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The Italian's Defiant Mistress
India Grey


The Italian billionaire's inexperienced mistressEve has come to Florence seeking information and only Raphael di Lazaro, heir to the Lazaro Fashion House, holds the answers. Surrounded by glamour, Eve's out of her depth–until she realizes Raphael wants her!If becoming his mistress will help Eve, she'll fake the sophistication Raphael's expecting–but that means being available to his every desire…









The Italian’s Defiant Mistress





India Grey











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For Penny, a real-life fairy godmother,

who showed me how to make

the dream come true.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE




CHAPTER ONE


‘I CAN’T do this.’

Eve’s voice was little more than a whisper as the icy hand of fear gripped her throat and trailed its chilly fingers down her spine. She wanted to run, but was suddenly too panic-stricken to move. Besides, in the stiletto-heeled thigh-length boots she probably wouldn’t get very far.

On the other side of the curtains the ballroom of Florence’s grandest palazzo was packed with five hundred of the world’s most wealthy and beautiful, who had come to pay homage to the man who had been dressing them for half a century. Only the cream of Antonio di Lazaro’s client list had been invited to attend this exclusive fiftieth anniversary retrospective, and any celebrities not sitting out there in the glittering ballroom waiting for the show to begin were backstage, getting ready to model some of the legendary Lazaro label’s most iconic designs.

Sienna Swift, current supermodel darling of the international fashion scene, looked up briefly from the magazine she was reading and gave Eve her famously dazzling smile.

‘Course you can. You’ll be fine.’

‘But I’m a…a journalist.’ The dishonesty of the statement made Eve falter as she said it. ‘My friend Lou was supposed to be doing this article—she’d have been fantastic, but I’ve never done anything like this in my life. I don’t know the first thing about modelling!’

Sienna turned the page. ‘Well, babe, you’ve got the legs for it. And better boobs than the rest of us put together. What’s to know? It’s hardly rocket science.’ She paused to scrutinise a photograph of one of her closest rivals before adding, ‘It’s all about sex, I suppose.’

‘Sex?’ Eve wailed, her spirits sinking even further. ‘Why sex? Where I come from sex is not something you do in front of five hundred people and photographers from every major publication around the globe.’

Apparently. She couldn’t very well say she didn’t know the first thing about that either.

Sienna sighed and put the magazine down.

‘OK, we haven’t got long, so let’s make this as simple as possible. All you have to do is find someone to focus on. You’re up there on the catwalk, right? And you just fix your eyes on some bloke and forget everyone else. Watch.’

The model took a couple of steps back, thrusting her hips forward in classic catwalk style and placing her hands on them. Looking around for a likely candidate, she fixed her smoky gaze on the singer from Italy’s hottest new boy band, who’d just come offstage.

‘You walk towards him and you never take your eyes off him,’ she murmured through sultry, pouted lips. ‘Not for a second. This is lust at first sight. You’re looking at him as if he’s the sexiest man alive and you’re going to go right up to him and strip his clothes off and there and then.’ She swung back to Eve with a wicked smile. ‘That’s all there is to it!’ And to the obvious dismay of the blushing singer she picked up the magazine again and resumed her study of it.

Eve squirmed uncomfortably in the transparent PVC minidress, and tugged it down over her bottom. It would be a lot easier to follow Sienna’s advice if she was allowed to wear her glasses, without which she wasn’t going to be able to focus on anything more than half a metre away from her face, and if she wasn’t dressed in an upmarket plastic bag. She seemed to have drawn the short straw in the clothes lottery, and had been allocated one of Lazaro’s more bizarre creations from his avant-garde phase in the 1960s. Strategically positioned fluorescent flowers stopped the dress being absolutely X-rated, but she still felt horribly exposed.

All around her some of the most beautiful women in the world were sipping mineral water from miniature bottles and dropping the kind of names that would have sent a real journalist into a frenzy of excitement. Among them Eve felt lonely, disorientated, and about as glamorous as a transit van in a garage full of sportscars.

She didn’t belong here.

She closed her eyes against the sudden wave of homesickness that threatened to knock her for six as she thought of her messy desk by the window in Professor Swanson’s office. At this time of year her view of the college quadrangle was almost entirely obliterated by the wisteria rampaging across the window, casting a murky underwater light over the clutter of teacups and student essays and piles of scribbled notes in the dusty book-lined room.

That was her world, and she had been crazy to think for a second that she could cut it in Lou’s. Fashion journalists—especially those who were successful enough to shadow supermodels for exclusive behind-the-scenes articles on the A-list events of the year—were generally not shy, shortsighted academics. There was just no way she could pull it off.

‘I think I’d better go and get changed,’ she muttered, trying to squeeze through the crush at the steps to the catwalk.

The plan had failed before it had even begun, and it was better that she face that fact now. Lou had taken a huge risk in faking illness at the last minute and putting Eve forward for this article, and if either of them had stopped to think about it they would have realised how outrageous the whole scheme was. She was going to let Lou down, but that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was letting her twin sister Ellie down. And letting Raphael Di Lazaro slip through her fingers again.

Without looking up from the horoscope page, Sienna grabbed her arm and pulled her back. ‘No time,’ she said cheerfully. ‘We’re on in a second. Look, it says here that Scorpios should exercise caution in financial matters. Do you think that means I shouldn’t buy that Prada clutch bag, then?’

Eve’s teeth were chattering violently as she replied, ‘I shouldn’t think so. Look, it doesn’t by any chance say that on Thursday Aquarians should avoid public displays of nudity and stay at home eating chocolate instead, does it?’

Sienna laughed. ‘Let’s see. Aquarius. “Due to Mercury moving into the pinnacle of your chart, Thursday will see a spectacular reawakening of your love-life. Your destiny awaits you in a most unexpected place.” Excellent! You’d better stick around after all!’

Eve grimaced. Even if she could persuade herself to believe in astrology—or destiny, for that matter—she’d have to draw the line at reincarnation. Her love-life wasn’t just sleeping, it was dead and buried.

No. If she was going to stick around it would be nothing to do with love or destiny, for pity’s sake, and everything to do with revenge.

She gave Sienna a watery smile. ‘Just my luck the man of my dreams is going to appear in my life the day I’m dressed as Porn Star Barbie.’



The grand ballroom of the Palazzo Salarino glittered in the light from its famous antique crystal chandeliers as the floor-length windows darkened from the blue of late afternoon to the deep mauve of evening. The body of the room was filled with row upon row of gilded chairs, seating the fashion world’s premier figures, and the perfection of the scene was reflected in the numerous Venetian mirrors that lined the walls.

On shaking legs Eve stepped out from the wings.

For a second she couldn’t see anything at all as a thousand flashbulbs dazzled her, and it was all she could do not to put her hands in front of her face to shield it. The catwalk stretched ahead of her, looking at least a mile long, and beyond it lay the elegant salon with its sea of upturned faces.

Sienna’s words came back to her. ‘Find someone to focus on…’

Desperately she scanned the cavernous room, for once glad that her shortsightedness prevented her from recognising the dauntingly famous faces. Her steps slowed and she felt the smile freeze on her face. Was she supposed to smile? She couldn’t remember. The audience was a whispering restless mass. It was impossible to single anyone out, Eve thought in panic, willing herself to keep going while every fibre of her being was telling her to turn on her spike heels and run.

Someone was standing in the shadows, leaning against one of the marble pillars with his head tilted back. He was wearing a dark suit that outlined the powerful breadth of his shoulders against the pale marble, and there was something incredibly arresting about his stillness. In the dimly lit room, through the fog of her shortsightedness, it was impossible to see him clearly, but she could feel his eyes upon her.

I can do this, she thought. I can do this.

Achingly beautiful, heartbreakingly poignant, the exquisite notes of Madame Butterfly drifted through the room, filling her with their bittersweet sexual yearning. She and Ellie had always loved this opera, sneaking to the top of the stairs in their nightgowns to catch this particular aria when their mother used to play it late at night on an old record player. The words were as familiar to her as a lullaby, and hearing them now gave her strength.

Everything around her receded—the cameras, the audience, the syrupy voice of the pink-suited host. The world shrank to encompass nothing but the music and the dark, narrowed eyes of the stranger. He didn’t move, but as she swayed towards him she could feel the laser beam burn of his gaze and sense the sexual energy he gave off, like heat. It melted into her skin, making it tingle, thawing her icy shell of insecurity and shyness.

For the first time in two years she felt properly alive.

Reaching the end of the catwalk, she lifted her head and paused. Their eyes locked over the rows of people separating them in a dizzying moment of absolute sexual recognition. For a brief second Eve seriously considered keeping going: jumping down from the catwalk and walking right up to him, as Sienna had said. Her body was crying out to him with an urgency that took her breath away, and the need to touch him, to inhale his scent and taste the warmth of his lips, was almost overwhelming.

The photographers at her feet surged forward in a volley of flashbulbs. Blinded by white light, she could still see the dark silhouette of her mysterious rescuer imprinted on her mind. Wrenching her dazzled gaze away, she turned to walk back up the catwalk, still feeling his eyes upon her and helplessly aware of the wanton undulation of her hips. In the few seconds that their eyes had held he had insinuated himself under her skin, like some mystical enchanter, infusing every cell in her body with molten longing. She was possessed.

Stepping shakily off the catwalk, she slipped through the crowd of girls waiting to go on and, oblivious to their smiles and congratulations, stumbled back to her corner of the communal dressing area. Throwing herself into a chair, she stared at her reflection in the mirror.

She looked like Sleeping Beauty must have in the moment following Prince Charming’s kiss—dazed, bewildered, and unmistakably aroused. Gone was the shy, uncertain girl who had stepped nervously through the curtains five minutes ago, and in her place was a tousled maenad with bee-stung lips and eyes like dark pools of invitation.

The horoscope had been spookily accurate. It was exactly as if she had been sleeping until the electrifying presence of the unknown man had brought her painfully, pleasurably, back to consciousness.

She dropped her head into her hands. Except that clever, sensible Eve didn’t believe in all that nonsense, did she?

She had been the shy twin, always in the shadow of flamboyant, confident Ellie. Ellie had been the one who’d devoured horoscopes and believed in destiny, pursuing your dream. While Eve had still been at Oxford, working hard on her dissertation, Ellie had abandoned her degree in Art History and blown her student grant on a one-way ticket to Florence instead.

She’d wanted to experience art and passion and beauty for herself, not hear about it second-hand in some dingy lecture theatre. At some point, when she’d been in Florence for a couple of months, she’d clearly decided to add heroin to the list of things she wanted to experience.

That was where following your dreams and reading your horoscope got you. To an anonymous, sordid death that the police hadn’t even bothered to investigate.

They hadn’t, so Eve had vowed she would. In the two years since it had happened Eve’s life had shrunk even further, until there was nothing left but her work for Professor Swanson and the cold, aching desire for closure and for justice.

But the face that stared back at her from the mirror now was transformed by desire of a different kind. It was the face of a girl who knew what she wanted—and it had nothing to do with revenge. The expression in her eyes was one of white-hot, naked, take-me-and-damn-the-consequences lust.

And, what was more, it suited her. Now all she had to do was find her man and…

‘You were brilliant! A total natural!’

Sienna kicked off killer six-inch stiletto heels and helped herself to a miniature bottle of champagne from one of the ice buckets that were dotted around the dressing room. On the other side of the curtain the audience were still clapping and cheering as she took a long, thirsty swig.

In a daze, Eve looked up. The show couldn’t have finished already. That would mean she had just spent the last forty-five minutes lost in an erotic fantasy.

‘Right, then,’ Sienna went on happily, ‘That’s the work bit over. Now it’s party time!’ Oh, God. She had just spent the last forty-five minutes lost in an erotic fantasy. ‘The Lazaro parties are always totally wild.’ With an alarming lack of inhibition Sienna stripped off the outrageous white leather and tulle wedding dress she had worn for the finale and tossed it aside. ‘Have you seen how many celebs are out there? I can’t wait to meet them. And there’s even a whisper going around that Rapahel di Lazaro is back from abroad. He’s supposed to be, like, so-ooo gorgeous. I’m definitely going to introduce myself.’

The mention of that name brought Eve back to reality with roughly the same force as a head-on collision at high speed. He was the one she should be spending the evening trying to get close to, not her handsome hero.

‘Well, if you find him you can introduce me too. I’d love to meet the mysterious Raphael di Lazaro. So far I haven’t even been able to dig out so much as a photograph of him. How come he’s so elusive?’

Sienna shrugged. She had changed into a backless, barely-there dress in cherry-pink, and was now slipping her feet into a pair of pink satin wedges that even Eve recognised as being the height of fashion.

‘He left before I started modelling for Lazaro, but people here are still talking about him. The rumour goes that his girlfriend ran off with his brother—Luca; you’re bound to meet him—and Raphael couldn’t handle it. I heard he went to South America somewhere, though I’m not sure if that’s right. I mean, he’s a fashion photographer, and it’s not an area you’d really associate with fashion, is it?’

Eve gave a dry laugh. ‘No.’ Drugs, yes. Fashion, no.

‘Anyway, that’s why he hasn’t been around for a couple of years. And even before he went the paparazzi used to give him a pretty wide berth.’ Sienna finished applying shocking pink lipstick and paused for a moment while she pressed her lips together. ‘He hates them, apparently, but that’s not unusual in this business. What’s more surprising is that they seem to respect that. He must be quite a guy. Hey, Eve…? Are you all right?

‘Oh. Yes. Yes, of course.’

‘Well, come on, then. We’re missing valuable party time! What are you wearing?’

‘Oh, nothing much. I mean, not literally—but I’ve only got this.’ Flustered, Eve got to her feet and rummaged inside a moth-eaten antique carpet-bag—her Mary Poppins bag as Ellie used to call it—fishing out a slither of silk which she tossed absentmindedly to Sienna.

Sienna held the dress up carefully. ‘It’s gorgeous. Where’s it from?’

Eve flashed her a smile and put on a posh, showbiz accent. ‘A frightfully exclusive little label called Charity Shop. Frankly, darling, I never wear anything else.’



The lavender-scented air was still warm, and, stepping out onto the romantically lit terrace, Raphael Di Lazaro felt an enormous sense of relief. The ornate grandeur of the palazzo’s ballroom, with its wall-to-wall celebrities and trophy wives, had been suffocating. Everything was so highly polished and symmetrical, just like the perfectly made-up, expressionless faces of the models, but it made the dust and chaos he had so recently left behind in Columbia seem positively refreshing in comparison.

Accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, he discreetly checked his watch. This was the kind of event he usually avoided like a hot day in hell, but he was here on business, not for pleasure. This was exactly the sort of environment in which his slimeball brother was most likely to operate.

Half-brother. Since uncovering evidence of the new depths of evil and corruption concealed behind Luca’s shallow charm, Raphael was more determined than ever to remember that they shared only one parent. And Antonio Di Lazaro had played such a distant role in Raphael’s upbringing that he hardly qualified for the title of father.

Luca was the golden boy in Antonio’s eyes. In everyone’s eyes.

Grimly, Raphael lifted his glass to his lips, as if the bubbles would wash away the bitter taste that always accompanied this train of thought. Draining it in one long draft, he was surprised to find that his habitual acrimony was tinged with sympathy. It wasn’t going to be easy for Antonio to face the fact that his favourite son was facing charges of international drugs trafficking and money laundering. Especially when the money had most probably come from the Lazaro accounts.

But he was jumping ahead of himself. Luca hadn’t been arrested yet, and Raphael was here to make sure that nothing happened to prevent that at this delicate stage of the operation.

Looking around for his father, he stifled a yawn. Even when he’d worked for Lazaro he’d despised this celebrity schmoozing, and his time in Columbia had only served to heighten his loathing of it. In fact today extreme tiredness and crashing boredom had made a pretty lethal combination, so that during the endless procession of identikit clotheshorses he’d almost fallen asleep.

Maybe he had, just for a moment. Maybe that astonishing erotic encounter had been nothing more than a dream…

He felt his tired body stir and stiffen at the memory of the girl in the transparent dress. Surely it was too vivid to have been a dream? He could still picture the terror in her huge eyes as she’d stepped into the lights of the catwalk, still remember the surge of protectiveness he’d felt towards her as she’d faltered, still feel the adrenalin rush that had crashed through him as she’d looked straight into his eyes…

Adrenalin? Who was he kidding? What he’d felt was a rush of pure testosterone. It wasn’t just sleep deprivation he was suffering from.

OK, so there hadn’t exactly been an endless supply of attractive, intelligent women to choose from in Columbia’s underworld, and two years was a hell of a long time for any man without a burning religious conviction to behave like a monk, but he wasn’t desperate enough to pick up some air-headed model. Bitter experience had taught him that models required the same kind of intensive, round the clock attention and affection as small children. And they were just as likely to get themselves into trouble if left unsupervised. It was a responsibility he wouldn’t be stupid enough to take on a second time.

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.

Eve’s gasp was lost in an explosion of flashbulbs and a deafening machine-gun rattle of shutters as every photographer in the room instantly went for a shot of Raphael di Lazaro.

His dark hair fell forward over his face. Shadows of fatigue and twenty-four hours of stubble emphasised the high, slanting cheekbones and the sulky, sensual mouth. Even unshaven, and in last night’s rumpled dark suit and white shirt, he was still savagely, effortlessly attractive. His face, as he pulled out a chair and slumped into it, was perfectly expressionless, but, watching him rake back his hair with long, suntanned fingers, Eve thought that he looked infinitely weary.

Her insides turned liquid with a potent mixture of loathing and lust.

Alessandra Ferretti was introducing everyone, her sexy drawl making it sound as if she was matchmaking at a cocktail party.

‘Dr Christiano is Signor di Lazaro’s consultant, and Dr Cavalletti is head of the cardiac team who will be responsible for his care.’ She gestured to the white-coated men, then turned to Raphael and laid a slim brown hand on his arm. ‘Raphael di Lazaro returned from Columbia only yesterday, but he has been with his father throughout the night.’

A tiny shock pulsed through Eve that Alessandra should mention Columbia so casually, but it was quickly submerged by a wave of irritation at the proprietary way her hand still rested on Raphael’s arm.

‘What’s Antonio’s condition now?’ asked a reporter from one of the Italian broadsheets.

‘Agiato,’ replied the doctor on the right—Eve was ashamed to realise that she hadn’t been paying enough attention to remember which one it was. ‘He is in the best possible hands.’

‘What treatment will he be undergoing?’

The other doctor cleared his throat self-importantly and launched into an in-depth medical lecture that had all the English-speaking journalists utterly bewildered. At the end of the table Raphael was leaning back in his chair, distractedly drawing on a notepad, totally oblivious to the intense attention of the media and of every woman in the room.

He had the face of a tortured saint in some religious tableau, Eve decided miserably, unable to stop herself from staring at him, or responding to that same aura of desolation she had noticed last night. She had spent the last two years inventing slow and painful deaths for this man, and suddenly she found herself wanting to walk right up to him, hold his face in her hands and kiss away all the anger and pain that she saw there.

She shook her head irritably. Maybe she’d been right yesterday. Maybe she really was possessed.

‘What about the perfume launch? Is it still going ahead?’ a journalist from one of the British glossies was asking.

‘We feel that Antonio would want it to,’ Alessandra Ferretti said smoothly. ‘He has lavished much attention on its planning, and some of the biggest celebrities across the globe are coming to celebrate the launch of Golden, Lazaro’s most exciting perfume ever, in what promises to be a glittering event in every sense of the word.’ Product plug over, she arranged her face into a compassionate smile and resumed a hushed, respectful tone. ‘Antonio always puts Lazaro first. It is his life, and to do anything other than carry on with business as usual would be utterly disrespectful of all he has worked so hard to create.’

Her answer was followed by another cacophony of questions, most of them directed at Raphael. How long was it since he had seen his father? Had he come back from South America because he knew Antonio was ill? How had Antonio seemed earlier in the evening?

He answered briefly, his voice harsh with tiredness. Eve kept her head down and her tape recorder raised to catch his answers, fearing that all it would be picking up was the frantic beating of her heart. Beside her, the tarty blonde was desperately trying to get noticed to ask a question.

‘Signor di Lazaro! Raphael!’

Suddenly he looked in her direction. Eve froze.

‘Where were you last night when Antonio was taken ill?’

‘At the retrospective.’

Eve didn’t dare breathe. If she kept her head down and stayed completely still perhaps he wouldn’t notice her. If only the damned girl beside her would shut up and let him move on to someone else. But she was still talking. A vaguely insinuating note had crept into her voice.

‘According to staff at the Palazzo Salarino, it took some considerable time to locate you. What were you doing?’

The silence that followed seemed to go on for ever. Slowly, and with a paralysing sense of dread, Eve dragged her eyes upwards from their intense study of the pattern on the carpet. And found herself looking straight into his.

It was like running at full speed into a wall of ice.

His expression was utterly blank as he held her in his dark gaze. Excruciating, yet indescribably erotic, like being intimately caressed while lying on a bed of nails. His voice, when he eventually replied, was very soft.

‘That, it suddenly appears, is a very good question.’



For a second Raphael thought that tiredness had got the better of him and he was hallucinating. But there was no mistaking those eyes, or the softly rounded lips that had filled his head with pleasure during the long hours he’d spent, halfway between sleeping and waking, in a chair at his father’s hospital bedside.

So she wasn’t a model. It was even worse than that.

She was a journalist.

His grip tightened on the pen in his hand as a wave of self-recrimination swept through him. Going too long without sleep had made him irrational and careless, but that was no excuse for his stupid behaviour last night. Thank goodness that the maître d’ had found him before things had gone any further, otherwise he might have been waking up to his name all over the front pages in headlines featuring the words ‘passion’, ‘playboy’, and probably ‘love-rat’.

He looked across to where she stood, head bent, her face partly hidden by a curtain of hair, the tip of her pen held between her softly parted lips, and felt his heart—along with other more basic parts of his anatomy—harden.

In his eyes journalists came a little below single-cell organisms in the evolutionary scale. Just because this girl had the wide-eyed innocence of a blonde Virgin Mary, it would be unwise to rule out the possibility that she might still attempt to concoct some kind of kiss-and-tell story. He would just have to track her down and make sure she didn’t.

She’d have her price. They all did. That was what was so disappointing.



‘Taxi! Taxi!’

Eve let out a shriek of outrage as yet another of Florence’s distinctive white cabs sped past her. That made five. She was beginning to wonder if she might just be invisible.

But of course she wasn’t. If she were she would have been spared public humiliation at the hands—or eyes—of Raphael Di Lazaro.

How dared he? she spluttered inwardly. How dared he look at her like that? As if she was some kind of inferior life-form from the Planet Vulgar, and way beneath his contempt?

‘Taxiii!’

If the street had not been crowded with intimidatingly glamorous Italian women, looking cool and inscrutable behind their designer sunglasses, Eve would almost certainly have sat down on the pavement and given in to tears. As it was, there was only one thing left to do.

Find chocolate.

The café nearby was small—just a handful of tables spilling out onto the pavement—but the enticing aroma of fresh coffee and hot pastries was irresistible. Taking her place in the queue of beautiful people at the counter, Eve wondered why everyone in Florence was so annoyingly good-looking. She had just arrived at the conclusion that Calvin Klein must be doing a casting session nearby, when, from the depths of her bag, she heard the tinny trill of her mobile.

Clamping her purse beneath one arm, she dug beneath the layers of old bus tickets, leaky Biros and odd gloves, triumphantly managing to unearth it before it stopped ringing.

‘Lou…!’

‘Hi, babe. You tried to call me. Everything OK?’

‘Where were you? I needed you!’

‘I was here. I’m just not answering my phone in case it’s Marissa. I’m supposed to be at death’s door, remember? The trouble is I got quite carried away with the story when I rang her to tell her, and now I can’t remember all the details. Anyway, never mind that. How’s it going?’

At the comfortingly familiar sound of Lou’s voice Eve felt the sting of tears at the back of her eyes again. The need to offload was overwhelming.

‘It’s awful. I’ve completely messed everything up!’

‘God, Eve, you’d better not have. Marissa will strangle me with one of her garish designer scarves if she finds out I made up all that stuff about your past modelling success and your dazzling journalistic career. Tell me it’s not that bad.’

Eve swallowed nervously.

‘Remember the time you interviewed that Hollywood movie star and spent the whole time giving him your come-get-me smile—then found out afterwards that you had lettuce stuck to your teeth? Well, it’s about a thousand times worse than that.’

There was a painful pause. ‘I don’t believe you. But I’m listening.’

Miserably waiting in the queue, Eve watched the sultry girl behind the counter sprinkle chocolate on the top of a cappuccino. Even the waitresses round here looked like supermodels. She held the phone closer to her mouth and dropped her voice to a whisper.

‘I kissed Raphael di Lazaro.’

‘Sorry? I can’t hear you. For a moment I thought you said you kissed Raphael di Lazaro!’ Lou laughed heartily, and then stopped abruptly. ‘Eve? Oh, God—that is what you said, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. Well, in that case I suppose just one question springs to mind—’

‘Fantastic,’ Eve whispered, staring straight ahead as the tears gathered in her eyes again. ‘He’s totally not how you’d expect.’

‘No, Eve! The question was not, What was it like? The question was, In the name of Aunt Fanny, why?’

‘Oh. I didn’t know who he was at the time.’

‘Now, wait a minute. I’ve known you since we both started university, and in all that time, Eve Middlemiss—four years of prime mating opportunities—I have never once known you to snog a guy without first meeting his mother and practising your new signature for after you’re married.’

‘That’s not fair! I—’ Eve hissed vehemently into the phone, but was unable to protest further as she’d reached the front of the queue at the counter. Hastily she ordered a chocolate croissant and a double mochaccino latte, adding sulkily, ‘With extra cream.’

‘Let’s be honest, Eve.’ Lou spoke more kindly now. ‘You’re not the kind of girl who kisses strangers. What’s going on?’

‘I don’t know, Lou. It was bizarre—like fate, or destiny, or something. I saw him…No, we saw each other, and it was like something just clicked. It felt right. Inevitable, somehow. Like I didn’t have to do anything because we both knew it was going to happen. It had to happen. And it did. After the show I was talking to this guy and, well, I know it sounds stupid, but he arrived and just sort of swept me away…’

‘And you went with him? Just like that? Jeez, Eve!’

‘I know, I know. It was stupid,’ snapped Eve, wedging the phone against her ear as she handed money to the supermodel waitress. ‘But at the time I was—I don’t know—powerless to resist. You don’t know what he’s like, Lou…There’s a sort of strength about him…’

‘There was a “sort of strength” about Adolf Hitler too, but it hardly made him the ideal partner. Look, Eve, I don’t like the sound of this. What happened last night was nothing to do with destiny, or love at first sight, or whatever fluffy notions you’ve got. It’s far more likely that he remembers Ellie and recognised you, and intends to keep you quiet. It’s not safe. I think you should come home.’

‘No.’ It came out more forcefully than she had intended, and the waitress gave Eve an odd look as she handed her the paper bag containing the croissant. Tucking it under her chin while she waited for her change, Eve continued in an urgent whisper, ‘I’m not giving up now. For two miserable years I’ve waited to find out something, anything, that would bring me closer to understanding what happened to Ellie, and now I’m here and I’ve finally managed to put a face to the name on that bloody scrap of paper. And suddenly none of it seems to fit, and I don’t know what I believe any more, but one thing is certain…’ Her voice was rising as her resolve increased and, snatching up her hot chocolate, she swept away from the counter. ‘I’m not coming home until I find some answers, whatever that takes. Either I’m going to expose di Lazaro as a sleazy drug pusher, or—’

She paused for a second to take a tentative sip of the froth on the top of her chocolate, closing her eyes in pleasure at the rich, sweet aroma. The next moment she had collided with something hard and unyielding.

A tidal wave of hot chocolate spilled over her hand, and made five small splashes on the front of the white shirt three inches from her nose.

The creased, obviously expensive, instantly recognisable white shirt three inches from her nose.

She gave a tiny whimper of distress.

‘What? Eve? Eve?’

In one swift movement Raphael Di Lazaro had relieved her of the dripping paper cup and extracted her mobile phone from between her ear and her shoulder. His face was dangerously calm as he spoke into it, but his eyes glittered with anger.

‘I’m afraid your friend seems to be momentarily lost for words, but let me reassure you that she’s perfectly all right.’

Eve’s cheek burned where his fingertips had brushed it, and she felt dizzy as she caught a brief hint of the scent of his skin. Vaguely, from the depths of her despair, she could make out the alarm in Lou’s voice at the other end of the phone.

‘Thank goodness for that. What happened?’

‘It’s nothing. Just a little accident with some hot chocolate. Tell me, is she always this clumsy?’

Eve heard Lou laugh, relaxing in the warmth of that low, impossibly sexy voice. Traitor. She wouldn’t be so amused if she knew who she was talking to.

‘Is she wearing her glasses?’

Raphael’s chilly gaze flickered over Eve’s face. ‘No.’

‘Oh, she’s hopeless. Really, she shouldn’t be allowed out on her own.’

‘I couldn’t agree more, signorina.’

Furious, Eve snatched the phone back. ‘OK, Lou—lovely to talk to you. But you’d better go and sleep it off now. And remember—no more vodka at breakfast time.’

Snapping the phone shut with grim satisfaction before Lou could protest, Eve steeled herself to look up at Raphael. Even though he still wore that careful, guarded, blank expression, there was no mistaking the hostility it masked.

‘So, Signorina Middlemiss…’ He paused, enunciating each word very carefully, as if trying not to lose control of his temper. ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me exactly what you think you’re doing?’

Her chin shot up in defiance. ‘It was an accident—hardly anything to make a fuss about. I’m sure it’ll wash out—’

His voice cut through her like the lash of a whip. ‘Don’t be childish. You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. What were the words you used? Sleazy drug pusher? I hardly think that’s the sort of thing the readers of Glitterati want to hear about.’

The searing contempt in his tone was like acid on an open wound. But even more painful was the realisation that Lou’s theory might be right.

‘So you do know who I am? Surprise, surprise. I might have known that men like you have spies everywhere.’

He raised a hand. For a crazy, delicious, dizzying split second she thought he was going to pull her into his arms and kiss her, as he had done last night. She was horrified at the disappointment that sliced into her as his fingers merely brushed the press ID badge clipped to the front of her scoop-necked T-shirt.

‘“Eve Middlemiss. Fashion Assistant. Glitterati”,’ he read softly, his beautiful mouth curving into a cruel half-smile. ‘One hardly has to have a sophisticated intelligence network to find these things out. Five minutes ago I knew almost nothing about you, signorina, but a picture is rapidly emerging.’

‘Oh, yes? What picture?’

Damn. Only a complete simpleton would walk into that one. She could smell the sandalwood maleness of him, and it was having a catastrophic effect on her ability to think rationally.

‘That of a silly, inexperienced journalist on a low-rent publication who is getting involved in things that are completely over her pretty blonde head.’

Well, she had asked.

He took a step back, making Eve suddenly aware of how close together they had been standing, and how the sheer nearness of him had held her spellbound. With space to breathe, the impact of his words suddenly hit her with all the force of a prizefighter’s punch.

‘You patronising male chauvinist pig! How dare you pass judgement on me?’

He had taken something out of his pocket and was leaning on one of the pavement tables, writing.

‘Do you really want me to answer that?’ he drawled, without looking up. ‘Even your friend is of the opinion that you shouldn’t be out on your own.’

‘My friend was joking,’ Eve hissed though gritted teeth. ‘To understand that you need something called a sense of humour.’

Straightening up, Raphael leaned his elegant slim-hipped frame against the table and looked at her for a moment through narrowed eyes. Then, folding his arms in an attitude of complete ease, he began to talk in a swift stream of Italian. His voice was husky and low, almost caressing in its intimacy, and the words flowed over her like warm rain, making her skin tingle and the hairs stand up on the nape of her neck. For a blissful moment she felt an echo of the drenching pleasure that she’d experienced last night in his arms.

And then she realised he’d stopped speaking and was looking at her questioningly. ‘So?’

Bewildered, mesmerised, she faltered and shook her head confusedly. ‘I…Sorry, I…’

He had the same unruffled stillness about him as a panther reclining in the savannah: a dangerous watchfulness that, even though he was relaxed, made him look as if he could pounce at any moment.

‘So. You don’t speak the language. You don’t know what you’re getting into. You’re out of your depth. Go home.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

He sighed, and suddenly looked very tired. Noticing it, Eve felt again that irrational, treacherous pull inside, and her fingertips burned with the need to touch him.

‘No, I’m warning you to be sensible.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘Please take this. I don’t know how much you were hoping to earn from your little “scoop”, but I think twenty thousand should more than cover it—don’t you?’

‘What?’ she gasped, her momentary weakness evaporating in a fresh blast of fury. ‘You’re offering me twenty thousand euros to shut up and go home like a good girl?’

He gave her a sardonic smile. ‘You underestimate my generosity. I’m offering you twenty thousand pounds.’

Speechless with shock, she glared at him for a long moment as tears pricked behind her eyes and her breath caught in her throat, choking the words that swirled around her head. My sister’s life was worth more than that!

A taxi was speeding towards them, and she ran forward to hail it. But her tears and the forgotten glasses, combined with her desperate need to get away from him, made her clumsy. There was a screech of brakes and a blaring of horns as the taxi swerved to avoid her. In a split second Raphael was beside her, grasping her arms and pulling her back onto the pavement.

‘Voi ragazza piccola stupid,’ he spat. ‘You stupid little child! You could have been killed!’ He was still gripping her arm, and the icy cool of a few moments ago had been replaced with blistering fury. ‘Do you not even know that in Florence you don’t flag down taxis as you do in London? Dio, Eve!’

Ashen-faced, and with tears of humiliation and defeat coursing down her face, she looked up at him. ‘Let me go. Please.’

She was still trembling. From shock, and maybe a little from the way he’d said her name, which on his lips sounded like Eva. But also from the realisation that he’d just jumped out into the road to save her life.

He did as she asked, stepping abruptly back as if she were the carrier of a contagious disease. With deliberate calm she turned back towards the road and held out her arm as a taxi came towards her. Please, God, let this one stop. Please show Raphael di Lazaro, who clearly thinks he’s your second-in-command, that he doesn’t have to get everything right all of the time…

She could have kissed the driver as he pulled up alongside her. She turned to Raphael, bravely trying to muster a smile through her tears.

‘You see! I’m perfectly capable of—’

She gasped as he reached towards her and brushed his thumb across her lips in a gesture of perfect sensual intimacy. Her eyelids fluttered closed in blissful submission as, for a fraction of a second, she let her lips press against his firm flesh, feeling his warmth, tasting the salt-sweetness of him, unable to stop the cascade of heat that tumbled through her.

Her eyes flew to his, but found them cold and mocking.

‘Froth. You were saying?’

His mouth curled into that cruel half-smile as he opened the door for her, then leaned over to speak to the driver. He took a fat wad of notes from his pocket and handed them over.

Furiously, she slammed the door and wiped her hand over her mouth, as much to dispel the feel of his thumb upon her lips as to remove any lingering traces of froth.

‘What did he say to you?’ she asked the driver as he pulled out into the stream of traffic.

‘He ask me how much to airport. Is that where we go?’

‘No! Take me to my hotel, please.’

‘You sure, signorina? The signore, he pay me much money to go to airport.’

‘I’m sure.’

It was a lie. Right now she would have done anything to skip the perfume launch, get on a plane home and never hear the word Lazaro again.




CHAPTER THREE


EVE wouldn’t have thought it possible to be sitting in a gold limousine en route to a fearsomely exclusive A-list fashion event and have that horrible sick-in-the-stomach feeling she got on the way to the dentist.

On the seat opposite, Sienna stretched out her phenomenally long legs and sighed theatrically into her mobile. She’d spent the entire journey on her phone to either her agent or her film star boyfriend, and although Eve knew she should have been listening carefully for material to use in the article, her mind kept drifting back to her own problems.

Which was hardly surprising. Given the scale of them.

On paper all the evidence was falling neatly into place, and the fact that three hours ago Raphael di Lazaro had offered her more money to do nothing than Professor Swanson paid her for a year of hard work and long hours was another reason to believe in his guilt. And yet…

And yet the man she had glimpsed beneath that chilly, reserved veneer was neither evil nor corrupt. He had integrity. And he had it in spades.

Eve rested her forehead against the limousine window and shut her eyes, delicately probing the painful possibility that she was mistaking Raphael di Lazaro’s undoubted good-looks and dazzling sex appeal for something more meaningful. A year or so ago, before she’d landed the job on the Glitterati fashion desk, Lou had done an article on women who fell in love with prisoners on Death Row. Over a bottle or two of cheap red in a wine bar in Oxford, Eve and Lou had discussed this phenomenon, snorting in contemptuous pity at the idea that anyone could let their heart rule their head in such a spectacularly foolish way.

Was she similarly deluded?

But she hadn’t imagined the sheer strength that had held her and guided her as she’d walked down the catwalk just as surely as if his arms had been around her. Or the haunted need that lay just behind the expressionless public mask. Or the bone-deep, instinctive courage that would make him step out and grab her from the path of an oncoming car…

No! She banged her head softly but emphatically against the glass, as if to knock the sense back into it once and for all. The facts spoke for themselves. His name was on that paper, right above where it said drugs. He had followed her after the press conference and tried to buy her off.

Rational, intellectual Eve pressed her fingers to her temples and took a steadying breath. No matter what her heart was saying, her head knew perfectly well that he was still the most likely suspect. She had come to find answers, and she was still determined to do that. She just hadn’t anticipated how painful it was going to be.

Sighing, she dragged her attention back to Sienna, who was thoughtfully examining a glossy acrylic nail. ‘Will it involve taking my clothes off?’ she was saying, still on her mobile—though whether it was to the agent or the boyfriend, Eve couldn’t be sure. The glamorous model looked sensational, in spray-on white trousers and a diaphanous gold chiffon top that fell in soft, semi-transparent folds from a gold beaded choker at the neck. Only Eve would know that it had taken half an hour to construct her perfect cleavage with tape, and that much of the luxuriant black hair was, in fact, nylon extensions.

Nothing is as it seems on the surface, Eve thought bitterly.

They were close enough now to be able to see celebrities emerging from cars like gilded butterflies from their chrysalises. Everyone was faithfully sticking to the theme, and from the women’s barely-there dresses to the men’s over-the-top tailoring and salon tans the red carpet was transformed into a sea of gold.

Eve’s own wardrobe was a little light on glitz, so Sienna had offered to lend her something from her own seemingly endless supply of clothes. It had been a kind offer but, coming as it had from a six-foot supermodel with a chest as flat as an ironing board, not remotely helpful. In the end Eve had been forced to resort to her faithful old jeans and jewelled Indian flip-flops, teamed with the only vaguely metallic-coloured thing she owned—a little vintage lace-trimmed camisole top from the 1930s, its cream silk darkened with age to a deep biscuity gold. In spite of the heat she’d fully intended to throw a jacket over the top, but Sienna had absolutely forbidden it, frogmarching her from the room without listening to her cries of protest.

‘Of course you don’t look like a hooker! This, in case you hadn’t noticed, is the look of this summer. Honestly, Eve, I thought you were supposed to be a fashion journalist!’

Good point. She’d allowed herself to get so preoccupied with Raphael Di Lazaro she’d almost forgotten.

The car glided to a halt and Sienna gracefully unfolded her long limbs and stepped out. Waiting nervously for the paparazzi storm that heralded Sienna’s arrival to subside before she stepped out of the safety of the limousine herself, Eve tried to arrange her face into a confident smile, but found her efforts considerably hampered by the sticky gold lipgloss Sienna had persuaded her to wear.

Drifts of sand specially imported from Egypt edged the red carpet and rose in mini-dunes at the entrance to the store, which was flanked with two enormous statues of the sphinx. But even this display of extravagant kitsch didn’t prepare Eve for the spectacle that awaited them inside.

‘What do you think?’ yelled Sienna above the din, gesturing around them. ‘Didn’t I tell you the Lazaro parties are always wild?’

‘It’s unreal!’ said Eve, looking round. Against a backdrop of gilded palm trees and faux-pyramids, A-list celebrities were being sprayed with Golden by scantily clad ‘Egyptian’ slave-girls, in Cleopatra-style wigs and scarlet lipstick. The air was heavy with the perfume, which smelt like a mixture of fruit salad and ozone.

In the centre of the floor a vast three-tiered fountain, topped by Tutankhamen’s head, gushed champagne. A youth in a loincloth appeared beside them, proffering a plate of canapés. Forbidden by Sienna from wearing her glasses, Eve peered shortsightedly at them.

‘What on earth are they?’

‘South Sea tiger prawns in a vodka marinade, finished with eighteen-carat-gold leaf,’ said the youth.

‘Gold leaf?’ echoed Eve faintly.

Sienna giggled. ‘No, thanks. I’m catching a plane this evening. Don’t want to set off the metal detectors. Come and get a drink,’ she shouted to Eve, disappearing into the seething mass of exotically dressed celebrities.

It was impossible to squeeze through the crowd around the champagne fountain. Eve found herself alone on the fringes, craning above a hundred glossy, seriously high-maintenance heads to see where Sienna had gone.

Suddenly an arm snaked round her waist from behind. She whirled round to look into the laughing bloodshot eyes of the man from the retrospective. The man Raphael had been so keen to steal her away from.

‘We meet again, angel. I see you standing here all alone, and I wonder how my brother could be so careless as to leave you unattended in the midst of such…’ he looked around with a wolfish grin ‘…debauchery. You are like a beautiful rose blooming in a vase of artificial flowers.’ His eyes moved lazily up and down her body for a moment, while a slow smile spread across his face.

‘You’re Raphael’s brother?’

‘Si. Half-brother. Though twice as charming. Luca di Lazaro.’

She took the hand he extended towards her. ‘Eve Middlemiss.’

‘Beautiful,’ he murmured, looking very pleased about something and holding onto her hand for far longer than was necessary. ‘And where is Raphael?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Eve managed a sort of grim smile, in spite of the lipgloss. ‘But I’d like to find him.’

‘Don’t rush off, bella. Let me get you a drink. Is very hot in here, no? We need a passionfruit daiquiri!’

‘I don’t really…’

‘Don’t worry, bambino,’ he soothed, laying a hot hand on her bare shoulder. ‘It has hardly any alcohol. You’ll love it. Trust me.’



In his father’s private office on the top floor, Raphael held out the remote control, flicking from one CCTV image to another. Antonio had invested in the very best technology available to ensure that the Lazaro security system was state-of-the-art. Cameras were placed in strategic positions on each of the store’s three floors, and also covered a large area of the street outside, and the information they generated was closely monitored by a highly trained team.

Raphael had considered briefing them on the necessity of keeping close tabs on Luca, but decided against it. The fewer people who knew about the investigation into his brother’s drug dealing the better. This was one job he could not entrust to anyone else, and if Luca made one suspicious move, or got too close to anyone, Raphael would be watching.

His eyes were gritty and his whole body ached with fatigue. After the ordeal of the press conference he had planned to return to his apartment for a few hours of much-needed sleep, but the encounter with Eve Middlemiss had put paid to that.

How much did she know?

His first thought when he’d seen her at the press conference was that she was a scheming, unscrupulous journalist who’d got the little-girl-lost act down to award-winning standard. Now he wasn’t so sure. Her naïvety…her total bloody cluelessness…was way too realistic to be put on. And yet somehow she knew enough to blow an international drugs investigation sky-high.

He sighed and passed his hands briefly over his face. The situation with Luca was volatile enough without having an airhead blonde journalist set on writing some half-witted exposé charging around like a bull in a china shop.

No, that was all wrong. Not a bull…Something far more dangerously delicate than that. A fawn, perhaps. She was like a fawn careering through a minefield. The memory of her wide, frightened eyes as she’d stepped in front of the taxi came back to him, followed swiftly by the feel of the soft swell of her breast beneath her T-shirt as he’d pulled her back.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair as a flicker of desire licked though him, and turned his attention abruptly back to the CCTV monitor. It didn’t really matter what metaphor you chose. The fact remained that Eve Middlemiss was a problem. A complication he could well do without.

His mouth set in a grim line of contempt as he studied the screen. The scene it showed was like a nightmarish cross between a third-rate porn movie and a big-budget blockbuster. A very high-profile footballer’s wife and an Oscar-tipped Hollywood starlet were cavorting in the champagne fountain as a crowd of onlookers clapped and cheered. Raphael’s gaze skimmed dismissively over them, coming to rest instead on the knot of people around the fountain.

Only the tension in his broad shoulders betrayed the strength of his ruthlessly controlled emotion as he located Luca.

Raphael didn’t flinch, but the light from the screen showed the sudden shuttered stillness of his face as he watched his brother pick a strand of hair from the slickly glossed lips of Eve Middlemiss. She was looking up at Luca trustingly, her lips pouting and slightly parted, and once he had moved the stray hair, with much careful concern, she tentatively pressed them together. It was a movement that was curiously childlike, but at the same time piercingly erotic.

Gripping the remote control, Raphael saw his knuckles show bone-white through the suntanned skin of his hands. Dimly, as if from a great distance, he was aware of the pounding blood in his ears. He was a man who lived on his instincts, whose survival in the volatile Columbian underworld of drugs gangs and hired killers had depended on his ability to make split-second decisions. Every nerve and fibre of his being was telling him to go down and drag Eve Middlemiss away from Luca.




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