‘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 h
and, 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.
Latin Lovers: Italian Playboys Page 37