caught his eye.
Someone.
Walking down the sweeping staircase with an aura about her that made his gaze focus piercingly. Taking in everything about her.
Pale beauty. Hair caught in a chignon the colour of champagne at the nape of her swan-like neck. Her face was in profile. Perfect profile. As perfect as her tall, slender body, sheathed in a single-shouldered ecru gown that moulded slight breasts, draped slender hips and dropped down long, long legs to skim slim ankles, revealed by the draping of her skirts, around which snaked the clasp of her heeled evening shoes.
She must surely be one of the models, he realised. Her height, her slenderness, the way she held herself, the way she wore her clearly couture gown—all indicated that. As she reached the foot of the stairs she blended into the throng and was lost to his view. He craned his head a moment, seeking her, but could not see her.
A sense of frustration at her disappearance caught at him. Then he stilled, frowning for a quite different reason. A jolt of realisation.
This was the first woman who had caught his attention since he had severed all links with Madeline—
Oh, plenty of women had sought his attention—he was well used to that—but in the grim aftermath of Madeline none had been of any interest to him.
So what is it about this one?
Yet even as the question formed he knew it was redundant. He could answer it immediately.
She is nothing at all like Madeline!
Madeline’s richly hued flashy beauty and her egoistic temperament had demanded that everyone look at her. The pale girl descending the staircase had looked as cool as Madeline had been fiery.
But there was more to the difference than looks, he sensed. Madeline would have descended the grand staircase like a drama queen, wanting everyone to gaze at her. To admire and envy her. To desire her.
This pale blonde girl had slipped down the steps as quietly as a ghost—as if she were not quite part of this world, as if she wanted no eyes drawn to her. Odd, he mused, in someone who was a model. If, of course, she was one.
Well, he thought, impatient to see her again, if she were, he had better go and take his seat and find out.
One thing he knew with certainty: whoever the pale, elusive blonde was, he wanted to see her again. His dark eyes glinted. Finally he’d seen a woman to spark his interest—an interest he definitely wanted to pursue. Would that interest survive acquaintance with her? Or would getting to know her put him off, despite that incredible pale beauty of hers?
Will she prove as flawed as Madeline?
That was the question that haunted him.
CHAPTER TWO
THE MUSIC WAS starting up—glitteringly baroque Vivaldi to suit the era of the house—and in well-practised order the models issued out onto the runway constructed down the centre of the long salon.
The first gown was the same one the models had worn while mingling with the guests, and Celeste was glad of it. It was exactly the kind of gown she would have chosen for herself, had she been a guest. Flattering, but revealing nothing more than a bare shoulder, and in one of the pale colours that she liked. Another model had once told her she must like disappearing into the background. Celeste had only smiled slightly. But the girl had been right, for all that.
Muted, understated, discreet—those were the fashion watchwords she adhered to. And one more, too.
Modest.
Not for her, in her own clothes, plunging necklines or thigh-skimming hemlines. Even on the beach she preferred a one-piece.
Now, as she swished along the runway, she felt the tension that had assailed her as she’d stood at the top of the stairs evaporate. Years of experience as a model made this kind of tightly choreographed display second nature to her, and she walked with assurance and poise until, at the foot of the runway, she paused to reverse her direction.
And froze.
Dark, long-lashed eyes, focussed on her. A shadowed face with lean cheeks, incised features. A mouth with deep lines around it. A sculpted jawline. Night-dark hair.
For a timeless moment the impression carved itself into her vision. Then, with a jolt, she knew she must start walking again. Jerkily, she paced back up to the head of the runway and was swept offstage into the melee of the changing area, to emerge minutes later in a vivid scarlet evening gown. All the way down the runway she was conscious of the man sitting at the far end. Wondering whether he’d be watching her.
Hectically, her thoughts tumbled inside her head. She’d been eyed up often enough in her time as a model—and even though she didn’t like it she never let it affect her.
So why had this man’s regard so affected her? Why had it impacted on her in the few seconds she’d had to register it? What was so different about it? About him...?
As she neared the end of the runway she steeled herself for that dark, penetrating gaze—which didn’t come. As she glanced briefly in his direction she saw that his attention was on his mobile phone. He was tapping in a text, long legs extended, completely ignoring her.
Immediately she felt her tension drop. She turned, skilfully manoeuvring her skirts, and plunged back up the runway. So much for that! she thought, with a wry dart of self-mockery.
Had she turned her head again, however, she might have felt differently.
Rafael’s eyes had lifted from his phone and were settled, instead, on her retreating form. They went on watching until she disappeared. Then, and only then, did he resume his tapping.
He found, however, that his mind was not on his emails.
* * *
The show was over, the applause was dying away and guests were heading off for the buffet supper awaiting them in the dining room across the entrance hall.
Rafael got to his feet. There was a sense of purpose about him. The models would be mingling with the guests again and he wanted to find her—stake his claim before anyone else could be as drawn to her pale, haunting beauty as he was.
But as his eyes searched the crowded dining room it came to him that she simply was not there. The other models were—but not the one he wanted to see. He frowned. So where was she? He crossed the hallway back into the salon, where the runway was being dismantled by workmen. Still no sign of her.
He saw that a glass door to the side was open, and slipped through on impulse. He found himself out on a terrace and walked down it to the end. Turning the corner, he saw gardens stretching out before him. Steps swept down to the level of the lawns.
A figure had paused at the edge. A female figure, her evening gown pale in the dim light, craning her neck upwards. But she wasn’t looking back at the mansion. She was looking up at the night sky.
Rafael’s dark eyes glinted in the starlight and he started to walk down the steps towards her.
* * *
Celeste was gazing upwards, rapt. It was a glorious starry night! In London stars were, at best, dim and hazy. But here in the countryside they were bright and vivid, the mighty sweep of the Milky Way clear in the heavens. So unimaginably distant...
Once she had wanted only to be taken up amongst them, leaving the earth far, far behind...
‘The ancient Chinese believed that the Milky Way was the source of the Yellow River.’
The voice came from behind her.
Celeste swirled round. There was little light, but she did not need light to tell her who this was. It was the man who had been looking at her as she’d walked along the runway. The man who had made her aware of him as no man ever had...
He was heading towards her. She could not see his features, only his height, his strolling elegance as he came to stand beside her. She heard the deep, accented timbre of his voice as he spoke again. Felt her nerve-endings start to send messages to her she did not want to feel!
‘They have a legend,’ he went on, ‘that says two lovers were cruelly parted by their parents and placed on either side of the Milky Way—the galactic river. We see them as stars, forever gazing at each other.’
He was looking at her as he spoke. Taking in her frozen stance, the sudden tension in her face. She looked, he thought, as if she was going to bolt—a reaction he found unusual in a woman. Long experience had taught him that women welcomed his attentions.
Madeline certainly had.
But she is not Madeline.
And that was what he wanted, he reminded himself. For her to be utterly different. So it was good that she was reacting as she was, wasn’t it? But whatever the reason for her radiating wariness on all frequencies he wanted to dispel it.
‘It’s incredible, isn’t it?’ he said, keeping his tone conversational. ‘To think of the vast distances of the heavens. Our galaxy is just one of billions, each with billions of stars.’ He frowned slightly. ‘Some of the stars we think of as stars are galaxies themselves. Andromeda is our closest, and it is...’ He searched the sky with his eyes.
‘It’s there,’ Celeste heard herself saying. ‘In the Andromeda constellation, between Pegasus and Cassiopeia. The galaxy is M31—Messier body thirty-one—but it’s not actually the closest galaxy to us, only to the Milky Way overall. It’s going to merge with the Milky Way eventually, and form a giant elliptical galaxy in a few billion years.’
She pointed jerkily upwards, mentally castigating herself for gabbling about galaxies and constellations, but other than marching away it had seemed the safest thing to do.
Though ‘safe’ was the very last thing she felt...
Her nerve-endings were firing in a way that she had never before experienced.
Rafael followed her gaze, then glanced across at her. Wanting to look at her. Wanting her to look at him. Wanting her to speak again.
He smiled appreciatively. ‘You’re very knowledgeable,’ he remarked.
‘I like stars,’ she answered, in the same abrupt, jerky manner. ‘They’re very far away.’
Even as she spoke she started. Why did I say that? Why am I standing here talking to him—letting him talk to me?
And why was the deep, accented timbre of his voice reaching into her? Disturbing her...firing all her nerves at high pitch...
‘Is that a commendation?’ he asked dryly.
‘Yes,’ she answered.
As if she’d realised it was a strange thing to say, he saw her give a tiny shake of her head. As she did so, he saw her change. She dipped her head, tightened her grip on her skirts. Getting a grip, belatedly, on the situation. A situation she was going to terminate right now. Because she did not let situations like this arise.
But there’s never been a situation like this...no man has ever made me react like this!
Which made it all the more imperative that she get away from him—right now! Stop this before it started.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I must go back inside.’
Her voice had changed, too. It was clipped now, and quite impersonal.
Distant.
‘Permit me to escort you.’ Rafael’s voice was smooth.
She did not hesitate. ‘Thank you—no.’
Her tone was decisive, and before his eyes she turned and walked back up the steps. He looked after her.
From chatting about stars to cutting him dead—all in under a minute.
No, nothing like Madeline at all...
* * *
Celeste gained the salon and walked rapidly across it. Her heart-rate was up, and it was not because of her rapid ascent of the exterior steps. What on earth had she just gone and done? Standing there with that man, talking about astronomy! She’d gone out to the gardens for two reasons—to take advantage of the clear night sky and to delay having to mix socially. Because over supper she would inevitably see that man again.
The man who had come in search of her.
Because of course that was what he’d been doing! She wasn’t an idiot—no one struck up a conversation about galaxies with a lone female if they weren’t trying to chat her up! Then, to make her heart-rate race even more, a mortifying thought struck her. Had he thought she was standing out there stargazing in order to deliberately invite him to talk to her?
She felt her cheeks flush. Well, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter either way. Because from now on she was going to avoid him totally until she could decently get away back to Oxford and the hotel room she’d booked. Staying well out of London and away from Karl Reiner for as long as possible.
But she didn’t want to think about the repulsive Karl Reiner. And she didn’t want to think about the man who had set her nerve-endings firing, elevated her heart-rate. A man who did not repel her.
Who attracted her—
No! A little twist of bitterness clenched inside her. What did it matter if, however inexplicably, he attracted her? It didn’t matter! It couldn’t matter.
It could never matter...
A dull, familiar stab jabbed at her.
I am what my past has made me and nothing can change that—nothing!
And men—all men—could be nothing of her present now.
Face set, she gained the dining room, forcing herself to take a breath—to assume the appearance, if nothing else, of calm. She made her way to one of the buffet tables around the edge, glad to see Zoe, a fellow model, there. They helped themselves to some undressed salad and a slice of chicken each.
‘So,’ said Zoe invitingly as they started to eat their meagre portions, ‘what are you going to do about the guy who couldn’t take his eyes off you? Has he made a move on you already?’
Celeste tensed. ‘No,’ she lied, trying to sound nonchalant.
‘Shame,’ said the other girl. ‘I’d go for him. Looks and dosh! Rafael Sanguardo. South American. He’s a zillionaire investor. Used to hang out with that glitzy redhead on the Top Ten Rich Women list—Madeline Walters. Hotshot and hot totty! She made a fortune for herself and headed for the States to make another pile of dough. Of course...’ she threw a sly glance at Celeste ‘...you’ve got Karl Reiner panting around after you, haven’t you? Now he’s through with Monique Silva. Mind you,’ she added, ‘I know which man I’d rather have in bed beside me! Señor Tall, Dark and Very Handsome Sanguardo! Creepy Karl wouldn’t get a look-in!’ She drew breath. ‘Well, I’d better network. Plenty of useful contacts out there—and loads of loaded guys! And standing here by all this food is torture. See you!’
She sauntered off, leaving Celeste to her supper and her thoughts.
Rafael Sanguardo...
The name glided through her head. She’d never heard of him, but from the way Zoe had talked about him it sounded as if he was on the ‘Mr Available and Rich’ list that a lot of models made it their business to know about. She speared a sliver of chicken with decided resolve. Rafael Sanguardo was none of her business, and he would stay that way.
‘May I help you to something more from the buffet?’
The deep, faintly accented voice addressing her was familiar.
And very unwelcome.
She turned. It was Rafael Sanguardo.
Celeste felt herself tense automatically. But not just because he was the one person here she wanted to avoid. For the first time she was seeing him in full light, rather than dim glimpses. And everything she’d glimpsed about him was overwhelmingly reinforced. He was, just as Zoe had flippantly called him, Mr Tall, Dark and Very Handsome! But it was not smooth, playboy-style looks that he possessed. His face was lean, with a tough-looking jawline, high cheekbones and a strong nose. But it wasn’t those features that held her. It was the eyes.
They were dark—incredibly dark—with a hawkish look to them, and they were resting on her with an expression in them that instantly made her breathless.
How? How is this happening? she thought with a hollowing of her stomach. It never happened! Men could look her over and she’d be immune to it! Immune the way she had to be. But this man—somehow—was having this extraordinary effect on her, and she didn’t know why.
All she knew, with a surge of intense self-preserving urgency, was that she had to stop it happening. Had to stop looking at him—stop looking at the way his long, lean body, darkly clad in what she knew must be a hand-tailored tuxedo, easily topped six feet, the way his DJ moulded his shoulders. His gleaming white dress shirt performed the same office for his torso, telling her that his physique was as honed as the planes of his face.
He was addressing her again, in that deep, accented voice that did things to her she did not want it to do! What had he just said? She had to reply—say something, anything—then walk away! Food—he asked you about food! Do you want any? That was it.
With effort, she found a brief reply. ‘Thank you, but this is enough,’ she managed to say.
An eyebrow quirked over the incredibly dark eyes that looked as if they were hewn from some ancient, volcanic rock. Basalt, she thought, or obsidian...darker than slate.
‘It doesn’t look enough for a sparrow,’ he murmured. The dark eyes glanced at her. ‘Fortunately you don’t appear to have the starved, size-zero look about you that so many models have.’
Celeste could hear condemnation of excessive thinness in his voice. ‘Models have to be thin!’ she was stung into retorting. She was not objecting to his criticism of size-zero models, but to the way his eyes had washed over her. The effect that slow wash had had on her...
‘It’s shamefully perverse for women in the developed world to ape those who go hungry from necessity, not fashion!’ he returned sharply.
She took a breath, making herself answer honestly. ‘You are right,’ she admitted.
For a moment she let her eyes meet his in acknowledgement of the truth of what he had just said. It was a mistake. For one endless moment she had the strangest sensation that she was drowning—drowning in a deep, fathomless ocean. Then, with an effort, she pulled her gaze away. Found that she was trembling with the effort.
‘I’m sorry—that was very blunt of me,’ she heard him respond. ‘Though it is a pity that you will not try some of these richer foods.’ He indicated the lavish spread in front of them.
Celeste glanced at them, and then back at the man who was so disturbing her. ‘They do look delicious,’ she allowed. ‘But I mustn’t.’
‘You won’t be tempted?’ he said.
There was a trace of humour now in his accented voice. A trace that did yet more disturbing things to her. As did the glint in his eyes that told her it was more than food he wanted her to be tempted by.
She gave a decisive shake of her head. Time to stop this—right now.
‘No,’ she replied. Her voice was polite, but firm. She put down her now empty plate. Looked back at him. Made herself look at him but not react to him. Made herself say in a polite, social voice, using just the sort of tone she might use to anyone at all, ‘Do please excuse me, but I have to circulate and show off this dress.’
She gave a smile—brief, polite, perfunctory. But this time she did not meet his eyes. Instead, she turned away, tall and graceful, and threaded her way into the throng.
Behind her, Rafael watched her disappear. Her second disappearing act of the evening.
Why? Why does she run from me?
That was the question uppermost in his mind—except for his overwhelming consciousness that in this second all too brief encounter his interest in her had not diminished, but intensified.
There is something about her that is drawing me to her—something powerful, irresistible, overwhelming.
Something that was sending a pulse through him. Something that was engendered by that extraordinary pale, pure beauty she possessed—the turn of her head, the flawless translucence of her alabaster skin, the perfect features of her face, delicate and exquisitely cut, the clear, luminous grey-blue of her eyes.
He knew with absolute certainty that he had felt something when she had turned that gaze on him, fully meeting his own—it was a gaze whose very brevity had told him that whatever the cause of her insistence on walking away from him, which she had now exhibited twice—it was not because she was irresponsive to him.
It is the same for her as it is for me! I know it. The stillness, the betraying dilation of her pupils, the sudden intake of breath, the collision of her eyes with mine—acknowledges, confirms her reaction to me—
It had told him all he needed to know...
Whatever had made her walk away, it was not because she was immune to him. So why had she? An unwelcome explanation intruded. Was it because she was already involved elsewhere? A burning urge to find out consumed him. Yet he did not even know her name.
He inhaled sharply, pulling himself together. It would be easy enough to find out everything he needed to know about her. She was a model, she worked for an agency, and that meant the information was out there. And if the answer was the one he realised he wanted it to be more with every passing moment, then he would set out to woo her—woo her and win her.
His imagination raced ahead, vivid and eager.
In his mind’s eye he saw himself gazing into her eyes, clasping her hand, drawing her towards him, taking her slender, pliant body into his arms and lowering his mouth to her tremulous, tender lips, tasting their sweetness, seeking the nectar within, feeling her respond to his embrace, her body contouring against his with soft sensuousness, glowing with honeyed desire as her breasts peaked against him...
But imagination was not enough! He wanted the reality.
The reality of her pale, pure beauty, which was calling to him with a subtly compelling, insistent power that was impossible to deny.
CHAPTER THREE
‘YOU WANT MORE money to renew your contract. That’s it, isn’t it?’ Karl Reiner’s voice grated.
Celeste kept her expression fixed. Karl Reiner had demanded her presence at a dinner in a West End hotel hosted by a fashion magazine keen on retaining its share of the lavish Reiner Visage advertising budget. Since she was still—just—under contract, it had been impossible for her to decline.
She deeply wished she had. Wished she could just walk off the way she had when Rafael Sanguardo had made a move on her at the charity event the previous weekend.
Not, she found herself thinking, that anyone in their right mind would put Karl Reiner and Rafael Sanguardo in the same class. The difference was total. Karl’s stocky stature and slack belly were the complete opposite of Rafael Sanguardo’s tall, lean, honed physique—just as Karl’s pouched, close-set eyes were a million miles from the dark, hawkish eyes that had rested so disturbingly on her. And Karl’s receding dyed hair, swept back into a ponytail that he mistakenly seemed to think made him look creative and bohemian, had nothing of the feathered sable of the South American’s.
Yet again Celeste felt the disquieting quickening of her pulse as an image of Rafael Sanguardo took shape in her mind. It had been doing so repeatedly ever since the weekend. She had tried desperately hard to put him out of her mind but it had been impossible—just impossible! She could bewail it all she liked, try as hard as she could, but it was no good. That encounter, however brief, had imprinted itself on her. Why, she did not know—could not understand. Could not understand why her habitual immunity to men was failing her so pitiably when it came to Rafael Sanguardo.
But if she couldn’t understand it at least she could do her determined best to ignore it. Suppress it and crush it out of her consciousness—out of her life. There was no point—none whatsoever!—in thinking about him.
What Rafael Sanguardo wanted was not what she was free to want...
An old, familiar ripple of revulsion went through her. Those slimy trails across her skin—fetid memory made tangible.
And with Karl Reiner pressingly at her side tonight, making her skin crawl, revulsion came afresh. Recrimination came in its wake. Why, oh, why had she ever got involved with Reiner Visage?
But she knew the reason now—just as she had long ago.
Rejection seared within her.
This is different! Entirely different! Karl Reiner can assume what he likes. I will never go along with it!
Nor was there anything he could say that would make her sign a new contract. She would simply go on stonewalling him, staying as composed and as civil as she could, until she was free in a few weeks’ time.
But his persistent unwanted attentions were becoming even harder than ever to endure. He was badgering her repeatedly to renew her contract, and this evening he had drunk freely, and she could see his temper mounting at her continued refusal. Now, dinner over and guests dispersing, he’d renewed the subject in the middle of the hotel lobby.
‘No,’ she said carefully, ‘it’s nothing to do with more money. I simply don’t wish to extend my contract any further. I’ve been very appreciative of it, naturally—’
‘That’s not the message you’re giving out.’ Karl cut across her brusquely.
Tight-lipped, Celeste refused to react. She knew very well that the cause of his pique was nothing to do with her not renewing her contract—it was because she wasn’t going to do what Monique Silva had done: show her ‘appreciation’ in bed.
Anger flashed across Karl’s face. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ he demanded. ‘Models are ten cents a dozen!’
‘As I say,’ she repeated tightly, ‘I’ve been very appreciative of the opportunity to represent the Blonde range of Reiner Visage, but—’
‘But nothing!’ He cut across her again. His face was set petulantly. ‘I’ve done you favours! Now it’s payback time! You damn well know what I want!’
He grabbed at her arm, closing his fingers around it. She halted, turning an icy gaze on him.
‘Take your hand off me,’ she bit out, jaw clenched. When he made no move to do so, she simply lifted his hand off her and stepped away. ‘Goodnight, Mr Rainer,’ she said decisively, and turned to go.
Infuriated, and despite the presence of other people in the lobby, he lurched at her, grabbing at her wrist again, yanking her round forcibly. His face was contorted in fury.
‘Don’t walk off, you stuck-up little bitch! Who the hell do you think you are? Behaving like a goddamn nun!’ he snarled at her.
The alcoholic fumes of his breath reached her. His voice was loud and carrying.
‘I can pick and choose any model I want—you hear me? And they’ll be grateful! Girls like you put out for anyone who’ll hire you! And since I’ve hired you you’ll damn well put out for me! You’re no different! You’re just a two-bit whore like every other model!’
Celeste gasped in shock. For a second she could not move. Then, behind her, a voice cut through.
‘Let her go,’ it said. It was arctic. ‘Let her go and get out of here before I throw you out onto the pavement.’
Karl’s head swivelled. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he snarled slurringly.
Rafael did not answer him. He simply yanked Karl’s hand away, then took his shoulder and elbow in a punishing grip and frogmarched him to the door, ejecting him onto the pavement.
‘If you try and come back in,’ he said pleasantly, ‘I will pulverise you. Do you understand me?’
He didn’t bother to wait for a reply, just went back into the lobby. His eyes went immediately to the frozen figure standing there, her ashen pallor registering her shock. He went up to her.
‘Brandy,’ he said. ‘Don’t argue. Then I’ll see you home—and don’t argue about that either. That charmless jerk is out on the pavement.’
She couldn’t respond. Couldn’t do anything except stand there, the vile echo of Karl’s accusation slicing through her head.
‘You’re just a two-bit whore like every other model!’
Her face contorted and she felt nausea rise in her throat, foul and choking. Then, from nowhere, her elbow was being taken—not tightly, but firmly—and she was being guided across the lobby and into the hotel bar. Her steps were halting, but she went all the same. Numbness filled her.
Then, as she was helped up onto a bar stool, the numbness was suddenly pierced. Karl Reiner and his vile words disappeared from her consciousness. Replaced, totally, by the realisation of just who it was that was at her side now.
Her eyes flew to the man, tall and lean in a charcoal tailored lounge suit that only emphasised his naturally tanned complexion, who was taking his seat beside her.
Dear God—it was Rafael Sanguardo!
Shock ravined through her. Shock and something much more. Instant awareness, instant consciousness of everything about him that she had sought to suppress these past few days. To force down out of her memory.
Yet he was here now, in all his overwhelming, potent physical presence. Sitting beside her and looking at her with an expression of concern on his face, his dark eyes resting on her.
She hauled her gaze away. She could not cope with this—not now. Not after Karl Reiner’s vile outburst. She could feel herself start to shake.
Immediately she heard Rafael Sanguardo speak. ‘It’s all right. He’s gone. And he won’t be coming back.’
He spoke with certainty, and an underlying grimness. Her eyes lifted to him again.
But he was not looking at her. He had turned his head to address the barman. ‘Two brandies, please.’
As he gave his order he made a notable effort to control his emotions. They were surging strongly. One was an impulse to stride right out onto the pavement, seize hold of the jerk who had said what he had to the ashen-faced, shaken figure beside him and slam his fist into his foul-mouthed face. It took him aback, just how strong that urge was. A wave of protectiveness swept over him.
No one’s going to hurl that kind of abuse at her!
The protectiveness he was feeling was almost overpowering... But him slamming his fist into her abuser was not what she needed right now! What she needed was to stop shaking, to pull out of the shocked state she was clearly in after that vicious little scene back there with Karl Reiner.
He knew who the man was, all right. Just as he now knew the name of the woman who had been dominating his thoughts ever since he’d laid eyes on her.
Celeste Philips—that was her name. It had taken little effort to discover it, courtesy of the organisers of the charity fashion show, simply by describing her. After that her professional bio had been easy to find via her agency. She was currently contracted to Reiner Visage—of which cosmetics company the unlovely Karl Reiner was President. Nor had it taken much digging to uncover Karl Reiner’s even more unlovely reputation for pursuing the models he contracted.
A reputation that the ugly incident just now more than amply confirmed.
The two glasses of brandy were placed in front of him and he slid one towards Celeste.
‘Drink it down,’ he instructed. ‘You’re in shock.’
But Celeste gave a quick, jerky shake of her head. ‘No—no brandy.’ Her voice was slightly high-pitched. In her head she could hear Karl’s foul words snarling at her again. Hear his vile accusation...
She fought to stay calm, at least on the surface. Inside was different...
‘Coffee, then—you need something. You’re white as a sheet.’
She lifted her face, made herself look at the man who had rescued her. The man she couldn’t get out of her head. Who was now here, beside her, dominating her consciousness. ‘I’m fine. It was just—’ She stopped. Swallowed painfully.
‘Damn,’ said Rafael feelingly. ‘I should have hit him. Trouble is...’ his voice was deadpan ‘...I might have spoilt his looks.’
For a moment Celeste was on a knife-edge. Then the balance tipped, giving her a safety net, letting her pull herself together. The laconically uttered insult to the drunken, obnoxious Karl had retrieved her sufficiently for her to manage to find the darkly wry humour clearly intended in the remark.
She bit her lip. ‘That’s a low blow,’ she heard herself murmur.
‘The lower the better,’ Rafael agreed. ‘Low enough to...ah...quell his unwanted ardour.’
She gave a shaky smile, not quite meeting his eyes. She might be pulling out of the shock of what Karl had snarled at her, but that only meant she was now having to cope with this completely unanticipated encounter with Rafael Sanguardo. And cope she must—somehow.
And she must start with the most important priority. Gratitude.
She lifted her eyes again. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you for what you did back there.’
For just a moment, as her eyes met his, she felt weak—as weak as a kitten. The blood seemed to be flooding back into her ashen cheeks, heating them. She could not drag her gaze away—his eyes were holding her...holding her as if there was a physical link between them...as if they were bound together...
She saw something shift at the back of his eyes—his dark, basalt-black eyes. Something that seemed to set every nerve-ending in her body jangling.
Then, with a quick movement of his head, he broke the moment. ‘De nada,’ he said lightly. His tone of voice changed. ‘So, coffee?’ he said enquiringly. ‘Or tea, maybe? Isn’t that what the English drink to settle their nerves?’
‘China tea would be lovely, thank you,’ she assented, grateful for something so normal. She needed to feel normal again—needed it badly.
As Rafael Sanguardo relayed her request to the barman she felt the backwash of what Karl had said to her start to fade. Her state of shock was ebbing, and so, too, finally, was the sense of incessant strain she’d been under all evening. But even as it ebbed a new emotion replaced it—the shimmering awareness of the man beside her.
Who had appeared out of nowhere to wrest Karl Reiner off her—
‘I don’t understand,’ she heard herself say. ‘How did you come to be here like this?’
There was bewilderment in her voice.
‘I’ve been meeting one of my UK CEOs for dinner,’ Rafael replied. ‘But I have to say...’ His tone of voice changed again, and his gaze rested on her. ‘I now understand the meaning of that English proverb that it is an ill wind that blows no one any good.’
He looked at her, but Celeste was blank. Rafael enlightened her.
‘Even though I would not wish Karl Reiner on anyone, at least he has given me the opportunity not only to be of some small service to you—he has also provided exactly the opportunity I have been wanting to take since the weekend.’ He paused deliberately, still looking at her. ‘To see you again,’ he said.
A troubled expression lit her face.
He saw it and said, his voice low, ‘Would that be so very unwelcome to you?’
She bit her lip. She wanted to find some way—a polite, considerate way, especially after his rescuing her from Karl—of telling him that what he wanted was impossible...just impossible!
Rafael saw her silence, needed to know if there was one reason that would be an immovable obstacle for him.
‘Is there someone else in your life right now?’
She swallowed, her expression still troubled. ‘No, but—’ She halted, not knowing what to say. How to say it.
Her hesitation was visible. A hideous thought speared Rafael’s head. His expression darkened. ‘Karl Reiner,’ he began, his voice harsh, ‘is he—?’
‘No! Dear God, no!’
Her rebuff was so instant, so vehement, that it could only be true. Relief flooded through Rafael. If for a moment he’d thought that that despicable piece of ordure had any kind of anything with her—
‘Gracias a Dios!’ he said feelingly.
‘How could you think—?’ She broke off, shuddering.
Of course she had nothing to do with Karl Reiner in that way! Someone like her would never, never think of such a liaison! Hadn’t she reacted strongly enough back there in the lobby to convince him of that? Her shock and disgust had been palpable.
He reached for his brandy, and as he took a mouthful an image formed in his mind. Madeline—Madeline being on the receiving end of what Karl Reiner had thrown at Celeste.
She’d have laughed. Laughed in his face, told him, ‘In your dreams!’ and walked off. Then she’d have regaled Rafael with it in bed. She’d have been totally unfazed by it, totally unaffected—she would have thought Reiner merely physically repellent, not repulsively offensive!
But Madeline was cut from completely different material from the woman at his side now. The woman who was cupping one slender hand around a teacup from which a delicate oriental fragrance was coiling upwards, stirring it with a silver teaspoon, focussed only on her task. He watched her for a moment, all thought of Madeline deleted as Celeste stirred her tea, inhaling the scent, and seemed visibly to calm herself.
‘Better?’ he asked quietly.
She nodded, lifting the cup to her lips to take a tiny sip of the hot liquid.
He let her be, contenting himself with looking at her. Her beauty, seen again after a space of days, was etching itself on his retinas. Tonight she was wearing a knee-length cocktail dress in eau de Nil, high cut at the neckline, with short cap sleeves. A jade necklace and earrings were her jewellery. Her hair was dressed differently, in a more complex style with braids and loops, but still worn up. An impulse went through him—a longing to see that incredible pale hair loosed from its confines, flowing like a silvery river over her naked alabaster shoulders...
He pulled his mind back from such impulses, focussing now on her features. Her perfect beauty was just the same as it had been when he’d seen her walking down the stairs at that charity event. A beauty that moved him so strangely—so strongly.
And so, too, did the other quality that had made him watch her then, as it did now.
That sense of aloneness—apartness. As if she moved in the world but was not fully part of it. As if it could not touch her.
What had she said about the stars? That they were very far away...
As she is.
His expression changed. But I will get close to her. With me she will not be alone, apart. I will draw her to me! Woo her and win her!
And he must make the most of this opportunity to begin his journey to that destination. She was here, beside him, and that, surely, was a start.
‘Tell me,’ he said, his voice holding in it nothing but quiet concern, ‘how is it that you were with Karl Reiner tonight if he is so repugnant to you? I know that you are the face of Blonde Visage, but—’
She lifted her face sharply. ‘How do you know that?’
He gave a half laugh. ‘I could say that your face is your giveaway,’ he said lightly, ‘but I have to confess that, since fashion magazines are not my usual reading matter, I found it out from your agency.’
Her face worked. ‘Why were you asking?’ she demanded. But there was no need to ask. She knew. Rafael Sanguardo had shown his interest in her—she had been naive to think that just because she had walked away from him the other evening it would not be possible for a man of his means to find out a great deal about her!
His expression was deliberately transparent. ‘I make no secret of the fact that I want to get to know you better, Celeste.’
It was strange to hear her name on his lips—a name she hadn’t told him. She would have preferred him never to know, so that she could slip back into the shadows of life where she dwelt. But it was too late for that. All she could do now was hold him at bay, make it clear to him that whatever he was hoping for could not be.
‘So why did you have to be in Reiner’s unpalatable company?’ Rafael pursued.
She made herself give a slight shrug. ‘I’m still under contract, so it’s unavoidable. Tonight he was a guest of one of the fashion magazines he places a great deal of advertising with—that was his excuse for me having to be here.’
‘Excuse?’
She gave another shrug, not meeting his eyes, focussing only on the cup in front of her. ‘You heard what he wants. He made it plain enough.’ A sudden thought struck her, and without realising it she lifted her face to look at him.
‘What you did—back there—will he make trouble for you?’ There was concern in her voice. ‘He could do you for assault—’
‘He can try,’ said Rafael.
And there was something about the way he said it that made Celeste realise that Karl—or anyone—would be very, very foolish to attempt to make trouble for Rafael Sanguardo. There was a toughness about him that was unmistakable.
But there was chivalry, too, she acknowledged. Even if his intervention had proved opportune for him, allowing him to do what he was doing now. Getting to know her—
But it’s no use—no use at all. Nothing can come of it—nothing!
That was all she had to remember. And she should act on it right now. She should get to her feet, thank him once again and then go home—home to her little flat in Notting Hill: the fruit of her years of modelling, her quiet haven, where she could be apart from the hectic round of her career. Apart and alone.
The way she had to be.
Because nothing else was possible...would ever be possible...
She was condemned to the solitary life she led.
But Rafael Sanguardo was speaking again, interrupting her troubled thoughts. ‘What about for you?’ he was asking, that note of concern still evident in his deep, accented voice. ‘Will it make things difficult?’
She gave another shrug. ‘I’ve only got a few weeks left to run on my contract, and there’s little he can do in real terms. I most definitely will not be resigning! Oh, there’ll probably be some gossip—I dare say some of the people I work with will hear about it. But he has a reputation already, so it will hardly be a surprise.’
Rafael frowned. ‘If you had warning of his reputation, why did you take the contract?’
She gave yet another shrug. ‘He was involved with one of the other models under contract, so I thought he would leave me alone—which he did, by and large, until now. And the reason I wanted the contract in the first place was simple.’ She looked straight at him, giving him the courtesy of an honest answer, for surely he deserved no less after his rescue of her. ‘It paid well,’ she said.
She lifted up her cup, took a mouthful of tea, breaking her gaze. Then she set down her cup again, looked at him once more. She swallowed, then spoke.
‘Modelling is a crowded profession. Often poorly paid. Only a few make it to the very top. I won’t be one of them, I know, but I’ve not done badly—for which I’m grateful,’ she allowed. ‘Anyway, it’s the only way I know of to make money—’
She stopped, and for a moment—just a moment—there was an emptiness in her gaze. As if she had been scoured hollow.
Then it was gone.
Yet in its aftermath there seemed to Rafael to be the residue of something lingering. Unsettling. He wanted to banish it.
He took another mouthful of his brandy, feeling its warmth filling him. ‘It seems to me you know about astronomy,’ he said.
He’d lightened his tone deliberately. Yet his attempt to lighten the atmosphere seemed to have failed. Her throat tensed; a shadow occluded her eyes. Memory oozed within her of the way she had first gazed desperately up at the heavens, wanting only to be part of them. Incorporeal. Free from her body...
Then she forced the memory from her. He’d obviously only made the remark as a conversational gambit—she must treat it as such.
‘Hard to make a living at that,’ she answered. ‘And I am the rankest amateur!’ she added lightly.
Rafael smiled across at her. ‘Yet your name is ideally suited for a career in astronomy, no?’ She looked blank, and he enlightened her. ‘Celeste—celestial?’ he said.
His eyes rested on her, drinking her in.
And that is her aura, too—celestial. As if the impurities and imperfections of the world below the stars are nothing to do with her! As if she moves through this world apart from everyone else, everything else, untouched by anything that seeks to stain her...
In his head he heard Karl Reiner’s sordid accusation. If ever there was a woman who was an unlikely target for such foul names it was this one!
She was looking at him, a slight expression of surprise in her clear grey-blue eyes. ‘Do you know, that’s never struck me?’ she said. ‘Celeste and celestial...’
His own smile deepened. Absently she noticed how it curved the lines around his mouth, made his basalt-black eyes lighten. Noticed even more the way it seemed to make her breath catch. Made her want to do nothing more than go on sitting here, beside him, being with him—
No! She mustn’t! It was pointless—useless! Talking to him about anything—anything at all—had no purpose! She was calmer now, recovered from that horrible scene out in the lobby, and so she must go—leave—go home to the life she had. A life that had no place for Rafael Sanguardo in it. No place for any kind of relationship with anyone.
She nerved herself to take her leave. To terminate this conversation that could go nowhere—nowhere at all! But he was speaking to her yet again, clearly intent on keeping her in conversation.
‘So what first got you interested in astronomy?’ Rafael asked.
Deliberately he kept his question casual—nothing more than the kind of enquiry anyone might make in social conversation. A safe topic under whose aegis to do what he most wanted to do—set her at her ease. Stop her tensing all the time. Make her comfortable talking with him. Make the most of the opportunity this evening had presented so that he could move on to inviting her out to dinner, and then from there to where he wanted to be—making love to her.
Her arms around me, clinging to me, her mouth opening to mine, my hands curving around the bare column of her back, her hair loosened, streaming like a silver banner across the pillows, her body warm and yielding to desire...
He felt the power of his own imagination, his own desire, kick through him. Surely she must feel it, too? Surely she must? Wasn’t she starting to thaw to him, little by little? Slowly—oh, so slowly—but it was starting to happen, he was sure of it.
Then, as he finished his question, before his eyes he saw her face change. Closed.
Closed completely, as if a shutter had come down.
‘I don’t remember,’ she said. Her voice was quelling. This time there could be no allowances for his simply making conversation. This was a subject that she must terminate—now. Just as she must terminate this encounter. She must go home right now.
Rafael’s eyes narrowed minutely at her stony reaction. What had just happened? The change was total. He saw her reach for her teacup, lift it with a jerking movement and take a mouthful of the pale green fragrant liquid. Then she set the cup down with another jolt. Her eyes swivelled to his.
‘Thank you so much for the tea, Señor Sanguardo. And thank you for intervening back there. It was very good of you.’ She spoke rapidly, in clipped tones. Clipped, impersonal tones that went with the totally closed expression on her face.
He could see her total withdrawal happening in front of his eyes.
She’s gone away again—back into that separate space she lives in. The one she uses to keep the rest of the world at bay.
She was getting to her feet, slipping gracefully off the high bar stool.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said again, her tone formal. She picked up her clutch bag from the bar surface and bestowed a tight, perfunctory smile on him again.
Rafael got to his feet as she did. ‘I will see you home,’ he announced.
Again, that look of immediate wariness—more than wariness...alarm—flared in her eyes.
‘Purely and solely,’ he continued, ‘for the purposes of ensuring that you do not risk any further unwanted attention from the uncharming Mr Reiner. My car is outside, and it is no trouble, I assure you.’ He looked down at her. His eyes were steady, their message clear. ‘I will see you safely to your home and then leave you. Does that meet with your agreement?’
Celeste opened her mouth. She wanted to say, No, it can’t possibly meet with my agreement! I can’t want to spend the slightest further amount of time with you because there is no point—absolutely and totally no point! I am not going to let you get to know me better and I am not going to have anything more to do with you and that is all there is to it!
But she didn’t say it. A sudden vision of Karl Reiner waiting outside her flat assailed her. However reluctant she might be to allow this magnetic, disturbing man who had behaved so chivalrously to drive her home, it was preferable to encountering Karl Reiner again—drunken and angry and still trying to press his hateful attentions on her.
Then, without any answer from her at all, she felt Rafael Sanguardo’s strong hand cup lightly around her elbow and guide her out of the bar. It was only a light, courteous touch, but she was vividly aware of it. He dropped his hand the moment she seemed to be going the way he wanted her to—which was across the lobby and out onto the pavement. A hovering car glided to the kerb, and then a chauffeur was opening the passenger door for her and she was getting in.
‘Where to?’ Rafael asked her as he took his place beside her.
With a flurry of consternation Celeste realised she was going to have to tell him where she lived. Well, if he’d found out who she was, then he’d be perfectly capable of finding out where she lived as well. So she gave her address, and the car started to make its way westward out of Mayfair towards Park Lane.
It would take a good fifteen minutes at least to reach Notting Hill, Celeste knew, and in the meantime she had better make anodyne conversation to prevent Rafael Sanguardo getting any other ideas about how to pass the time in the back of his car...
‘What part of South America do you come from, Mr Sanguardo?’ she heard herself asking. Her tone was no more than politely interested.
He glanced at her. There was amusement in his eyes. ‘Am I to take it that you’ve been making enquiries about me in return?’ he asked.
Damn, she thought, I walked into that one!
‘One of my fellow models the other evening at the charity show mentioned it,’ she replied, making her voice as unconcerned as she could.
Did she, now? Rafael thought. And does that mean that you’d asked her? A ripple of satisfaction went through him. She was not as studiedly indifferent to him as she was trying to make out. How long, he wondered, before she finally admitted that? Before she finally started to lower her guard to him?
But whenever that happened—and it would happen; he had set his mind to it, and nothing in the intervening days since seeing her walk down that marble staircase, captivating him with her opalescent beauty, had changed his mind on that—it was not happening now.
Her guard was sky-high. A guard consisting of polite attentiveness and the kind of impersonal conversation she could have with anyone at all. Well, he reminded himself, it was better than her doing her disappearing act again, and he would make the most of it.
‘She was a little out,’ he answered. ‘My country of origin is Maragua, which is in Central America.’
He could see her give a little frown in the passing street lights as the car drew out into Park Lane.
‘I thought Managua was the capital of Nicaragua?’ she commented.
‘It is. Which is why my country, Maragua, is so often overlooked. It’s very small—hardly larger than El Salvador—and similarly has only a Pacific coastline.’
‘I don’t think I’ve really ever heard of it,’ Celeste said apologetically.
‘De nada—not many Europeans have,’ he said. ‘Which, overall, is probably a good thing.’ His voice was edged. ‘After all, the reason most developing countries are known about in the Western world is their wars and disasters! Fortunately we have few—though like all Pacific Rim countries we are subject to earthquakes.’
‘Because the Pacific Ocean’s floor is moving under the continental plates,’ she acknowledged. ‘Does that mean you have volcanoes, too?’
He nodded his head. ‘One or two—fortunately inactive.’ He paused. ‘Your geology is as good as your astronomy, it seems.’
His eyes rested on her expectantly. He felt another ripple of satisfaction. Beauty, even so notable as hers, was one thing, but it was inadequate on its own. Her stargazing had told him that she was informed and intelligent, and here was further proof.
‘I like plate tectonics,’ she answered. ‘It makes sense of so much.’
‘The whole planet earth is a living jigsaw—endlessly changing, endlessly renewing itself.’ Rafael paused. ‘I find that quite encouraging. If even the ground beneath our feet can change, then so can we. We can make ourselves anew.’
She looked at him. Her eyes flickered. His words echoed in her head. We can make ourselves anew.
For just a second she could feel something flare inside her—then it died. Crushed by the weight of the past. The past that was always her present. And her future...the only future possible for her.
Feeling a stone suddenly in her chest, she turned her head to look out of the car window. They had reached Hyde Park Corner and were turning into the park now.
Rafael indicated with his hand. ‘What is that enormous house there, do you know?’ he asked. He wanted her to keep talking to him—not slip away into that separate world she inhabited, shutting him out.
But she answered readily enough. ‘Oh, that’s Apsley House,’ she said. ‘It’s the London home of the Duke of Wellington—you know, the Battle of Waterloo. Well, his descendants anyway. It’s always known as Number One, London. I suppose it’s because it’s the premier private residence in London.’
If she was gabbling, she didn’t care. This kind of innocuous exchange was all she could cope with. It blocked those tormenting words he’d said—We can make ourselves anew. Anguish gripped her. But I can’t—I can’t make myself anew! It’s impossible—impossible!
His voice relieved her. ‘Is that the Serpentine?’ he asked, glimpsing a dark mass of water to one side of the car as they cut across the park.
‘Yes,’ she answered. The stone was back in her chest. She launched into relating everything she knew about the Serpentine, then moved on to Rotten Row as they crossed it.
‘It’s still a bridle path,’ she said. ‘In the nineteenth century it was very fashionable for the upper classes to ride their horses there.’
Somehow she managed to make the subject of Victorian high society last till they reached her flat, and as the car pulled up along the quiet kerbside she turned to Rafael.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said brightly. ‘It really is very kind of you.’
The chauffeur was holding the door open for her and she climbed out gracefully. The night air seemed cool after the interior of the car. Or perhaps it was just because she felt heated in her blood.
‘Please don’t get out,’ she told Rafael.
‘Which is your flat?’ he asked, ignoring her and stepping out onto the pavement.
‘Um...second floor,’ she said. She was fumbling for her keys in her clutch.
She’d coped with the car ride, sounding like a tour guide to London, but her nerves were at breaking point. She had to get in. Get away from him.
‘I’ll wait until I see your light come on,’ said Rafael.
Relief flooded through her. ‘Thank you,’ she said. She hurried up the steps to the front door, opening it with her key. She turned. He was still standing there. ‘Goodnight, Mr Sanguardo,’ she said, her smile flickering uncertainly.
For a moment she just went on standing there, looking at him. Letting the impact he made on her retinas be absorbed into her.
‘Goodnight, Celeste,’ he answered. He gave her a brief nod of farewell and got back into the car. The chauffeur slammed the door and went to the driver’s seat.
Celeste went indoors, walking swiftly up to her flat. As she turned the light on and went to the living room windows to see the car pulling away she could feel her heart’s hectic beating.
And she knew exactly what had caused it.
Rafael Sanguardo...
His name echoed in her head. Not letting her go.
Later, as she lay in bed, she knew she should get to sleep. She had an early start tomorrow and looking haggard was not acceptable for a model—yet she lay sleepless all the same.
Memories from the evening circled in her mind. Not the stressful dinner with Karl Reiner, but the time she had spent with Rafael Sanguardo. It was his words that kept playing in her head.
We can make ourselves anew...
Her eyes stared out into the darkness of her bedroom.
Can we? Can we make ourselves anew?
But the question was hollow. Its flavour bitter. And into her head came more words. Karl Reiner’s...
Anguish gripped her.
CHAPTER FOUR
CELESTE WONDERED THE next day whether Rafael Sanguardo would try to get in touch, but there was nothing from him. She told herself she was glad—must be glad—for there could be no future for her with him in it.
So why, then, did she keep thinking about him, replaying her time with him? There was no point! Yet, berate herself as she might, she could not get him out of her head. Even when she was enduring the final photographic sessions under her Reiner Visage contract he was there, dominating her consciousness, her thoughts. Vivid and potent. And as disturbing as ever. As tormenting as ever.
His sculpted features, the mobile mouth, the sable hair, the dark obsidian eyes, the deep, accented voice...
And then she was back to the beginning again, trying to get those images out of her mind. Trying to move on beyond the completely pointless question of what it was about him that was getting to her.
Because it doesn’t matter why! It’s irrelevant—totally irrelevant! It changes nothing! Nothing at all! If he tries to get in touch with me again I’ll just say no, that’s all. The way I always do. Always... Because nothing else is possible. Nothing.
In her eyes a shadow passed. An old, familiar shadow... And with it came the clenching of her stomach, the crawling of her skin.
* * *
Rafael relaxed back in the first-class seat on the plane, a pleasant sense of satisfaction filling him. And anticipation. He’d been in Geneva, raising finance for his latest ventures; with his track record, banks were always eager to meet with him. But his thoughts were not on business now.
An image floated tantalisingly in his mind. Pale, beautiful...celestial...
He’d given Celeste time and space since delivering her to her flat, but now he was going to make his next move. Would she respond? he wondered. Or would she try and evade him? His mind flickered over the situation. She was not immune to him—he could tell that with every male molecule in his body—yet she was holding him at bay. Why, since she had admitted she was not involved with anyone else, he could not fathom. She gave no impression of trying to play him, and her evasiveness seemed totally genuine. But why be evasive in the first place?
His eyes narrowed as he thought it through. Maybe it was because of men like Karl Reiner. If he was the norm for men in the world of fashion and modelling she moved in, he could understand Celeste’s evasiveness. To be treated as that all-time prime jerk had treated her would make anyone cautious about accepting attentions from men.
Well, he was no Karl Reiner, and he would win her confidence and make her realise he was nothing like that! Soon—very soon now—he would convince her that all he wanted from her was what he knew with every instinct she wanted, too...
Time together—with him.
His pleasant sense of anticipation intensified.
* * *
Celeste’s phone was ringing. It was Sunday evening and she was ironing. She was keeping busy—deliberately so. Anything to keep Rafael Sanguardo out of her head! Her work with Reiner Visage had finally ended, to her relief, and since then she’d thrown herself into a round of activity while waiting for another modelling assignment to come up.
So far she’d given herself a whole set of beauty treatments and set a challenging exercise schedule—runs in Holland Park, yoga, Pilates and dance classes. And she had a full medical assessment booked for a few days’ time as well, with blood tests and body scans.
It was not just for the sake of her modelling career that she paid such attention to herself. A shadow dimmed her eyes. She needed not only to stay beautiful but to stay fit and healthy. She would not go the way of her poor, stricken mother...
A familiar sadness filled her, squeezing her heart. She had promised her mother she would not suffer the same terrible fate that had befallen her—forewarned was forearmed, and regular check-ups were routine for her.
Now, as she folded a pillowcase and reached for the next one to iron, she let the phone go to the answer machine. As the caller started speaking she froze.
She did not need to ask whose was the distinctive accented voice.
How did he get my phone number? was her first thought, swiftly discarded. He knew her name and address—easy enough to find her landline number! At least, she thought with a sense of relief, he hadn’t phoned her mobile, so hopefully he didn’t have that number.
She listened to him speak, the iron poised in her hand. The deep tones wove into her senses almost before she caught the gist of what he was saying.
‘I was wondering whether you might like to have dinner with me some time. I’m in the UK this coming week—let me know what evening would suit you. You can reach me on the following number.’
He gave the number—a London landline—and hung up. He didn’t bother, she noticed, saying who he was.
He knows I know...
As the phone went quiet again she stared out across her living room. The TV was on in one corner, playing an old black-and-white movie. She did not see the images—only the inner image in her head. Rafael Sanguardo in all his disturbing, unsettling, lean good looks.
Why is he getting to me?
The question formed again, as it had been doing since she had first seen him watching her. And it was just as unanswered. As unanswerable.
And all the more disturbing for it.
The following day she was booked for a catalogue shoot—it wasn’t the most glamorous of modelling work, but it paid solidly and Celeste welcomed it now she was without the Reiner contract. When she got back to her flat the entrance hall contained a vase with a huge bouquet of white lilies in it, their scent filling the small space. A gilt-edged card with her name on it was attached to the lavish wrapping.
Upstairs, she opened the envelope. The card said simply ‘Rafael’. Nothing more than that. Her face set, she put the extravagant bouquet on the dining table. Behind her set expression, though, her thoughts were tumbling around.
They resolved into a single question.
What am I going to do about him?
The question stayed with her all the evening.
So did the scent of the lilies, pervading the living room, the whole flat. It was a scent she could not avoid, nor ignore. Just like the single, simple question hovering in her head. She knew perfectly well what answer was required. Go on ignoring Rafael Sanguardo, whatever he did.
It got increasingly hard during the rest of the week. He phoned again, leaving another message—more or less a repetition of the first—and the following day yet another bouquet of flowers arrived. These were quite different from the exotic, opulent lilies—just a slender posy of freesias in delicate pastel colours, with a sweet, fresh scent. The card held just a question: ‘Perhaps you prefer these flowers?’
She put them in a vase on her dressing table in her bedroom, so their delicate scent would not be drowned by the heady lilies. But it meant that wherever she was in her flat there was a reminder of Rafael Sanguardo.
At least her days were very busy with the catalogue shoot, and she was glad of that. Less glad, though, to return home and find yet another floral tribute had arrived from Rafael Sanguardo. This time it was a cluster of tiny rosebuds in the palest blush-pink. She put them beside the freesias. If he kept going like this she could open a flower shop, she thought.
But his phone call that evening told her she was going to have a respite. He simply left a message saying that he was flying to the Far East for a week, but would be back in London thereafter.
‘Perhaps your schedule will allow you some evenings out then,’ he said. ‘I’ll phone you.’
He seemed totally unperturbed by her persistent lack of reply to him. Yet the deep, accented tones of his voice seemed to linger in her consciousness long after she’d deleted the message.
She eyed the phone warily. Maybe she should simply call him and tell him that he was wasting his time. But even that seemed an ordeal. Why can’t he just take the hint—get the message from the fact I’m not phoning him back? Why can’t he just disappear out of my life?
But even as she thought that she felt a strange little pang go through her. A pang that was the most disturbing reaction of all...
Thoughts and emotions crowded into her head. If Rafael Sanguardo was going to be abroad, then maybe she should plan to do likewise. Go somewhere different from where he was going to be—somewhere she could try and get him out of her mind.
Resolved, the next morning she went to her agency with a request for a foreign location shoot.
Her booker looked put out. ‘Just because you ditched Reiner Visage, it doesn’t mean you can get the work you want at the drop of a hat!’ he pointed out tartly. Then he relented. ‘OK, OK—I know. Creepy Karl’s enough to make anyone run a mile! Hmm...let’s see. Hang on for a mo—I’ll put some calls in.’
He picked up his phone and Celeste wandered off to sit on one of the group of white leather chairs nearby. She’d just sat down when the door from the street was pushed open and someone came in. It was a model Celeste didn’t recognise. She was very fair-skinned, with hair as blonde as her own. She looked young, still in her teens, and unsure what to do. One of the bookers greeted her, and she went up to him eagerly, sitting herself down, her long, thin legs splaying like a newborn foal’s.
Celeste looked at her. The girl could have been herself all those years ago. Memory pierced. Sharp—like a needle under the skin. Finding the nerve beneath. She picked up a magazine and busied herself with its contents. A few moments later her own booker called her across.
‘Can you do Hawaii? Five days, end of next week? One of the models booked for it has just discovered she’s pregnant and wants out!’
Celeste nodded. Hawaii was definitely far enough away to get some perspective and would suit her very well.
Her booker finished telling her the details and she got up to go. As she did so the very young new model got up as well. Her face was shining.
‘Oh, that’s brilliant! Thank you!’ she said excitedly to her booker.
She got to the door just before Celeste, and held it open for her. As they stepped out onto the pavement Celeste said in a friendly voice, ‘Got a casting?’
The girl beamed. ‘My first one! Tomorrow! It’s for skincare. I’m just terrified I’ll wake up tomorrow with a zit!’
Celeste laughed. ‘Drink nothing but water for the rest of the day,’ she advised, half joking. ‘Who’s the client?’ she asked, just to be friendly.
But when the girl answered Celeste’s expression changed.
‘Reiner Visage,’ breathed the girl. ‘They’re ever so posh! I can’t afford any of their stuff myself! Do you think I can get some free samples?’ she asked ingenuously.
Celeste didn’t answer. Her face was grave. The girl looked so young— Young and naive and vulnerable...
Memory’s needle went under her skin again.
‘Listen,’ she said, sounding serious, ‘if you do get picked, please be careful. Karl Reiner’s nickname is Creepy Karl, and he’s earned it!’
She debated whether to tell the girl about the hassle she herself had had, then decided not to. The odds were against her getting a Reiner contract at her very first casting, and she was obviously so thrilled right now that Celeste didn’t want to spoil the moment with an unnecessary warning.
She fished in her bag for a scrap of paper, scrawled her name and mobile number on it and gave it to the girl. ‘I’m Celeste Philips. Let’s have a coffee some time,’ she said, her voice friendly again.
The girl’s eyes shone. ‘Oh, that would be brill—thanks! I don’t know any other models yet. My flatmates all work in offices. I’m Louise, by the way—Louise Foreman,’ she said.
‘Well, good luck, Louise,’ Celeste said, refraining from adding, But not tomorrow.
‘I’ll put your name and number in my phone right away,’ Louise said happily. ‘Thank you ever so much! I can’t wait to tell my mates I’ve got a casting!’
She trotted off, busy with her phone. Celeste watched her go. Was I really ever that young? she thought. That eager?
But she had been. Of course she had. After all, modelling had been going to make her fortune. The fortune she’d wanted so much...
Like a guillotine, she sliced down the steel door in her head that she kept forever locked. Seeing that young girl, so like herself once, had let it start to open.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/julia-james/the-forbidden-touch-of-sanguardo/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.