The Forbidden Touch of Sanguardo

‘You’re too thin,’ he said abruptly, his eyes sweeping over her critically. ‘Far too thin.’

She said nothing. What did it matter what she looked like? What did anything matter at all? What could it matter ever again?

He was speaking to her and she had to hear him—had to let the words reach her ears though she tried to block them. But it was impossible. They penetrated every last desperate layer of her defence.

His voice was sombre, carrying a weight in it that seemed to bow and bend his words.

‘It took me a long, long time to realise something, Celeste. But eventually it dawned on me—I realised what it was that was wrong about what you said to me. You said...’ he spoke with incised deliberation ‘...that you did not regret what you did when you were seventeen, that you had no regrets even now, as an adult.’

He took a breath. It was time to say what he had flown here to say. Time to stake all his future happiness, his very reason for being, on what he said next.

‘There are only two reasons why someone would say that.’ His eyes were on her, like a beam of laser light she could not escape. ‘Either it’s because, like Madeline, they’re perfectly happy with their behaviour—see nothing wrong in it, nothing to object to, no big deal.’ He paused. ‘Or one other reason.’

His eyes shifted a moment, gazing out into nowhere, then came back to her. ‘Tell me...how do you happen to have dual citizenship?’

She didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to.

‘Your father was Australian,’ Rafael said. ‘You were born there. But your mother was English, and when your father died you came back to the UK, grew up here. When you were seventeen you went back again, and stayed there for several years, only returning when you were twenty.’ He paused again—a longer pause. His eyes never left her.

She sat numb, her face drained of colour. Remorselessly he went on.

‘It’s an expensive journey, from the UK to Australia. And you were raised in a council flat, weren’t you? So there wasn’t any spare money around. Certainly not enough to fund not only getting to Australia but the lavish lifestyle you enjoyed there. Because you lived it up royally there, didn’t you, Celeste? First-class hotels and resorts, travelling right across the continent, from Perth to the Great Barrier Reef. It must have cost thousands. Thousands upon thousands! Especially,’ he finished, ‘when there were two of you to pay for...’

Her hands were clenched on her bag, her knuckles white. She knew what was coming next—knew he must have discovered everything, since he had found out so much already.

He spoke gently. Quietly. And so, so carefully.

‘I’ve seen her death certificate, Celeste. My researchers in Australia obtained an official copy and sent it to me. I’ve brought it with me.’ He reached inside his jacket, took out a folded document, unfolded it slowly.

‘I don’t want to see it!’ Her voice was high-pitched.

‘And I have your father’s, too,’ he said, his eyes never leaving hers. But they were gentle now, like his voice. ‘They were both signed at the same registrar’s office in New South Wales—fifteen years apart.’

He paused again.

‘You told me about your father, Celeste. You told me that he’d drowned in a rough sea. But you did not say that he drowned while he was rescuing another surfer who had got into difficulties. I’ve seen the newspaper clippings from when it happened—he was given a posthumous award. There’s a photo of your mother receiving it on his behalf. You’re holding her hand—you were two years old.’

‘I’ve seen it!’ she cried, her voice anguished. ‘I’ve seen it so many times. My mother treasured it! And I can’t bear to see it again! She cried every time she looked at it. Every time! She loved him so much!’