The Helen Bianchin Collection. HELEN BIANCHIN

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СКАЧАТЬ towards Camille, who resembled a spitting cat waiting for another opportunity to lash out. ‘Come within ten metres of me again, and I’ll slap you with every charge in the book,’ she warned with quiet dignity. Difficult, when inside she felt like a nervous wreck.

      Rodney strong-armed the Frenchwoman from the restaurant, and Hannah viewed the table, the spilled champagne, the scattered food.

      ‘I apologise,’ she offered simply, and had her words immediately waved aside. She gathered up her purse and withdrew her credit card.

      ‘No, no, madame.’ He waved aside the card. ‘There is no need to leave. Let me arrange another meal.’

      ‘Thank you, but I must get back to work.’ She had to get out of here and breathe in some fresh air.

      ‘You should wait for the detective to return.’

      The bodyguard. Oh, hell, that meant Rodney would report to Miguel, and then, she grimaced, there would be hell to pay.

      It didn’t take long. Ten minutes, Hannah counted, checking her watch as her cell-phone rang.

      ‘What in hell are you playing at?’ Miguel demanded the instant she acknowledged the call.

      ‘Protecting my own turf,’ she relayed imperturbably, and heard his soft curse.

      ‘Don’t be facetious.’

      ‘The cavalry arrived just in time.’

      ‘Hannah,’ he growled. ‘I am far from being amused.’

      ‘I wasn’t exactly laughing, myself.’

      ‘Close the boutique and go home.’

      ‘Why? I’m fine.’

      ‘Hannah—’

      ‘If you must conduct a post-mortem, it can wait until tonight.’

      The answering silence was palpable, and she could almost hear him summoning control. ‘Tonight,’ he conceded hardly. ‘Meantime, Rodney stays close. Comprende?’

      Rodney’s instructions were explicit, for he took close to mean his presence inside the boutique in full view of any clientele who happened to wander in and peruse the stock.

      Elaine was fascinated by the drama, concerned at the reddened patch on Hannah’s cheek, applied an ice-pack, and insisted on staying until closing time.

      Of Camille there was neither sign nor word, and Hannah suffered Rodney escorting her to the car park, then following so close behind his bumper was almost touching her car.

      Miguel greeted her at the door, and she cast him an exasperated look as he took her face between both hands and conducted a tactile examination of the affected cheek.

      There was a slight bruise just beginning to appear over the cheekbone, and his gentle probing made it difficult not to wince.

      ‘Talk to me,’ Miguel commanded. ‘Does it hurt when you move your jaw?’

      She effected a light shrug, and saw his gaze narrow. ‘Not too much.’

      He took hold of her arm and led her into the study, closed the door, then he turned to face her.

      ‘Now, suppose you tell me how you happened to lunch with Camille?’

      Oh, my, the third degree. The simple truth was the only way to go. ‘I rang and invited her.’

      His features assumed a brooding study. Without a word he crossed to the desk and leaned a hip against its edge.

      ‘What in heaven’s name possessed you to do that?’

      The query was silk-smooth and dangerous, and she viewed him with open defiance.

      ‘I tired of being a victim. Camille was running all the action. I figured it was about time she was told enough was enough.’

      ‘Even knowing I had already instigated legal action and the matter was in hand?’ His gaze was direct and analytical. ‘Aware,’ he continued with an infinite degree of cynicism, ‘that the woman was unpredictable, and therefore dangerous?’

      ‘I wasn’t alone with her,’ Hannah defended. ‘And, thanks to you, the inestimable Rodney was on hand.’

      His gaze speared hers. ‘Did it occur to you what might have happened if he hadn’t been there?’

      She drew herself up to her full height and glared at him. ‘If you’re done with the inquisition, I’m going to have a shower and change.’

      Miguel uncoiled his length and reached her before she had taken more than a step. His hands closed over her shoulders, then he cupped her chin and tilted her head. ‘Give me your word there’ll be no more attempts at independent heroics.’

      He was close, much too close. A pulse thudded at the base of her throat, and she just stood still, looking at him as he examined her features with daunting scrutiny.

      The breath seemed to catch in her throat, and her eyes clung to his, bright, angry, yet intensely vulnerable. ‘I’ll give it some thought.’

      His husky imprecation acted like a catalyst.

      ‘Are you done?’ She tried to wrench away from him and failed. ‘Let me go, damn you!’

      His eyes assumed an inexorable bleakness. ‘Dinner will be ready in half an hour.’ He brushed the pad of his thumb along her lower lip, felt it quiver, and wanted to shake her. ‘We’re due at the theatre at seven-thirty.’

      Oh, Lord. She almost groaned out loud. The play. The producer was a personal friend. Not to appear would be the height of impoliteness.

      ‘I’m not hungry.’

      Emotional upheaval and nerves were hell and damnation. Heaven knew she’d experienced enough of both in the past week to last her for ages.

      ‘If you’re not in the dining room in half an hour, I’ll come get you.’

      Her eyes widened, deepening to a brilliant sapphire. ‘Don’t play the heavy husband,’ she warned, and saw his eyes harden.

      ‘Hannah.’ His voice held a silky warning she chose not to heed.

      ‘Don’t,’ she retaliated angrily. ‘Just—don’t.’

      Miguel released her without a further word, and she walked from the room.

      A leisurely shower did much to restore her equilibrium, and, donning fresh underwear, she pulled on smart jeans and a top, blow-dried her hair, then she went downstairs.

      Sofia had prepared a succulent beef stew with crunchy bread rolls and a salad. The pervasive aroma tempted Hannah’s appetite, and she ate with enjoyment.

      She thought of a few topics of conversation, then abandoned each of them.

      ‘Nothing to say?’

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