The Italian's Defiant Mistress. India Grey

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      The grand ballroom of the Palazzo Salarino glittered in the light from its famous antique crystal chandeliers as the floor-length windows darkened from the blue of late afternoon to the deep mauve of evening. The body of the room was filled with row upon row of gilded chairs, seating the fashion world’s premier figures, and the perfection of the scene was reflected in the numerous Venetian mirrors that lined the walls.

      On shaking legs Eve stepped out from the wings.

      For a second she couldn’t see anything at all as a thousand flashbulbs dazzled her, and it was all she could do not to put her hands in front of her face to shield it. The catwalk stretched ahead of her, looking at least a mile long, and beyond it lay the elegant salon with its sea of upturned faces.

      Sienna’s words came back to her. ‘Find someone to focus on…’

      Desperately she scanned the cavernous room, for once glad that her shortsightedness prevented her from recognising the dauntingly famous faces. Her steps slowed and she felt the smile freeze on her face. Was she supposed to smile? She couldn’t remember. The audience was a whispering restless mass. It was impossible to single anyone out, Eve thought in panic, willing herself to keep going while every fibre of her being was telling her to turn on her spike heels and run.

      Someone was standing in the shadows, leaning against one of the marble pillars with his head tilted back. He was wearing a dark suit that outlined the powerful breadth of his shoulders against the pale marble, and there was something incredibly arresting about his stillness. In the dimly lit room, through the fog of her shortsightedness, it was impossible to see him clearly, but she could feel his eyes upon her.

      I can do this, she thought. I can do this.

      Achingly beautiful, heartbreakingly poignant, the exquisite notes of Madame Butterfly drifted through the room, filling her with their bittersweet sexual yearning. She and Ellie had always loved this opera, sneaking to the top of the stairs in their nightgowns to catch this particular aria when their mother used to play it late at night on an old record player. The words were as familiar to her as a lullaby, and hearing them now gave her strength.

      Everything around her receded—the cameras, the audience, the syrupy voice of the pink-suited host. The world shrank to encompass nothing but the music and the dark, narrowed eyes of the stranger. He didn’t move, but as she swayed towards him she could feel the laser beam burn of his gaze and sense the sexual energy he gave off, like heat. It melted into her skin, making it tingle, thawing her icy shell of insecurity and shyness.

      For the first time in two years she felt properly alive.

      Reaching the end of the catwalk, she lifted her head and paused. Their eyes locked over the rows of people separating them in a dizzying moment of absolute sexual recognition. For a brief second Eve seriously considered keeping going: jumping down from the catwalk and walking right up to him, as Sienna had said. Her body was crying out to him with an urgency that took her breath away, and the need to touch him, to inhale his scent and taste the warmth of his lips, was almost overwhelming.

      The photographers at her feet surged forward in a volley of flashbulbs. Blinded by white light, she could still see the dark silhouette of her mysterious rescuer imprinted on her mind. Wrenching her dazzled gaze away, she turned to walk back up the catwalk, still feeling his eyes upon her and helplessly aware of the wanton undulation of her hips. In the few seconds that their eyes had held he had insinuated himself under her skin, like some mystical enchanter, infusing every cell in her body with molten longing. She was possessed.

      Stepping shakily off the catwalk, she slipped through the crowd of girls waiting to go on and, oblivious to their smiles and congratulations, stumbled back to her corner of the communal dressing area. Throwing herself into a chair, she stared at her reflection in the mirror.

      She looked like Sleeping Beauty must have in the moment following Prince Charming’s kiss—dazed, bewildered, and unmistakably aroused. Gone was the shy, uncertain girl who had stepped nervously through the curtains five minutes ago, and in her place was a tousled maenad with bee-stung lips and eyes like dark pools of invitation.

      The horoscope had been spookily accurate. It was exactly as if she had been sleeping until the electrifying presence of the unknown man had brought her painfully, pleasurably, back to consciousness.

      She dropped her head into her hands. Except that clever, sensible Eve didn’t believe in all that nonsense, did she?

      She had been the shy twin, always in the shadow of flamboyant, confident Ellie. Ellie had been the one who’d devoured horoscopes and believed in destiny, pursuing your dream. While Eve had still been at Oxford, working hard on her dissertation, Ellie had abandoned her degree in Art History and blown her student grant on a one-way ticket to Florence instead.

      She’d wanted to experience art and passion and beauty for herself, not hear about it second-hand in some dingy lecture theatre. At some point, when she’d been in Florence for a couple of months, she’d clearly decided to add heroin to the list of things she wanted to experience.

      That was where following your dreams and reading your horoscope got you. To an anonymous, sordid death that the police hadn’t even bothered to investigate.

      They hadn’t, so Eve had vowed she would. In the two years since it had happened Eve’s life had shrunk even further, until there was nothing left but her work for Professor Swanson and the cold, aching desire for closure and for justice.

      But the face that stared back at her from the mirror now was transformed by desire of a different kind. It was the face of a girl who knew what she wanted—and it had nothing to do with revenge. The expression in her eyes was one of white-hot, naked, take-me-and-damn-the-consequences lust.

      And, what was more, it suited her. Now all she had to do was find her man and…

      ‘You were brilliant! A total natural!’

      Sienna kicked off killer six-inch stiletto heels and helped herself to a miniature bottle of champagne from one of the ice buckets that were dotted around the dressing room. On the other side of the curtain the audience were still clapping and cheering as she took a long, thirsty swig.

      In a daze, Eve looked up. The show couldn’t have finished already. That would mean she had just spent the last forty-five minutes lost in an erotic fantasy.

      ‘Right, then,’ Sienna went on happily, ‘That’s the work bit over. Now it’s party time!’ Oh, God. She had just spent the last forty-five minutes lost in an erotic fantasy. ‘The Lazaro parties are always totally wild.’ With an alarming lack of inhibition Sienna stripped off the outrageous white leather and tulle wedding dress she had worn for the finale and tossed it aside. ‘Have you seen how many СКАЧАТЬ