The Forbidden Touch of Sanguardo

by Julia James

  Well, he was no Karl Reiner, and he would win her confidence and make her realise he was nothing like that! Soon—very soon now—he would convince her that all he wanted from her was what he knew with every instinct she wanted, too...

  Time together—with him.

  His pleasant sense of anticipation intensified.

  * * *

  Celeste’s phone was ringing. It was Sunday evening and she was ironing. She was keeping busy—deliberately so. Anything to keep Rafael Sanguardo out of her head! Her work with Reiner Visage had finally ended, to her relief, and since then she’d thrown herself into a round of activity while waiting for another modelling assignment to come up.

  So far she’d given herself a whole set of beauty treatments and set a challenging exercise schedule—runs in Holland Park, yoga, Pilates and dance classes. And she had a full medical assessment booked for a few days’ time as well, with blood tests and body scans.

  It was not just for the sake of her modelling career that she paid such attention to herself. A shadow dimmed her eyes. She needed not only to stay beautiful but to stay fit and healthy. She would not go the way of her poor, stricken mother...

  A familiar sadness filled her, squeezing her heart. She had promised her mother she would not suffer the same terrible fate that had befallen her—forewarned was forearmed, and regular check-ups were routine for her.

  Now, as she folded a pillowcase and reached for the next one to iron, she let the phone go to the answer machine. As the caller started speaking she froze.

  She did not need to ask whose was the distinctive accented voice.

  How did he get my phone number? was her first thought, swiftly discarded. He knew her name and address—easy enough to find her landline number! At least, she thought with a sense of relief, he hadn’t phoned her mobile, so hopefully he didn’t have that number.

  She listened to him speak, the iron poised in her hand. The deep tones wove into her senses almost before she caught the gist of what he was saying.

  ‘I was wondering whether you might like to have dinner with me some time. I’m in the UK this coming week—let me know what evening would suit you. You can reach me on the following number.’

  He gave the number—a London landline—and hung up. He didn’t bother, she noticed, saying who he was.

  He knows I know...

  As the phone went quiet again she stared out across her living room. The TV was on in one corner, playing an old black-and-white movie. She did not see the images—only the inner image in her head. Rafael Sanguardo in all his disturbing, unsettling, lean good looks.

  Why is he getting to me?

  The question formed again, as it had been doing since she had first seen him watching her. And it was just as unanswered. As unanswerable.

  And all the more disturbing for it.

  The following day she was booked for a catalogue shoot—it wasn’t the most glamorous of modelling work, but it paid solidly and Celeste welcomed it now she was without the Reiner contract. When she got back to her flat the entrance hall contained a vase with a huge bouquet of white lilies in it, their scent filling the small space. A gilt-edged card with her name on it was attached to the lavish wrapping.

  Upstairs, she opened the envelope. The card said simply ‘Rafael’. Nothing more than that. Her face set, she put the extravagant bouquet on the dining table. Behind her set expression, though, her thoughts were tumbling around.

  They resolved into a single question.

  What am I going to do about him?

  The question stayed with her all the evening.

  So did the scent of the lilies, pervading the living room, the whole flat. It was a scent she could not avoid, nor ignore. Just like the single, simple question hovering in her head. She knew perfectly well what answer was required. Go on ignoring Rafael Sanguardo, whatever he did.

  It got increasingly hard during the rest of the week. He phoned again, leaving another message—more or less a repetition of the first—and the following day yet another bouquet of flowers arrived. These were quite different from the exotic, opulent lilies—just a slender posy of freesias in delicate pastel colours, with a sweet, fresh scent. The card held just a question: ‘Perhaps you prefer these flowers?’

  She put them in a vase on her dressing table in her bedroom, so their delicate scent would not be drowned by the heady lilies. But it meant that wherever she was in her flat there was a reminder of Rafael Sanguardo.

  At least her days were very busy with the catalogue shoot, and she was glad of that. Less glad, though, to return home and find yet another floral tribute had arrived from Rafael Sanguardo. This time it was a cluster of tiny rosebuds in the palest blush-pink. She put them beside the freesias. If he kept going like this she could open a flower shop, she thought.

  But his phone call that evening told her she was going to have a respite. He simply left a message saying that he was flying to the Far East for a week, but would be back in London thereafter.

  ‘Perhaps your schedule will allow you some evenings out then,’ he said. ‘I’ll phone you.’

  He seemed totally unperturbed by her persistent lack of reply to him. Yet the deep, accented tones of his voice seemed to linger in her consciousness long after she’d deleted the message.

  She eyed the phone warily. Maybe she should simply call him and tell him that he was wasting his time. But even that seemed an ordeal. Why can’t he just take the hint—get the message from the fact I’m not phoning him back? Why can’t he just disappear out of my life?

  But even as she thought that she felt a strange little pang go through her. A pang that was the most disturbing reaction of all...

  Thoughts and emotions crowded into her head. If Rafael Sanguardo was going to be abroad, then maybe she should plan to do likewise. Go somewhere different from where he was going to be—somewhere she could try and get him out of her mind.

  Resolved, the next morning she went to her agency with a request for a foreign location shoot.

  Her booker looked put out. ‘Just because you ditched Reiner Visage, it doesn’t mean you can get the work you want at the drop of a hat!’ he pointed out tartly. Then he relented. ‘OK, OK—I know. Creepy Karl’s enough to make anyone run a mile! Hmm...let’s see. Hang on for a mo—I’ll put some calls in.’

  He picked up his phone and Celeste wandered off to sit on one of the group of white leather chairs nearby. She’d just sat down when the door from the street was pushed open and someone came in. It was a model Celeste didn’t recognise. She was very fair-skinned, with hair as blonde as her own. She looked young, still in her teens, and unsure what to do. One of the bookers greeted her, and she went up to him eagerly, sitting herself down, her long, thin legs splaying like a newborn foal’s.

  Celeste looked at her. The girl could have been herself all those years ago. Memory pierced. Sharp—like a needle under the skin. Finding the nerve beneath. She picked up a magazine and busied herself with its contents. A few moments later her own booker called her across.

  ‘Can you do Hawaii? Five days, end of next week? One of the models booked for it has just discovered she’s pregnant and wants out!’

  Celeste nodded. Hawaii was definitely far enough away to get some perspective and would suit her very well.

  Her booker finished telling her the details and she got up to go. As she did so the very young new model got up as well. Her face was shining.

  ‘Oh, that’s brilliant! Thank you!’ she said excitedly to her booker.

  She got to the door just before Celeste, and held it open for her. As they stepped out onto the pavement Celeste said in a friendly voice, ‘Got a casting?’

  The girl beamed. ‘My first one! Tomorrow! It’s for skincare. I’m just terrified I’ll wake up tomorrow with a zit!’

  Celeste laughed. ‘Drink noth
ing but water for the rest of the day,’ she advised, half joking. ‘Who’s the client?’ she asked, just to be friendly.

  But when the girl answered Celeste’s expression changed.

  ‘Reiner Visage,’ breathed the girl. ‘They’re ever so posh! I can’t afford any of their stuff myself! Do you think I can get some free samples?’ she asked ingenuously.

  Celeste didn’t answer. Her face was grave. The girl looked so young— Young and naive and vulnerable...

  Memory’s needle went under her skin again.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, sounding serious, ‘if you do get picked, please be careful. Karl Reiner’s nickname is Creepy Karl, and he’s earned it!’

  She debated whether to tell the girl about the hassle she herself had had, then decided not to. The odds were against her getting a Reiner contract at her very first casting, and she was obviously so thrilled right now that Celeste didn’t want to spoil the moment with an unnecessary warning.

  She fished in her bag for a scrap of paper, scrawled her name and mobile number on it and gave it to the girl. ‘I’m Celeste Philips. Let’s have a coffee some time,’ she said, her voice friendly again.

  The girl’s eyes shone. ‘Oh, that would be brill—thanks! I don’t know any other models yet. My flatmates all work in offices. I’m Louise, by the way—Louise Foreman,’ she said.

  ‘Well, good luck, Louise,’ Celeste said, refraining from adding, But not tomorrow.

  ‘I’ll put your name and number in my phone right away,’ Louise said happily. ‘Thank you ever so much! I can’t wait to tell my mates I’ve got a casting!’

  She trotted off, busy with her phone. Celeste watched her go. Was I really ever that young? she thought. That eager?

  But she had been. Of course she had. After all, modelling had been going to make her fortune. The fortune she’d wanted so much...

  Like a guillotine, she sliced down the steel door in her head that she kept forever locked. Seeing that young girl, so like herself once, had let it start to open.

  But it wasn’t just the young model who had turned the key in that door. Like an unwelcome intruder, Rafael Sanguardo’s image formed in her mind, as disturbing now as it had been from the start.

  What power does he have to do that? Why does he get to me the way he does? Why can’t I just delete him and never think about him again?

  The answer was as disturbing as the man himself.

  And one thing was for sure: Rafael Sanguardo’s image did not come with a delete button...

  * * *

  Rafael’s brow was furrowed in concentration as he focussed on the figures his laptop screen was displaying. Calculations ran rapidly through his head.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, but Miss Philips has just turned the corner.’

  His driver’s voice interrupted his concentration, but he looked up at once.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said crisply, shutting his laptop lid. He twisted his head very slightly to look out of the window of his parked car. He saw her at once.

  She was wearing jeans, a grey sweater and sneakers. Her hair was in a long plait to one side, and she had a capacious leather bag on her shoulder. She looked fresh and fit, her face without a trace of make-up, clean and clear, her figure slender and long-legged.

  Rafael watched her a moment, analysing his feelings. They had not changed. Even casually dressed, as she was now, she had an impact on him that went straight to the same place as when she was dressed to the nines. Holding his gaze totally. Filling his vision.

  He got out of the car, watching her register his presence. Watching her stop dead.

  Casually, he walked up to her. ‘You really do take evasion to the limits, don’t you?’ he said pleasantly.

  Celeste glared at him. ‘What are you doing here?’ Her heart had started to slug, and she hated him for it. Hated herself.

  ‘Asking you to dinner,’ Rafael answered, unconcerned by her aggrieved tone.

  The grey-blue eyes flashed. ‘Thank you—but no, thank you,’ she said. Then she frowned. ‘I thought you were in the Far East?’

  ‘I came back early,’ Rafael said smoothly. His voice changed. ‘I found I didn’t want to be away.’ He paused. ‘From you,’ he finished.

  His eyes were resting on her. She was flustered, he could see. More than flustered. Her skin had flushed—that pale, translucent, flawless skin that he wanted to reach out a hand and smooth with the tips of his fingers...

  Her skin betrays her—her own body betrays her...

  Celeste Philips could stonewall him all she liked. She could ignore his calls—ignore him—but what she could not do was hide her response to him.

  ‘So,’ he went on, his voice still smooth, his eyes still resting on her, ‘are you busy tonight?’

  He saw her square her shoulders.

  ‘Look,’ she began, ‘I really don’t think—’

  ‘Then don’t,’ he interrupted.

  His voice wasn’t smooth any more. Something had changed within it—something that reached into her, past all her defences.

  ‘Don’t think, Celeste. Just smile and say, That would be lovely! And then I will smile, too, and we’ll agree what time I’ll send the car for you, and then you’ll go up to your flat and spend the next couple of hours making yourself even more beautiful than you look right now. And I will drive off and bury myself in work, the way I’ve been doing since I last saw you, because that’s the only way I’ve kept functioning.’ He drew breath, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘So, that’s all agreed, then. The car will be here for you at eight.’

  She opened her mouth again. He laid a single long finger against it, silencing her. He felt her lips tremble beneath his touch.

  ‘Dinner,’ he said, holding her gaze with his—a troubled gaze that told him of her wariness, her mixed emotions. ‘Just dinner, Celeste. Simple, pleasant, undemanding. You can get to know me a little more, and I you. And if we agree that, yes, we enjoy each other’s company—after all...’ the slightest tug pulled at his mouth ‘...we share a fondness for astronomy and geology, and who knows how many other ologies, hmm?—then, and only then, we can decide whether we would like to enjoy more of each other’s company. There—is that really so very onerous?’

  He dropped his hand. This time she did not open her mouth to speak. She just looked at him, an almost helpless look on her face now, as if she had finally run out of ways to gainsay him.

  He took a breath. ‘One evening of your life, Celeste. That’s all.’ He held her eyes, then veiled his own with a dipping of his long black lashes. He turned away, reached for the handle of the car door. ‘Eight o’clock, Celeste,’ he reminded her.

  Then he lowered himself into the rear passenger seat and pulled the door shut. A moment later the car had moved off into the road, leaving Celeste behind, standing motionless on the pavement.

  But with a heart-rate that felt as if she’d just sprinted five hundred metres.

  Slowly, very slowly, she raised the tips of her fingers to her lips. It seemed to her they could still feel Rafael Sanguardo’s cool touch...

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE CAR CAME at eight. Celeste could see it from her living room window, pulled over by the kerb. She stared down at it. Was she mad to be doing this?

  She knew she was. Mad even to think of doing what she was going to do. Have dinner with Rafael Sanguardo.

  But it’s only dinner! And I need to do this! I need to use it to tell him that what he wants isn’t going to happen! It just isn’t!

  She picked up her evening bag, headed downstairs to the waiting car. Tension pulled at her as she walked out onto the pavement. Deliberately she had chosen a dove-grey dress with a high neckline and a modest knee-length hem. Her make-up was subdued and her hair was in a neat French pleat.

  All the way to th
e restaurant she strove for calm composure. Tonight she would tell Rafael Sanguardo that his efforts were in vain—that there could be nothing between them.

  The restaurant—a double-fronted white stucco house in Knightsbridge—was not one she knew. She was shown into the dining salon and instantly her eyes went to the man who dominated her thoughts...her senses. As she was shown to his table, Rafael got to his feet.

  ‘You came,’ he said.

  His voice was warm. His gaze warmer. It did things to her that it shouldn’t. That she must not allow.

  She looked very slightly taken aback at his greeting. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’

  He quirked an eyebrow. ‘Would it have been so surprising? Given your reluctance?’

  She said nothing, only took her place as the chair was drawn out for her. She settled into her seat, accepting the napkin unfurled for her and the pouring of water for her. A pair of menus was discreetly placed on the table, and then they were left alone.

  The restaurant was almost full, she could see that instantly, although the tables were skilfully arranged such that none was too close to another and each seemed to have a circle of privacy around it, helped by the copious greenery that adorned the room. The decor was late Victorian, with a lot of dark red.

  Rafael saw her looking around. ‘A little florid, I agree,’ he murmured. ‘But the food is outstanding, and I don’t think this restaurant features on the fashionista circuit.’

  ‘No,’ Celeste said. ‘I’ve not been here before.’

  ‘Good,’ said Rafael. ‘I’m pleased to be able to offer you a new experience.’ He picked up his glass of water. ‘To new experiences,’ he said.

  There was a glint of mordant humour in his dark eyes.

  Celeste bit her lip, but did not reply. Rafael reached for the menus, opening one and offering it to Celeste, who took it and busied herself studying it.

  It saved her from studying him instead. Which, she knew with a little plunge of her stomach, was what she badly wanted to do. She wanted to study him—take in every one of his features and understand, finally, what it was about him that had such an effect on her. Why him? Why this man?