The Forbidden Touch of Sanguardo

‘Oh, I’m not here professionally,’ she said, again keeping her voice light. ‘I’m just a guest.’

‘Really?’ said the woman, her eyes flicking again.

Probably, Celeste thought, because she could see that the necklace she was wearing with the white evening gown was nothing more valuable than freshwater pearls.

Fortunately the elevator opened at that point and they stepped out, seeing the entrance to the function suite just opposite.

‘Let’s go in together,’ said the woman. ‘We’ll make quite a visual impact side by side, I think.’

Again, it was hard to object, so Celeste let her walk in beside her. They paused by the reception desk. Celeste gave her name, but said nothing more as a tick was put against it. Then the member of staff looked expectantly at the woman at her side.

‘Oh, I’m her bodyguard,’ said the woman with an insouciant air. Then she hooked her arm into Celeste’s and moved forward.

Alarm bells started to ring, very decidedly, in her head. She looked hurriedly around for Rafael. To her relief she saw he was already there, on the far side of the room, in a group of people.

‘Do excuse me, please,’ she said politely to the auburn-haired woman she now suspected was gatecrashing a private party.

But the woman was already disengaging herself from her arm and striding forward. As she did so people made way for her. Celeste suspected she was the type of woman for whom people always made way. Whoever she was, she was either rich enough to buy a couture gown—and sport some very good rubies with it—or something dodgy was going on.

Whichever it was, she realised that Rafael had seen the woman walking so commandingly up to him. She also realised that the other guests were looking at her and very slightly drawing back. Celeste’s antennae started to quiver. There was an air of nervous anticipation being generated. Something was going to happen.

It did. And it was pure theatre.

Rafael was standing stock-still as the woman sailed up to him. Every line of his body showed an immobility that made him look turned to stone.

So, too, did the expression on his face.

Celeste felt a little chill start deep inside her. Slowly she started to walk forward. Then the auburn-haired woman reached Rafael and stopped.

‘Rafe, how good to see you again!’ Her voice carried—a rich, vibrant purr—and its English accent made it distinctively audible.

Celeste watched as the woman leant forward to bestow an air kiss on his cheek, then stand back to look at him. Let him look at her.

Which he did. Celeste could see his eyes flicker very briefly. Then, almost unnoticeably, he nodded, acknowledging the woman’s greeting.

‘Hello, Madeline,’ he said.

She gave a little laugh. ‘You couldn’t possibly think I’d stay away tonight!’

Long lashes dipped over obsidian eyes. ‘No, I couldn’t think that, Madeline.’

His voice was very dry.

And very cold.

Another laugh came from her—rich and throaty. Then Celeste saw her turn to one of the men in the group Rafael was with. He was slightly built, not tall, and he looked, she realised, as expressionless as Rafael. But in the other man, Celeste could see with disquiet, the lack of expression could not mask the dismay in his eyes—dismay and fear.

‘I believe you know Lucien Fevre,’ Rafael said. His voice was only dry now, with an edge to it that Celeste recognised—she had heard it before, when he’d spoken to Karl Reiner. ‘He’s the creative genius that you, Madeline—’ he gave the slightest slashing smile, without a trace of humour in it ‘—were too stupid to realise was the core value of the company you bought.’

Celeste halted. Suddenly, with total clarity, she realised who the woman was. Realised that she should have known from the moment she’d heard Rafael call her by her name.