He appeared vaguely amused. ‘Then it’s fortunate I have an alibi for Monday evening.’
‘I hope it’s watertight.’
‘It is. Alejandro will confirm.’ His voice became hard, his expression inflexible. ‘Camille will be served with an interim injunction. If she chooses to disregard it, she’ll be charged, independently of existing harassment charges.’ He paused fractionally. ‘Then there’s scientific proof regarding tampering of photographic prints.’ His gaze speared hers. ‘If she’s wise, she’ll take the first flight out of here.’
And their lives would revert to normal. Until the next time, Hannah added cynically. Although many women coveted Miguel, none had gone to such extraordinary lengths as Camille. Because the woman was obsessive? A practised man-stealer who derived her satisfaction from setting the scene and playing a devious game?
It made Hannah feel fiercely territorial. And possessive. About Miguel, her marriage, her home…everything she held sacred.
There were a few what if’s tumbling around in her mind, and she felt sickened at the thought that Camille’s plan had almost worked.
Don’t go there, she silently cautioned. A partnership, a marriage, had to be built on trust. If there wasn’t trust, there was nothing.
She reached for her goblet and took a generous sip of wine. It curled round her stomach and seeped into her veins, gradually lessening the tension.
A few weeks ago she hadn’t known of Camille Dalfour’s existence. Yet in the past week the Frenchwoman had managed to create chaos.
Miguel could take whatever action he chose. But she intended to instigate a strategy of her own.
In an impulsive move she drained the remaining wine in a long swallow, then replaced the empty goblet down onto the desk.
‘I feel like a swim before dinner.’
Miguel let her go, and when the door closed behind her he slid the prints back into the envelope and locked them in the wall safe. Then he picked up the phone and dialled his lawyer’s number.
Hannah slipped out of her clothes and stepped into a stunning deep aqua one-piece, then she pinned up her hair, snagged a towel and ran lightly down the stairs.
The pool looked inviting, the water clear and sparkling in the early evening sunlight. The heat of the day had diminished slightly, but it was still hot, and she dived cleanly in at the deep end and when she surfaced she struck out with leisurely strokes, one lap after another, until she’d counted to fifty, then she turned onto her back and lay there, held buoyant by the crystal water.
She could feel the sun on her face, her limbs, and she closed her eyes, becoming lost in reflective thought.
Soon she would need to emerge, go upstairs, shower and change ready for dinner. But, for now, she was bent on enjoying the quietness and the solitude.
Five minutes later she rolled onto her stomach in one fluid movement and made her way to the tiled ledge.
The strategy took shape as she showered, then she dried her hair and slipped into a casual pencil-slim skirt and top. Minimum make-up, a touch of lipstick and she was ready.
Dinner was timed for six-thirty, and a quick glance at her watch revealed she had just five minutes to set the plan in motion.
Rather than use the house line, she extracted her cell-phone and punched in a series of numbers.
‘Graziella?’ She exchanged pleasantries, then voiced her request. ‘Could I speak to Camille, if she’s there?’
If Camille was surprised at the identity of her caller, she didn’t show it.
‘Hannah, how charming, chérie.’ Her tone was pure feline.
‘Let’s do lunch tomorrow.’ Hannah named an up-market restaurant a block from the boutique. ‘One o’clock. Be there.’ She cut the connection before Camille had a chance to utter a further word.
Dinner was a simple meal of chicken served with piquant rice and a delectable salad with fresh fruit to follow. Hannah declined wine in favour of a lemon spritzer, and admired Miguel’s appetite while she merely picked at the food on her plate.
‘Not hungry?’
She met Miguel’s steady gaze and effected a light shrug. ‘A client brought in a platter of fresh grapes, crackers and cheese. Elaine and I nibbled all afternoon.’
‘You haven’t forgotten we have tickets for the opening of David Williamson’s new play tomorrow night?’
She’d been so preoccupied with Camille, she hadn’t checked her social diary for days. ‘No, of course not.’
‘I have some work to do on the laptop for an hour or so,’ Miguel declared as Hannah pushed her plate to one side.
‘Likewise.’ End-of-month invoices, stock receipts, and she also needed to check catalogues from several different fashion houses. ‘I should make a start on it.’
‘You load the dishwasher,’ he instructed, rising to his feet. ‘I’ll make coffee.’
There was a part of her that wanted the comfort of his touch, the warmth of his arms and the feel of his mouth on hers. In reassurance? It didn’t help to feel this needy. Yet they shared a marriage, had created a bond, and what more natural than to go to him, wind her arms round his neck and pull his head down to hers?
She couldn’t do it. Not here, not now. Camille stood like a spectre between them, a living, breathing entity that seemed to sap her natural warmth and spontaneity.
When the coffee was made, she poured it into two cups and carried hers through to the comfortable room next to Miguel’s study. It wasn’t as large as his, but it held an antique desk, bookshelves, filing cabinet, and a laptop.
For the next two hours she worked diligently, and when the paperwork was up to date she fired off a few e-mails to friends, which mostly took care of personal correspondence.
‘Not finished yet?’
Hannah looked up and saw Miguel’s tall frame leaning against the door-jamb. He’d removed cufflinks and rolled back his shirt-sleeves. The top few buttons on his shirt were loosened, and he looked as if he’d raked fingers through his hair more than once.
‘Five minutes.’
‘Want to watch a video?’
Why not? ‘Okay.’
‘Comedy? Action? Drama?’
She wrinkled her nose and gave him an impish grin. ‘Surprise me.’
When she entered the entertainment room he sat sprawled on the leather couch, a half-magnum of chilled champagne rested in an ice-bucket, there was a packet of crisps waiting to be opened, the lights were dimmed, and the television screen was running previews prior to the main movie.
Miguel patted the space beside him and extended a hand. His eyes were dark and his mouth curved into a sensual smile. ‘Come here.’
‘That sounds like an invitation,’ she murmured as she crossed the room, and his smile broadened.
‘Do you need one?’
Hannah indicated the ice-bucket. ‘Are we celebrating?’
He caught hold of her hand and pulled her down to him. He leaned forward, eased the cork from the bottle, then poured the contents into two flutes and handed her one. ‘Salut.’
Miguel took a sip of excellent vintage champagne and watched as she mirrored his action, then he took the flute from her hand and gave her his.
It was a deliberately sensual gesture, and she held his gaze for a few seconds, all too aware of the exigent sexual chemistry between them.
Liquid fire coursed through her veins, awakening each separate sensory nerve-end until her body became one pulsing ache in anticipation of his touch.
With considerable effort she dragged her gaze away and looked blindly at the television screen, focusing on the Technicolor images as the movie began to unfold.
The champagne was superb and she sipped the contents slowly, aware of the shift in Miguel’s frame as he draped an arm along the back of the couch bare inches above her shoulders.
It was a relationship film, the acting excellent, and if she remembered correctly both male and female leads had earned Oscar nominations for the parts they played.
Hannah gradua
lly became absorbed in the plot, and relaxed a little. She finished her champagne and Miguel took the empty flute from her fingers, placed it on a nearby low table, then settled back.
Minutes later she was aware of his fingers playing idly with her hair, gradually loosening the pins that held the smooth twist neatly together.
Her concentration was shot to hell as he leaned close and nuzzled her earlobe, then began pressing light kisses along the edge of her neck. When he savoured the sensitive hollow at its base, it was all she could do not to groan out loud.
‘You want to see this movie?’ she questioned huskily, and heard his soft chuckle.
‘You watch it, querida.’ His fingers slipped open one shirt button and slid beneath her lacy bra to tease one burgeoning peak. ‘I have something else in mind.’
‘Here?’
A hand covered her thigh and began a slow upward slide. ‘We’ll eventually make the bedroom.’ He released another shirt button. ‘But for now, enjoy.’
Five minutes was all it took for her to twist her fingers into the folds of his shirt and pull him hard against her. It was her mouth that sought his with hungry passion, eliciting a husky chuckle as his arms bound her close.
With urgent hands she sought his waist, wrenching the buckle open in her quest to touch him as he had caressed her.
She felt shameless, utterly wanton, in the need for his possession, and she gasped as he reared to his feet in one easy movement and strode towards the stairs.
On reaching the bedroom they helped remove each other’s clothes, then Miguel took her down onto the bed with him and subjected her to such exquisite lovemaking she wept from the joy of it.
Later, much later, it was she who initiated a slow, sensual journey that had him breathing deeply as he fought for control, only to lose it as she rode him to a tumultuous climax that left their bodies slick with sensual sweat and sated emotions.
CHAPTER NINE
THE day began with rain, which diminished to light showers and by midday the city was bathed in steamy heat and high humidity.
Hannah had dressed to kill in a tailored lightweight black suit that shrieked class. The deep V of the buttoned jacket showed a tantalising glimpse of cleavage. Black stiletto-heeled shoes added extra height to her petite frame and sheer black stockings showcased slender calves. Her hair was smoothed into a sleek chignon, and she wore minimum jewellery.
The overall look was one of a woman who was self-confident with high self-esteem. It hardly mattered that inside she felt like jelly as she entered the chosen restaurant a deliberate few minutes late.
It appeared Camille intended to play the same game, for she was nowhere in sight, and Hannah allowed the maître d’ to escort her to a reserved table where she ordered a light spritzer and sipped it slowly as the minutes ticked on.
The waiting increased her nervous tension, and after ten minutes she summoned the waiter and placed her order. If Camille intended to be a no-show—
‘Hannah. My apologies.’ The voice was as fake as the smile Camille offered as she slid into the seat opposite. ‘I was held up on the phone.’ She lifted a hand in an expressive Gallic gesture. ‘Parking, you know how it is.’
Begin as you mean to go on, a tiny voice prompted.
‘I’ve already ordered. I can only spare an hour.’
The wine steward appeared and Camille ordered Dom Perignon. ‘I thought we’d celebrate, darling.’
‘And the occasion is?’ Hannah queried with a lift of one eyebrow.
‘Why—life.’ Camille’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Isn’t that enough reason?’
‘Not,’ she countered firmly, ‘when you’re determined to interfere in mine.’
The waiter presented the menu and Camille spared it the briefest of glances, ordered a salad, then flipped Hannah a hard, calculated look. ‘Haven’t you learnt I am a formidable adversary?’
‘A very foolish one.’
Camille’s gaze narrowed. ‘What did you think of the prints, darling?’
‘The digitally altered ones?’ Hannah posed silkily. ‘Or the few of you sprawled among the sheets in a state of déshabillé?’
The calculation evident intensified into something that was almost dangerous. ‘How else would I be, when Miguel had just left my bed?’
‘Wrong, Camille,’ she corrected with deceptive quietness. ‘Miguel was never in your bed.’
Camille’s expression didn’t change. ‘Failing to face up to reality, darling?’
Hannah speared a succulent asparagus, dipped the tip in the river of hollandaise sauce on her plate, and took time to savour it. ‘It is you who needs a reality check,’ she offered seconds later.
‘The prints were explicit.’
She looked at the Frenchwoman, and almost felt sorry for her. ‘A fantasy, Camille.’
Camille’s lips tightened. ‘Irrefutable proof. The date function does not lie.’
‘No,’ Hannah agreed. ‘You made just one small mistake.’
‘And what was that?’
She took her time in answering. ‘Miguel flew home Tuesday evening.’
‘Impossible. The suite was still occupied.’
‘By Alejandro,’ she confirmed. ‘You were just too clever in activating the camera date function. It made a mockery of Miguel being in your bed, when he was already in mine.’
‘What of Monday night, Hannah?’ Camille queried hatefully, and Hannah fought back the desire to slap the Frenchwoman’s cheek.
‘Camille, give it up. You played what you thought was your trump card, and it proved to be the joker.’
Red lacquered nails on one hand curled round the table napkin. ‘You invited me to lunch to tell me this?’
‘No,’ she denied. ‘I wanted the opportunity to warn you in person that I won’t tolerate your attempts to interfere in my life, or my marriage.’
Camille pressed a hand against the region of her heart. ‘I am so afraid.’
The degree of dramatic mockery was almost laughable, if Hannah was inclined to see humour in the situation. ‘Be afraid,’ she warned inflexibly. ‘I can have you charged with harassment and stalking.’ Her gaze was direct, her tone icy with intent. She waited a beat, then added, ‘I doubt your aunt will be impressed. Nor, I imagine, will Graziella and Enrico del Santo.’
Camille’s eyes glittered with dark malevolence.
‘I am not finished with you yet. Miguel—’
‘Finds you as much of a nuisance as I do,’ Hannah intercepted smoothly. ‘Go get a life, Camille. And get out of mine.’
A venomous stream of French issued from Camille’s perfectly outlined mouth in a pithy, street-gutter diatribe that left those who comprehended the language in little doubt of an attack on Hannah’s parentage, status and character.
Two things happened simultaneously, and Hannah had the briefest warning of both.
Camille’s hand snaked out and caught her cheek a stinging slap. Champagne spilled across the damask tablecloth. Then Rodney Spears appeared from nowhere and held the Frenchwoman’s flailing arms in a restraining grip.
What happened next was almost comedic, as the waiter almost flew to the table, followed close on his heels by the maître d’. Fellow patrons looked alarmed, others merely curious, and throughout it all Camille continued to demean every one of Hannah’s relatives, both living and those who had passed on.
It almost contained a surreal quality, like something out of a movie.
‘You wish me to call the police, madame?’ the maître d’ queried with concern. He was all too aware of Hannah’s identity and her connection to two of the city’s wealthiest families.
Hannah ignored Rodney Spears’ nod of assent. ‘No.’
‘You are sure, madame?’ he repeated anxiously. ‘You are not hurt?’
The left side of her face stung, emotionally she was a little shaken up, but that was all. ‘I’m fine.’
‘There will, of course, be no charge for the meal. Can I get you something to drink?�
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‘I will take care of Mrs Santanas,’ Rodney asserted in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘Just as soon as I have escorted this woman from the premises.’
He shot Hannah a direct look. ‘You are quite sure you don’t want her detained?’
She turned towards Camille, who resembled a spitting cat waiting for another opportunity to lash out. ‘Come within ten metres of me again, and I’ll slap you with every charge in the book,’ she warned with quiet dignity. Difficult, when inside she felt like a nervous wreck.
Rodney strong-armed the Frenchwoman from the restaurant, and Hannah viewed the table, the spilled champagne, the scattered food.
‘I apologise,’ she offered simply, and had her words immediately waved aside. She gathered up her purse and withdrew her credit card.
‘No, no, madame.’ He waved aside the card. ‘There is no need to leave. Let me arrange another meal.’
‘Thank you, but I must get back to work.’ She had to get out of here and breathe in some fresh air.
‘You should wait for the detective to return.’
The bodyguard. Oh, hell, that meant Rodney would report to Miguel, and then, she grimaced, there would be hell to pay.
It didn’t take long. Ten minutes, Hannah counted, checking her watch as her cell-phone rang.
‘What in hell are you playing at?’ Miguel demanded the instant she acknowledged the call.
‘Protecting my own turf,’ she relayed imperturbably, and heard his soft curse.
‘Don’t be facetious.’
‘The cavalry arrived just in time.’
‘Hannah,’ he growled. ‘I am far from being amused.’
‘I wasn’t exactly laughing, myself.’
‘Close the boutique and go home.’
‘Why? I’m fine.’
‘Hannah—’
‘If you must conduct a post-mortem, it can wait until tonight.’
The answering silence was palpable, and she could almost hear him summoning control. ‘Tonight,’ he conceded hardly. ‘Meantime, Rodney stays close. Comprende?’
Rodney’s instructions were explicit, for he took close to mean his presence inside the boutique in full view of any clientele who happened to wander in and peruse the stock.
The Helen Bianchin Collection Page 24