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?’
She glanced at him, met his gaze and held it, then she forked some rice and speared a plump prawn. ‘What would you suggest? My contretemps with Camille has been done to death.’
‘Renee rang. She assured me it was of no importance, and indicated she’ll have the opportunity to speak with you tonight.’
Hannah looked at him sharply. ‘You didn’t tell her about today?’
‘No. Why would I worry her unnecessarily?’
Her mother would freak if she discovered the extent of Camille’s campaign and the repercussions it had caused.
Opening night at the theatre meant dressing up, and Hannah chose an ensemble that comprised a high-waisted skirt with alternating bands of cyclamen-pink and burnt orange and a strapless fitted top in burnt orange. A long wrap in cyclamen-pink completed the outfit, and she selected minimum jewellery, choosing to twist her hair into a fashionable knot atop her head.
Members of the city’s social élite were in attendance, and it came as no surprise to discover Graziella and Enrico del Santo mingling among the guests in the auditorium. Also present were their friends, Aimee Dalfour, and, Hannah noted, Camille and Luc.
Somehow, the ‘cat among the pigeons’ allegory didn’t even begin to cover it. Admittedly, the harassment injunction Miguel had applied for wouldn’t be served until the following day, but, given Camille was no fool, her appearance here tonight was nothing short of blatant arrogance.
Dressed to kill, the Frenchwoman looked positively sinful in a designer gown that was strapless, backless, and moulded her curves like a second skin.
A last-ditch attempt to show Miguel what he was missing?
Impossible, of course, that they could slip through the foyer unnoticed. Nor could they ignore the del Santos’ presence.
Act, Hannah prompted silently as Miguel enfolded her hand within his own.
‘Hannah, Miguel. How nice to see you,’ Graziella greeted with enthusiasm. ‘You remember Aimee, of course. Camille, Luc.’
How could they forget? They exchanged polite meaningless pleasantries and Hannah endeavoured to ignore Camille’s sultry appraisal of Miguel. It was a wonder he didn’t burn at the sensual pouting of her lips and the wicked promise portrayed in the provocative depths of her gaze.
If they were seated close together, she’d scream, Hannah decided, and was immeasurably relieved to see her parents moving towards them.
‘Oh, my,’ Renee murmured minutes later as the del Santo party moved away. ‘Is there an apt word for such exhibitionism?’
‘Not one utterable in polite company,’ Hannah acknowledged with a touch of cynical amusement.
Within minutes the auditorium doors were opened, and the guests began making their way forward to take up