The Italian's Defiant Mistress. India Grey
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a glass of water in the process, and accidentally switching it on just as she swore graphically.
‘Eve?’
Oh, God. It was Marissa Fox, editor of Glitterati, sounding terrifyingly brisk and efficient.
‘Sorry. I mean—yes. Sorry’
Mercifully, Marissa cut her off mid-stutter. ‘Look, Eve, I know the whole idea is that you’re shadowing Sienna, but can I be an awful bore and ask you to tear yourself away from her for an hour or so and pop down to cover the press conference this morning?’
Eve sat bolt upright in the hope it would make her sound more awake. ‘Press conference?’ she echoed faintly.
‘Yes, darling.’ There was a steely edge to Marissa’s voice that was more effective than any alarm clock. ‘Di Lazaro’s doctors are giving a press conference this morning on his prognosis. Not good, according to my sources.’
Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Eve felt the blood drain from her head.
Was Raphael hurt?
‘Eve? Are you still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘You do know that Antonio di Lazaro suffered a heart attack as he was leaving the party last night, don’t you?’
‘Antonio?’ Relief flooded through her, followed by a wave of self-disgust. Why should she care whether Raphael was hurt or not? If someone else had got there first it would save her the bother of doing it herself. But deny her the satisfaction.
‘Right. Yes, sorry—of course I knew that he’d been taken ill,’ she lied hastily. ‘Everyone I spoke to sort of played it down. Is it serious?’
‘Well, you’ll find that out at the press conference, darling,’ Marissa replied acidly. ‘Ten o’clock at the Santa Maria Nuova hospital. I’d go myself, but miraculously I’ve managed to get an appointment in the hotel spa for a Seaweed Body Wrap and Triple Oxygen Facial. I’ll be cutting it fine for the perfume launch as it is.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Such a shame that Lou’s got this hideous shellfish allergy—she’s always rather good at the whole press conference circus. But I’m sure you can manage just as well—can’t you, darling?’
Eve groped for her glasses and pushed them on, almost swearing out loud again as she squinted at her watch in the gloom. Nine-twenty.
‘Press conference? Absolutely. No problem. I’ll be there.’ Stumbling out of bed, she made a huge effort to sound like the professional journalist that Lou had told Marissa she was. ‘So…is it a…big press conference?’ She pulled open the lavishly swagged curtains, wincing as bright sunlight highlighted the chaos in the room, and the fact that Sienna’s bed was the only thing that was still neat and unused. ‘Are we expecting…er…statements from just the medical team, or will the family be present as well?’
‘Family? Good heavens, darling, I shouldn’t think so. Antonio’s heart attack didn’t stop Luca partying till the early hours, so I doubt he’ll be in any state to face the press—which just leaves Raphael, and he’s utterly allergic to publicity in any form. He’s quite pathologically anti-journalists and paparazzi. Ah! Here’s breakfast. Do you know, darling, this is supposed to be Florence’s top hotel, and they don’t do wheatgrass juice! Can you believe it? Anyway, darling, must dash. Give my love to Sienna, won’t you? Hope you’re getting lots of juicy gossip for the interview—can’t wait to see the copy. I’ll catch up with you both at the launch. Ciao, darling!’
Head reeling, Eve exhaled slowly into the sudden silence, and for a moment considered throwing herself onto the bed and screaming very loudly into a pillow. It was tempting, but ultimately not very constructive. And right now she needed help.
Picking her way through the ankle-deep mulch of discarded designer clothing that was the only sign of Sienna’s occupancy in the room, Eve speed-dialled Lou.
Waiting for her to pick up, Eve felt her panic start to subside. Lou would know what to do—about the press conference and the case of the disappearing supermodel and yesterday’s embarrassing incident, where the guy she’d thought was the man of her dreams had actually turned out to be—oops, sorry—the dark figure who stalked her nightmares.
No. No. Noooo! Please, please don’t be…
Voicemail.
With a wail of anguish Eve threw her phone down and stood motionless for a moment in the middle of the room, as the panic returned and threatened to overwhelm her. Lou always said that when things went wrong all you had to do was imagine a way in which they could be worse. At that particular moment Eve couldn’t think of one.
But a minute later, examining her reflection in the enormous Hollywood-style bathroom mirror, she was spared the bother of trying.
Her face, above a skimpy T-shirt with a picture of Shakespeare on the front, was deathly pale, with last night’s mascara still smudged beneath her eyes. Her hair, cut yesterday for the fashion show into what the stylist had called ‘sexy tousled layers’ was now so sexily tousled that she looked as if she’d enjoyed a non-stop, all-night love-fest. All things considered, out of the two of them it was Shakespeare who looked the livelier. And the more attractive. And he’d been dead for nearly four hundred years.
She had just fifteen minutes to turn the day around and transform herself into a sleek, professional fashion journalist.
Fifteen minutes…and the entire cosmetic collection of one of the world’s hottest supermodels.
How hard could it be?
She might have left the hotel without her glasses, but it wasn’t hard to find the conference room at the Santa Mariá Nuova hospital. All she had to do was follow the click-clack of kitten heels and the wafts of expensive fragrance of a hundred fashionistas.
Finding a space beside a tarty-looking blonde from one of the less salubrious celebrity gossip magazines, Eve rummaged in her bag for the little tape recorder Lou had lent her and, unable to see properly without her glasses, took three attempts to insert a new tape.
The blonde girl threw her a sympathetic glance. ‘Tough night last night?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Me too. My hangover’s so bad I could do with joining di Lazaro in Intensive Care.’
Eve smiled. Thankfully she was spared the necessity of explaining that she was suffering the after-effects of intoxication of a different kind by the appearance of a woman, and two men in doctor’s coats on the platform at the front of the room. A searing flare of disappointment tore through her like a physical pain at the realisation that Raphael was not amongst them.
She had to see him again, she rationalised silently, gritting her teeth. What had happened last night had raised more questions than it had answered, and whichever way you looked at it she had a whole lot of unfinished business regarding Raphael di Lazaro.
Taking their places at a starched white table, the trio on the platform looked as if they were about to ask for the wine list. Eve recognised the woman from the retrospective as Alessandra Ferretti, Lazaro’s formidable and deeply attractive press officer. She took the centre seat, with a doctor on either side of her, and for a moment the three of them spoke quietly between themselves, before Ferretti checked her watch and leaned forward to speak into the microphone in a ridiculously husky voice.
‘Buongiorno.’
The army of reporters shifted expectantly, pens, cameras, tape recorders poised. But then a door at the back of the room opened, and everyone swung round to look at the latecomer.
Eve’s gasp was lost in an explosion of flashbulbs and a deafening machine-gun rattle of shutters as every photographer in the room instantly went for a shot of Raphael di Lazaro.
His dark hair fell forward over his face. Shadows of fatigue and twenty-four hours of stubble emphasised the high, slanting cheekbones and the sulky, sensual mouth. Even unshaven, and in