The lavender-scented air was still warm, and, stepping out onto the romantically lit terrace, Raphael Di Lazaro felt an enormous sense of relief. The ornate grandeur of the palazzo’s ballroom, with its wall-to-wall celebrities and trophy wives, had been suffocating. Everything was so highly polished and symmetrical, just like the perfectly made-up, expressionless faces of the models, but it made the dust and chaos he had so recently left behind in Columbia seem positively refreshing in comparison.

      Accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, he discreetly checked his watch. This was the kind of event he usually avoided like a hot day in hell, but he was here on business, not for pleasure. This was exactly the sort of environment in which his slimeball brother was most likely to operate.

      Half-brother. Since uncovering evidence of the new depths of evil and corruption concealed behind Luca’s shallow charm, Raphael was more determined than ever to remember that they shared only one parent. And Antonio Di Lazaro had played such a distant role in Raphael’s upbringing that he hardly qualified for the title of father.

      Luca was the golden boy in Antonio’s eyes. In everyone’s eyes.

      Grimly, Raphael lifted his glass to his lips, as if the bubbles would wash away the bitter taste that always accompanied this train of thought. Draining it in one long draft, he was surprised to find that his habitual acrimony was tinged with sympathy. It wasn’t going to be easy for Antonio to face the fact that his favourite son was facing charges of international drugs trafficking and money laundering. Especially when the money had most probably come from the Lazaro accounts.

      But he was jumping ahead of himself. Luca hadn’t been arrested yet, and Raphael was here to make sure that nothing happened to prevent that at this delicate stage of the operation.

      Looking around for his father, he stifled a yawn. Even when he’d worked for Lazaro he’d despised this celebrity schmoozing, and his time in Columbia had only served to heighten his loathing of it. In fact today extreme tiredness and crashing boredom had made a pretty lethal combination, so that during the endless procession of identikit clotheshorses he’d almost fallen asleep.

      Maybe he had, just for a moment. Maybe that astonishing erotic encounter had been nothing more than a dream…

      He felt his tired body stir and stiffen at the memory of the girl in the transparent dress. Surely it was too vivid to have been a dream? He could still picture the terror in her huge eyes as she’d stepped into the lights of the catwalk, still remember the surge of protectiveness he’d felt towards her as she’d faltered, still feel the adrenalin rush that had crashed through him as she’d looked straight into his eyes…

      Adrenalin? Who was he kidding? What he’d felt was a rush of pure testosterone. It wasn’t just sleep deprivation he was suffering from.

      OK, so there hadn’t exactly been an endless supply of attractive, intelligent women to choose from in Columbia’s underworld, and two years was a hell of a long time for any man without a burning religious conviction to behave like a monk, but he wasn’t desperate enough to pick up some air-headed model. Bitter experience had taught him that models required the same kind of intensive, round the clock attention and affection as small children. And they were just as likely to get themselves into trouble if left unsupervised. It was a responsibility he wouldn’t be stupid enough to take on a second time.

      Suddenly his eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Antonio. Emerging onto the terrace, he was making his way slowly in Raphael’s direction, surrounded by a small crowd of devotees. He was dressed as immaculately as ever, in a perfectly cut silvery-grey suit with his trademark white rose in the buttonhole, but Raphael was alarmed to see how much his father had aged in the time he had been away. As Antonio approached Raphael could see the unhealthy pallor of his lips, and the lines of exhaustion etched into his elegant, haughty face.

      ‘Father.’

      Caught off-guard, Antonio was unable to disguise his shock. Swiftly recovering his composure, he managed a chilly smile.

      ‘Raphael. What a surprise. What are you doing here?’

      ‘I had to come back for the Press Photography Awards in Venice on Saturday, but I have some business to attend to in Florence as well. Lazaro business, actually.’

      Antonio’s eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘Si? After all this time? You walked out on Lazaro two years ago, Raphael. I cannot imagine what business you would have here now.’

      ‘I need to have a look at the company accounts.’

      Antonio’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are short of money? Is that it? Maybe you should have thought of that before you left your job here to go off and photograph peasants in the back of beyond. Awards don’t pay the bills, Raphael.’

      A muscle flickered in Raphael’s cheek. When he spoke, his voice was dangerously quiet. ‘As far as I know I’m still listed as one of the company directors, so I am perfectly within my rights to have access to the accounts. Tomorrow, if that suits you. I’ll need to see you once I’ve finished going through them.’

      ‘Tomorrow is impossible. I have an interview about the retrospective with Italian Vogue in the morning, and the perfume launch in the afternoon.’ Antonio looked suddenly exhausted, and seemed anxious to get away. ‘Anyway, Raphael, you know how I loathe having anything to do with money. Luca is Financial Director, I leave everything to him. He’s here somewhere—why don’t you speak to him about it?’

      ‘I’d rather not.’

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Luca is your brother. All that nonsense with Catalina is in the past—you can’t still hate him for something that happened—what?—two years ago?’

      Raphael felt his mouth twist into a sneer of contempt. ‘Believe me, Father, I’ve discovered plenty more things to hate him for since then.’

      But Antonio wasn’t listening. With a dismissive wave of his hand in the direction of the palazzo he said, ‘There he is. Sort something out with him.’

      Luca Di Lazaro was leaning nonchalantly against the open French door, his broad frame filling the doorway and effectively blocking the escape of whichever unfortunate girl he had ensnared. Raphael’s heart gave a lurch of pure loathing as he watched Luca lean down to say something to the girl. Something meaningless and flattering, no doubt. Something guaranteed to put her at her ease and charm her into a false sense of security. It was a routine he had perfected on countless naïve young models over the years, as Raphael knew to his cost. His own girlfriend had been one of them, after all.

      At that moment Luca shifted slightly to one side, coming to rest with deceptive ease, his back against the door frame. The movement gave Raphael a clear view of the girl he had trapped.

      She had changed the transparent dress for a silk slip that, in hiding her delicious body, only seemed to emphasise its voluptuousness. The soft light from the room beyond cast a halo around the contours of her curves.

      Adrenalin pulsed through him, hot and powerful. Without hesitating, or giving his father so much as a backward glance, Raphael found himself shouldering his way through the crowd towards them. Company accounts were the last thing on his mind as he wrestled with the primitive urge to push everyone out of the way, grab the girl from Luca and take her