The Italian's Defiant Mistress

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.