The long ballroom jutted out from the chateau forming a bridge over the river. The black-and-white floor was a perfect counterpoint to the swirling, wide-skirted ball gowns of another century as dancers glided from one end of the room to the other. Discreet portable lights added to the illumination from hanging pendants and massive candelabras in each window embrasure.
The scene was rich, exotic and glamorous, a taste of luxury in the style of long ago.
At its heart, vibrant in a dress the colour of garnets, was Poppy. She stood out from the rest like the moon surrounded by faded stars.
When she whirled past him on the arm of her blond partner, Orsino’s breath snared. Her skin had the lustre of pearls and he caught the fleeting scent of crushed berries on the air.
Avidly he traced the thrust of her breasts, barely restrained by the dress’s low décolletage, the perfect slope of her bare shoulders and the delectable curve of her waist. A king’s ransom in gold and rubies glittered at her throat and wrists, yet she outshone them easily.
Every man here desired her. He knew it, felt it in their rapt attention. But, he reminded himself, she’d been even sexier last night as she’d seduced him before the fire in the privacy of their shared sitting room.
Heat poured through him and it took a moment to realise the dancing had stopped and the director was giving instructions at the far end of the room.
He shouldn’t be here. He should be wrestling with those figures on the computer, but after last night Orsino couldn’t settle to work. Last night something had happened. He wasn’t sure what, except that he felt different.
Because Poppy hadn’t scoffed at his work? Because she’d been interested and helpful? No, the difference had more to do with a slip-through-the-fingers sense that they, the two of them, had changed.
He shook his head. His imagination was working overtime. That’s what came of sitting around, inactive, for so long.
‘You’re back.’ He turned to see a man emerge from the throng of extras and join him on the sidelines. It was the one he’d chatted to on the riverbank.
‘You’re a hairdresser?’ Orsino gestured to the bag of supplies in his hand.
‘Stylist, we prefer to be called.’ Then he grinned. ‘Keeping busy with this scene, too. Most of the models don’t have hair long enough to be worn up like they did a few hundred years ago, so we’ve had to improvise. Your Poppy is the exception.’
Orsino ignored the trickle of warmth across his breastbone at the sound of ‘your Poppy’.
‘But her hair’s down around her shoulders.’ Had he missed something?
The other man shrugged. ‘Technically, to fit the time period, she should wear it up, too, but what a waste that would be. Besides, Mischa insisted that in this scene she had to look sultry. As if she’d just got out of bed with her lover.’
Orsino stared, watching as Poppy draped herself closer to her partner while the lighting was adjusted again.
‘Mischa?’ His voice seemed to come from far away.
His companion gave him a curious look. ‘The one who discovered Poppy when she was fifteen. Of course he was a photographer then, not Baudin’s creative director, but they’ve worked together for years.’
Orsino choked down a tide of bile and fury. Mischa and Poppy.
Oh, yes, he knew exactly how close they were.
‘I know Mischa.’ Did the other guy realise he spoke through gritted teeth? It was a wonder he got the words out, given the swamping fury that blindsided him. ‘I hadn’t realised he was involved in this project.’
‘Involved? He brought it all together. That’s how Baudin got Poppy Graham—through Mischa. This series of advertisements is his baby.’
Through a rising red mist Orsino watched Poppy smile up at her partner on the dance floor. He catalogued the man’s tall, slim build. His high, Slavic cheekbones and ash-blond hair. Suddenly so much made sense.
Mischa’s pet project.
Mischa’s model.
Finally Orsino made the connection. The guy with Poppy bore a striking resemblance to the man who’d stolen Orsino’s wife: Mischa. Her old ‘friend’ Mischa, who’d always been jealous of Orsino and hated him for diverting her attention from their work together.
Was the bastard reliving his affair with Poppy vicariously through the male model? Turning it into some twisted fantasy on film he could revisit again and again?
Orsino’s breath hissed into lungs that clamped too tight. He fought for breath, his vision tunnelling to nothing as a long-banished image unfurled in his head.
The street outside their London apartment. A cab’s lights illuminated parked cars and the murky piles of ice that passed for snow in the city. Orsino heard it crunch under his boots as he stepped off the pavement to cross the road.