Eva rubbed her temple, waiting for her brain to catch on to the change of subject amidst the escalating throb, as she mentally altered a speech for two speakers. Problem was, it was taking a while and, by the time she realised what she was doing, her fingers wore more make-up than her face.
Scrambling in her vintage clutch for a tissue before she ruined her best dress, she said, ‘Thanks, Finny. Prudence West is lovely. She adored my gown designs.’
‘So she should—anyone with an ounce of taste can recognise a star in the making. Westminster Abbey, huh?’ His deep voice paused as if he were relishing every word. ‘My little sister under the royal spotlight. I’m so proud of you.’
Eva smiled and thought, not for the first time, how much she missed him. Finn was the only sane person in the family. Well, as sane as any jet-setting racing driver could be.
Tissue-hunting abandoned, Eva slipped her fingers from her clutch and leaned against the narrow ochre wall. ‘I can see perfectly well what you’re doing and I love you for it. And by all means give me an Abbey full of duchesses and I’ll collude in the art of dazzling every one. Then sit me behind my machine or in my design studio and I’ll make their every dream come true. But when it comes to this...’ A heavy sigh gushed from her mouth, making her lips tingle with dryness. ‘Dad’s here too, playing devil’s advocate over his flurry of ex-wives as they hurl daggers at each other. Honestly, Finn, the man would give Henry the Eighth a run for his money. He’s half cut, making an utter fool of himself. Why can’t he have more respect, especially tonight?’
‘Head high, turn a blind eye.’
‘Good in theory, lousy in practice.’ With her free hand she rubbed her bare shoulder to ward off a sudden ominous chill. ‘I’ve worked so hard for this, Finn. If something goes wrong tonight my face will be splashed on every tabloid in the country.’
‘Nothing is going to go wrong. Listen...’ she heard him inhale; the fact that her stoic-under-pressure sibling felt the need inched her tension levels as high as the opulent chandelier filling the reception ‘...I was worried about you. I know how much today means to you. So I sent...’
A group of guests hustled past and she turned her back to them to face a mural of the Angel Gabriel filling the inside wall of the alcove. She just hoped it was a good omen. ‘Sent? Sent what?’
‘He won’t crowd you but he’ll be there if you need him.’
Need? She didn’t need anyone. To be continually let down? No, thanks.
Hold on... He? A thread of unease tightened around her chest, then unravelled so fast her heart began to whirl. ‘He? Who’s he? You keep breaking up.’
‘I’ve...asked Vitale...come in my place.’
Before her eyes the Angel Gabriel morphed into Lucifer, horns and all, while Eva went up in flames. ‘Dante? No way—call him off.’
‘Call him off?’ A dark chuckle hummed down the line. ‘Despite his bloodthirsty reputation, he isn’t a Rottweiler, Eva.’
‘Oh, yes, he is.’ Voice feathery, her hormones went on a rampage, tearing through her body, piping her ve180ins with more heat. ‘He’s...he’s a snarling, arrogant brute.’
‘Hey, he’s a good guy. I’d trust him with my life. He won’t let me down.’ That was exactly what she was afraid of. ‘Dante wouldn’t be the global success he is today if he purred like a pussycat. You don’t know him, Eva.’ She knew enough but she had no intention of telling Finn that. He’d ask why and then she would be in trouble.
Air whipped in and out of her lungs. Her breasts threatened to escape from the ruched bands of cerise satin and she pressed the flat of her hand to her stomach, begging the tremulous churn to subside. Except her fingers shook so badly her tummy began to swirl like a washing machine on full spin.
‘I thought he was staying in Singapore, setting up his precious department store. Not that the man hasn’t got enough of them.’ That was another thing Finn was good for—dropping information on Dante Vitale without her having to ask questions. She liked to know when he honoured London with his presence so she could go into hiding. Ridiculous. How old was she? Too old. She thanked heaven Finn was trying to speak again before that line of thought took hold.
‘He’s back to get...’ The line hissed. His voice faded in and out. ‘I was speechl...’
‘Finn! Are you there?’ Oh, God. ‘I’m going to kill you, Finn, you hear me? With my bare hands. I’ll never forgive you for this.’ A total lie. She’d forgive him anything. But Dante? Her nerves were already fraying like torn taffeta.
The line’s-gone-dead tone resounded through her head like a death blow and her eyes shuttered. Trust Finn to pour petrol on the blaze without even realising it.
Breathe, Eva, breathe.
Okay. She had two choices. Stand. Or topple off her brand-new stilettos. And wouldn’t the vultures love that!
No choice really. Standing tall, spine pin-straight, she sucked in air. Get a hold of yourself. Remember why you’re here.
Of course she could face the upper echelons of society and make her annual speech. So she didn’t have Finn by her side—so what? She was a grown woman who was forging her own way to success. She’d just landed one of the biggest contracts of the decade and she refused to let her inebriated father, his ex-wives or the mighty Dante Vitale witness her fall from grace.
It had taken years to climb from the depths of hell after her mother’s funeral. Thankfully, the passage of time had washed the grime from her past. No longer was she faced with another hideous front page photograph every morning while every tacky tabloid in the country savaged her reputation. And she wasn’t going back there. Ever. Unless it was to showcase her creations and prove to the world she was more than the daughter of a famous designer and a notorious eighties pop star.
Chin up, shoulders pinned, she sauntered back into the ballroom where the air was awash with cultured tones and the tinkle of feminine flirtation.
Turning a blind eye to her father’s attention-seeking wave, she hit the wide mahogany bar and gripped the thick brass rail surrounding it.
Smiling sweetly at the bartender, she ordered her usual. ‘Sparkling mineral water, please.’
She could do this.
Definitely.
Then it hit her—a deliciously warm musky scent embracing her body in cashmere and teasing her dormant senses to life. Dizzying need, long forgotten, popped her eardrums to bring his dark, rich, Italian lilt direct to her brain in high definition.
‘Being a good girl tonight, are we, Eva?’
Skin erupting with a million pinpricks, her stomach wove a torrid sensual spell. It took every stitch of effort to stand tall, keep her head high and inhale enough oxygen so she didn’t pass out.
‘It’s all in a good cause, Dante,’ she said, proud of her strong, if a little sassy voice—the adage ‘fight fire with fire’ flaming to mind.
Ungluing her sexy heels, she forced an even sweeter curve upon her lips and turned oh, so languidly to face him. And realised the strength of Hercules couldn’t have prepared her.
Air locked at the base of her throat as she collided with eyes the colour of burnt umber, gleaming with intelligent purpose and deeply set in a face that could only be described as pure Italian masculinity. Satin-sheen golden skin, an abundance of thick, glossy saddle-brown hair tumbling over his forehead and flicking over his ears.
Eva fiddled with the strap of her handbag to stop herself from tracing the curve of his gorgeous cynical mouth—a mouth she’d spent half her adolescence yearning to kiss.
There was something almost deadly about his beauty,