The Italian's Defiant Mistress

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.