Eve was aware of the absolute stillness in the room and found herself hardly daring to breathe, the pale green dress draped loosely around her. Fiora’s words came back to her. A terrible thing for a child to see …
‘The car had no chance of avoiding her. Afterwards the driver blamed himself, but it wasn’t his fault.’
All that was audible in the sudden silence was the rustle of silk as she crossed the room and slipped onto the bed beside him. She spoke quietly, firmly, but with incredible gentleness, taking his frozen hands within her own and holding them tightly.
‘No, it wasn’t his fault. Or your fault. And it wasn’t your father’s either.’
Crucified by the pain of things he had never spoken of to anyone before, Raphael pulled away and strode over to the window. ‘It was. He should have …’
He faltered, then cleared his throat before continuing in a low, even tone. ‘He should have done more to protect her. From all of that. If he had loved her he would have protected her.’
For a long moment neither of them moved. Then, straightening abruptly, he turned back to where Eve sat in the rumpled wreckage of the bed.
‘Anyway—enough of all that. We’re going to be late.’
Savagely doing up the buttons on his shirt, he realised she’d done it again. Drawn things out of him that he hadn’t even wanted to admit to himself. If it was a journalistic tactic she was bloody well wasted on that silly celebrity gossip rag. She ought to be on the political desk of a top broadsheet. ‘Could you do the zip for me?’
She stood beside him, offering him her bare brown back. The bones of her spine were like a tapering string of pearls beneath her gleaming skin, but infinitely more delicate and precious. Feeling the breath catch in his throat, he swept her hair aside and, with massive self-control, averted his gaze from the secret, sensual hollow at the nape of her neck. After tugging the zip upwards, he stepped away.
She turned to face him, and he noticed how the dress—that dress—brought out the green of her eyes, how they shone with compassion and understanding.
‘Do I look all right?’
For a moment he didn’t trust himself to speak—which, he reflected bleakly, was somewhat ironic.
She was supposed to be the one he didn’t trust.
CHAPTER TEN
THE world looked completely different as they emerged from the palazzo after the storm.
The city’s crumbling, softly coloured buildings were blotchy from the deluge, but the sky had shaken off its heavy purple clouds and was now a clear, sparkling blue. The evening light falling on the rain-soaked streets turned them into an enchanted city of pearl and gold.
But it wasn’t just Venice that had changed, Eve acknowledged, shivering slightly in the warm evening. She had too.
Raphael’s lovemaking had transformed her—invisibly, indefinably, irreversibly. It was as if someone had whispered to her the secrets of the universe, or taken her hand and given her a glimpse of paradise.
Walking along the narrow fondamenta beside her, Raphael seemed tall and distant, and though she desperately yearned to touch him she didn’t dare breach the small distance between them. Since his revelations about his mother’s death he’d been withdrawn to the point of distraction. Only when she’d finally finished getting ready and had stood in front of him had his face shown any flicker of emotion.
And then she’d realised that she was wearing the pistachio-green dress his mother had on in that picture.
She had stammered horrified apologies, but he had laid a finger on her lips to silence her.
‘No apologies—remember? It’s fine.’ But his voice had been oddly flat.
Now, as he stood to one side to let her cross a narrow bridge, she stole a surreptitious glance up at him. No wonder she was completely incapable of taking adequate notice of her incredible surroundings. Even Venice paled into significance compared with his exceptional good looks.
He was born to wear evening dress—his dark, brooding beauty was set off to perfection by the impeccably cut black suit, his long dark hair for once slicked back from his face, showing off its aristocratic hauteur. He had never looked more gorgeous, or more out of reach.
They reached the other side of the bridge and he suddenly looked down at her, his face softening slightly.
‘Nearly there. I’m not being a very good tour guide, am I? I keep forgetting you haven’t been here before. I should be pointing out all the sights.’
She shook her head, looking down at the pale pink satin shoes so that he wouldn’t see her blush as she lied blatantly, ‘That’s OK. I’m just drinking in its incredible beauty. I don’t need to know any more than that.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said softly. ‘To really fall in love with the place you need to get to know it, not just admire what it looks like from the outside.’
‘Yes, well, maybe you’re right. But perhaps I don’t want to get to know it.’ Eve looked up at him with a painful smile. ‘If I fall in love with it I’ll never want to leave.’
Eve hadn’t been sure what to expect the awards ceremony to be like, but she had been prepared for a similar media circus to the perfume launch.
She couldn’t have been more wrong. The event was being held in one of the old settoecento palazzos just off the Grand Canal, but whereas the watchword at the perfume launch had been glitz, here it was restraint. No red carpet covered the narrow stone fondamenta at the top of the steps from the water, and the only cameras in the immediate area were held by curious tourists, delighted at the spectacle of such smartly dressed partygoers.
They entered a vast reception hall filled with chattering women in rainbow-coloured silks and chiffons, and distinguished-looking dinner-suited men. Letting go of her arm, Raphael turned to her and murmured, ‘Wait here,’ before disappearing into the crowd.
Without the silent strength of his presence Eve felt suddenly bereft. She sighed, looking up at the high, vaulted ceiling. It was a feeling she was going to have to get used to. In a couple of days they would return to Florence, and then she would go back to England.
Alone.
Some time this afternoon, somewhere in the bliss of Raphael’s arms and the paradise of his bed, she’d reached the point of no return.
She had fallen hopelessly in love with him.
Literally.
Finding out that he had been involved in Ellie’s death would be intolerably agonising now. She just couldn’t risk it. The only thing to do was leave while her illusions and her memories were intact.
Of course, she thought, with a momentary flash of desperate hope, there was always the chance that she would discover something that categorically ruled out Raphael’s involvement in Ellie’s death, and then.
She gasped as someone slipped behind her, covering her eyes with a big, strong hand.
‘Guess who?’ don’t …’
‘Come on, bambino, surely you haven’t forgotten me already? I am destroyed.’
The hand was removed, and she turned round.
‘Luca! What on earth are you doing here?’
‘Now I ask myself the same question,’ he said tragically. ‘I come all this way to rescue you from the extreme dullness of my big, grown-up brother, and you not even recognise me. My life is ended …’
‘Don’t be so silly,’ she laughed, hitting him playfully on the arm. ‘It’s lovely to see you again.’
‘And you, cara. And you.’ A big smile spread across his face. ‘You look sensazionale,’ he said warmly, walking around her. ‘Delicious, in fact. I could eat you with a spoon.’
‘Stop it,’ Eve retorted, but she was smiling. There was something very charming about Luca’s flirting, especially after Raphael’s distance since they had arrived at the ceremony.
‘I called you,’ Luca said reproachfully. ‘I was going to take you out to lunch and give you all the gossip from the retrospective party for your article. But—’ he raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness ‘—you don’t answer my call
s.’
‘Calls? I didn’t—’ She broke off abruptly. That must have been when Raphael had taken her phone.
Suddenly an idea occurred to her. The smile faded and a worried frown creased her forehead. ‘Luca? Could I ask you something?’
‘Of course, bella, and I can absolutely guarantee that the answer will be yes.’
‘No, I mean it. Something serious. About Raphael.’
He sighed theatrically and rolled his eyes. ‘If you must. I, however, am much more interesting. Are you quite sure there’s nothing you’d like to ask about me? Like which hotel I am staying at? The room number, perhaps?’
But she was not to be diverted. There might not be any love between the two brothers, but Luca must know Raphael better than most. He more than anyone would know of any involvement with drugs in Raphael’s past, and because of the animosity between them would no doubt be only too pleased to share the information.
She hesitated, unsure how to phrase the many questions that were crowding into her mind.
Luca had bent a little, and was looking questioningly, speculatively, into her face. His eyes were dark, and seemed to glitter with something slightly malevolent. She shook her head and looked away, confused.
‘Cara?’ Luca prompted.
The moment had passed, and with it her opportunity to find out that her suspicions were correct, or to lay her worst fears to rest once and for all. It was like some sadistic gambling game, with her future happiness as the stakes.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ she muttered in anguish.
Through the crowd she could see Raphael coming back towards her, two glasses of champagne in his hands. There was something hypnotically charismatic about him. Eve found it impossible to tear her eyes away from him, and she experienced an exquisite flashback to the events of the afternoon. Breathlessly she relived the feeling of his mouth on hers, the naked longing on his face as he’d carried her up the stairs.
She felt her stomach flip as he looked up and met her eye, and she had the most delicious sensation that he was remembering exactly the same thing. But the next moment his expression had changed to one of open hostility.
‘Che diavolo …?’
‘Now, now, big brother. Watch your language. We are not in the backstreets of Columbia now.’ ‘Why the hell are you here?’
‘Funnily enough I nearly wasn’t, as the Lazaro jet that was supposed to be bringing me was suddenly unavailable.’ Luca’s tone was light, and his smile didn’t fade, but there was no mistaking the malice behind his words. ‘You obviously don’t take enough interest in the Lazaro business, Raphael. If you did, you’d know that we are one of the major sponsors of these awards.’
Raphael glanced around, wondering if any of the smartly dressed guests were actually Marco’s men undercover. He hoped so.
‘I’m surprised,’ he said sardonically. ‘It’s unlike Lazaro to be involved in anything so worthwhile.’
‘Not my idea of good PR, I have to confess. You’re absolutely right—usually we prefer to go for sponsorship of slightly more—’ Luca glanced around disdainfully ‘—fashionable events. Alessandra Ferretti always did have a soft spot for you, though, big brother. She obviously managed to twist Father’s arm.’
‘How is he?’ Eve interrupted, noticing the murderous hatred in Raphael’s eyes.
Luca shrugged. ‘He has not woken up yet.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Though why he is so tired I have no idea. I am the one who does all the work.’
‘It’s the sedation,’ Raphael snarled through gritted teeth. ‘I spoke to the hospital a little while ago. They’re keeping him sedated.’
‘Hadn’t we better find our table, Raphael?’ Eve asked, gently touching his arm and willing him to look at her. Anything to break the terrifying tension that froze the air between the two men.
‘Of course.’ Luca was suddenly the picture of solicitousness. ‘You must go—we can finish our conversation later, mia cara. You had something you wanted to ask me, remember?’
Eve felt Raphael tense at the endearment, and, hooking her arm through his, pulled him away from Luca.
‘No, no—forget it. It really doesn’t make any difference now.’
Eve’s initial disappointment that she wasn’t sitting next to Raphael at dinner gave way to relief as the man who was to be seated on her right introduced himself. Paul was young, enthusiastic, and, much to her delight, from London. Suddenly the evening didn’t look as if it would be such a struggle, and her worries about letting Raphael down with her poor Italian, her sketchy knowledge of photography and her ignorance of the grim realities of global conflict evaporated, as they immediately started swapping notes about their favourite places. Once they’d established a shared passion for a particular deli in Notting Hill there was no stopping them.
However, it didn’t stop her from feeling a breathtaking pang of jealousy when the seat next to Raphael was taken by the über-sexy Alessandra Ferretti. Dressed in a clinging, tan-enhancing dress of flame orange, she had obviously waited until everyone else was seated before coming to the table to ensure maximum attention. Eve had to admire her faultless instinct for a PR opportunity.
Everyone else seemed to be admiring her cleavage in the low-cut dress.
Immediately Alessandra drew her chair closer to Raphael’s and began talking to him. Eve was too far away to hear any of their conversation, but although she wasn’t great at understanding Italian, she was a lot better at interpreting body language.
Alessandra’s was saying private party in loud, clear tones.
‘Have you tried their buffalo milk mozzarella?’ Paul asked, as waiters brought out plates of antipasti. ‘They get them flown in every Thursday from a little producer in Southern Italy.’
Eve shook her head, trying to concentrate on what he was saying, but his passion for this particular Italian cheese faded into the background as she studied Alessandra’s greater passion for a particular Italian photographer. Her movements were so confident and lazily seductive as she leaned back in her chair, sipping wine and laughing, or tossing back her long mane of dark hair, that to a casual observer she looked completely at ease. But Eve had noticed the intense, rapacious look on her face in the candlelight as she spoke to Raphael and Raphael only.
He seemed a million light-years away, the events of the afternoon as insubstantial as the mist that was falling over the darkening canal outside. But then suddenly he looked up and gave her the ghost of an ironic smile, and she felt better.
Once the main course had been cleared away the main purpose of the evening could get underway. A distinguished-looking man in his sixties took the podium at the front of the room, and silence fell as the lights were dimmed and he began to speak. Eve couldn’t catch much of what he was saying, but was content to sit back in her chair, sleepy and replete, and let it all wash over her.
A huge screen behind the podium had been displaying a constant slide show of images, but now the compère stood aside as the photographs competing for awards in each category were shown. One by one the winners wove their way through the tables to collect their awards. Eve’s hands grew tired of clapping as the evening wore on, and the pictures all blurred together as her mind produced images of its own in glorious Technicolor. The wet tendrils of hair dripping down Raphael’s sun-tanned neck as he’d wrestled to open the door of the palazzo. The ravaged, tortured look on his face as she had pulled him towards her in the dark hallway. His hands, brown against the pale skin of her hips, as he had raised them up to enter her.
She bit back the soft moan of desire that threatened to escape her and looked over at those hands now. Strong, artistic and long-fingered, they were playing idly with a knife, but the rest of him was completely still, his expression absolutely blank. Gradually emerging from her fantasy world, and inching back into the present, Eve noticed that all eyes around the table and in the rest of the room were upon him—and suddenly there was a deafening explosion of applause.
‘Bloody talented bloke,’ said P
aul admiringly, clapping furiously.
Raphael rose from his seat and walked towards the podium and the huge image on the screen behind it. Eve gasped as she took it in. Even without her glasses, its power was undeniable.
It showed a woman holding a chubby, laughing baby. Immediately the viewer’s eye was drawn to the child’s face, with its clear blue long-lashed eyes and dimpled rosy cheeks. It was a universal image of innocence and sweetness, and only after seeing all that did one take in the rest of the scene. The mother was barely more than a child herself—thin, hollow-cheeked, dead-eyed. The arms that held the baby were skin and bone, the blackened veins clearly visible beneath her papery skin. On the grimy bed beside them lay a child’s teddy bear—and a used syringe.
Raphael reached the front, where Luca waited to present him with his award. There was an awful moment when Luca held out his hand and Raphael hesitated, his face darker than the storm-clouds that had gathered over the city that afternoon.
Ignoring Luca’s outstretched hand, he turned to the clapping audience. The room fell silent as he began to speak.
‘I am honoured to accept the award for Photographer of the Year and, as is only appropriate, will be sharing the prize money between a couple of charities—the Orphans of Heroin in Columbia, and the Drug Recovery and Rehabilitation Centre we set up in Florence two and a half years ago.’
There was a burst of applause, which he swiftly quelled. ‘I’m humbly aware that it is the subjects of my pictures who are exceptional, not the person taking them. I’m hugely grateful to anyone who trusts me enough to photograph them.’ His eyes flickered over Eve, sending an explosion of sparks through her central nervous system. ‘But I hope that, in time, the people of Columbia may have cause to be grateful to me too. For exposing their situation to the world, and continuing to work towards improving it.’ He paused, and the silence in the room was almost tangible. ‘The work will continue until the menace of drugs and those who produce and profit from them is removed.’
Only as his words were drowned out in another sea of applause and the scraping of chairs as everyone stood up did Raphael turn to face Luca and shake his hand. It looked more like the sealing of a solemn vow than a salutation of thanks or congratulation.
Latin Lovers: Italian Playboys Page 46