India Grey - The Italian's Defiant Mistress

Eve rested her forehead against the limousine window and shut her eyes, delicately probing the painful possibility that she was mistaking Raphael di Lazaro’s undoubted good-looks and dazzling sex appeal for something more meaningful. A year or so ago, before she’d landed the job on the Glitterati fashion desk, Lou had done an article on women who fell in love with prisoners on Death Row. Over a bottle or two of cheap red in a wine bar in Oxford, Eve and Lou had discussed this phenomenon, snorting in contemptuous pity at the idea that anyone could let their heart rule their head in such a spectacularly foolish way.

Was she similarly deluded?

But she hadn’t imagined the sheer strength that had held her and guided her as she’d walked down the catwalk just as surely as if his arms had been around her. Or the haunted need that lay just behind the expressionless public mask. Or the bone-deep, instinctive courage that would make him step out and grab her from the path of an oncoming car…

No! She banged her head softly but emphatically against the glass, as if to knock the sense back into it once and for all. The facts spoke for themselves. His name was on that paper, right above where it said drugs. He had followed her after the press conference and tried to buy her off.

Rational, intellectual Eve pressed her fingers to her temples and took a steadying breath. No matter what her heart was saying, her head knew perfectly well that he was still the most likely suspect. She had come to find answers, and she was still determined to do that. She just hadn’t anticipated how painful it was going to be.

Sighing, she dragged her attention back to Sienna, who was thoughtfully examining a glossy acrylic nail. ‘Will it involve taking my clothes off?’ she was saying, still on her mobile—though whether it was to the agent or the boyfriend, Eve couldn’t be sure. The glamorous model looked sensational, in spray-on white trousers and a diaphanous gold chiffon top that fell in soft, semi-transparent folds from a gold beaded choker at the neck. Only Eve would know that it had taken half an hour to construct her perfect cleavage with tape, and that much of the luxuriant black hair was, in fact, nylon extensions.

Nothing is as it seems on the surface, Eve thought bitterly.

They were close enough now to be able to see celebrities emerging from cars like gilded butterflies from their chrysalises. Everyone was faithfully sticking to the theme, and from the women’s barely-there dresses to the men’s over-the-top tailoring and salon tans the red carpet was transformed into a sea of gold.

Eve’s own wardrobe was a little light on glitz, so Sienna had offered to lend her something from her own seemingly endless supply of clothes. It had been a kind offer but, coming as it had from a six-foot supermodel with a chest as flat as an ironing board, not remotely helpful. In the end Eve had been forced to resort to her faithful old jeans and jewelled Indian flip-flops, teamed with the only vaguely metallic-coloured thing she owned—a little vintage lace-trimmed camisole top from the 1930s, its cream silk darkened with age to a deep biscuity gold. In spite of the heat she’d fully intended to throw a jacket over the top, but Sienna had absolutely forbidden it, frogmarching her from the room without listening to her cries of protest.

‘Of course you don’t look like a hooker! This, in case you hadn’t noticed, is the look of this summer. Honestly, Eve, I thought you were supposed to be a fashion journalist!’

Good point. She’d allowed herself to get so preoccupied with Raphael Di Lazaro she’d almost forgotten.

The car glided to a halt and Sienna gracefully unfolded her long limbs and stepped out. Waiting nervously for the paparazzi storm that heralded Sienna’s arrival to subside before she stepped out of the safety of the limousine herself, Eve tried to arrange her face into a confident smile, but found her efforts considerably hampered by the sticky gold lipgloss Sienna had persuaded her to wear.

Drifts of sand specially imported from Egypt edged the red carpet and rose in mini-dunes at the entrance to the store, which was flanked with two enormous statues of the sphinx. But even this display of extravagant kitsch didn’t prepare Eve for the spectacle that awaited them inside.

‘What do you think?’ yelled Sienna above the din, gesturing around them. ‘Didn’t I tell you the Lazaro parties are always wild?’

‘It’s unreal!’ said Eve, looking round. Against a backdrop of gilded palm trees and faux-pyramids, A-list celebrities were being sprayed with Golden by scantily clad ‘Egyptian’ slave-girls, in Cleopatra-style wigs and scarlet lipstick. The air was heavy with the perfume, which smelt like a mixture of fruit salad and ozone.

In the centre of the floor a vast three-tiered fountain, topped by Tutankhamen’s head, gushed champagne. A youth in a loincloth appeared beside them, proffering a plate of canapés. Forbidden by Sienna from wearing her glasses, Eve peered shortsightedly at them.

‘What on earth are they?’

‘South Sea tiger prawns in a vodka marinade, finished with eighteen-carat-gold leaf,’ said the youth.

‘Gold leaf?’ echoed Eve faintly.

Sienna giggled. ‘No, thanks. I’m catching a plane this evening. Don’t want to set off the metal detectors. Come and get a drink,’ she shouted to Eve, disappearing into the seething mass of exotically dressed celebrities.

It was impossible to squeeze through the crowd around the champagne fountain. Eve found herself alone on the fringes, craning above a hundred glossy, seriously high-maintenance heads to see where Sienna had gone.

Suddenly an arm snaked round her waist from behind. She whirled round to look into the laughing bloodshot eyes of the man from the retrospective. The man Raphael had been so keen to steal her away from.

‘We meet again, angel. I see you standing here all alone, and I wonder how my brother could be so careless as to leave you unattended in the midst of such…’ he looked around with a wolfish grin ‘…debauchery. You are like a beautiful rose blooming in a vase of artificial flowers.’ His eyes moved lazily up and down her body for a moment, while a slow smile spread across his face.

‘You’re Raphael’s brother?’

‘Si. Half-brother. Though twice as charming. Luca di Lazaro.’

She took the hand he extended towards her. ‘Eve Middlemiss.’

‘Beautiful,’ he murmured, looking very pleased about something and holding onto her hand for far longer than was necessary. ‘And where is Raphael?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Eve managed a sort of grim smile, in spite of the lipgloss. ‘But I’d like to find him.’

‘Don’t rush off, bella. Let me get you a drink. Is very hot in here, no? We need a passionfruit daiquiri!’

‘I don’t really…’

‘Don’t worry, bambino,’ he soothed, laying a hot hand on her bare shoulder. ‘It has hardly any alcohol. You’ll love it. Trust me.’

In his father’s private office on the top floor, Raphael held out the remote control, flicking from one CCTV image to another. Antonio had invested in the very best technology available to ensure that the Lazaro security system was state-of-the-art. Cameras were placed in strategic positions on each of the store’s three floors, and also covered a large area of the street outside, and the information they generated was closely monitored by a highly trained team.

Raphael had considered briefing them on the necessity of keeping close tabs on Luca, but decided against it. The fewer people who knew about the investigation into his brother’s drug dealing the better. This was one job he could not entrust to anyone else, and if Luca made one suspicious move, or got too close to anyone, Raphael would be watching.