time, you seem to have acquired considerable information.’
‘Graziella is very discreet. However, my interest in Miguel was captured several weeks ago at a party in Rome,’ Camille enlightened with a secretive smile. ‘Miguel attended briefly with a business associate.’
Hannah had instant recall. She’d flown in to buy new season’s stock, tying the visit in with one of Miguel’s Italian business meetings. She even remembered the evening in question, and a wretched migraine that had seen her creep into bed while issuing instructions for Miguel to go on to the party without her.
‘I made it my business to discover everything about Miguel Santanas,’ Camille continued relentlessly. ‘His marriage, his wife, her background.’
This was far more complex than idle curiosity. Almost chilling, Hannah realised silently.
‘And your affair with Luc Dubois,’ the Frenchwoman revealed, intent on analysing Hannah’s expressive features. ‘Interesting man.’
Interesting didn’t come close. The man was a practised rogue, and it still irked that it had taken her a few months to lose the fantasy and face reality.
‘I imagine this is leading somewhere?’ Hannah queried coolly.
‘Of course, darling. You’re hardly naive.’
It didn’t take much imagination for it all to fall into place. ‘Let me guess,’ she began pensively. ‘You came here purposely with your aunt, who conveniently happens to be a good friend of the del Santos, aware of their social standing and the opportunity to use them to include you in numerous invitations around the city. Thus ensuring regular social contact with Miguel.’
A tinkling laugh escaped Camille’s lips. ‘How clever of you, chérie. Naturally, the Australian visit was my suggestion.’
Hannah’s eyes assumed a fiery sparkle. ‘Do we draw battle lines?’
‘As long as you understand Miguel is mine.’ Camille’s smile was entirely lacking in humour.
‘Really?’ Hannah posed with deliberate sarcasm. ‘Aren’t you forgetting I have an advantage or two?’
‘Miguel might view you as an obligation,’ the Frenchwoman relayed with pitiless asperity, ‘but, darling, I intend to be his titillation.’
The peal of the telephone came as a welcome interruption, and Hannah crossed to take the call, aware as she did so that the Frenchwoman had turned towards the door. Within seconds she had departed, and Hannah gathered her wits together, answering a client’s query, then, when she was done, she set to restoring order to the racks Camille had deliberately disorganised.
Tension knotted her stomach. It was worse, much worse than she’d envisaged. How would Miguel react if she told him? Be amused, probably. But what would lie beneath the humour? Male satisfaction? The thrill of the chase, the challenge? More pertinently, would he indulge in an extra-marital affair?
Dear God, she hoped not. Even the thought that he might almost destroyed her.
The peal of the telephone interrupted her reflection, and she took the call, attended to a client who bought a skirt, two blouses, a beautiful silk scarf, and on Cindy’s return she collected her bag and crossed the street to lunch in a trendy café.
Hannah ordered a latte and a salad bagel, sipped the first and picked at the second, only to discard it entirely and order another latte.
Usually she took only sufficient time to eat before returning to the boutique, but today she chose to browse a few shops and view exquisite antique jewellery. A pair of earrings caught her eye, and she entered the shop, tried them on, then bought them in a moment of impulse.
It was almost two when she re-entered the boutique, four when Cindy left for the day, and at five-fifteen she locked up and drove home.
As hard as she tried, it was impossible to dismiss Camille from her mind. What she’d first thought was a transitory game had now proven to hold premeditated intent. Dealing with it could be akin to walking through a minefield.
One thing for sure…Miguel was hers. And she intended to fight for him, her marriage, her life, she determined as she garaged the car and made her way into the house.
Sofia was in the kitchen preparing dinner, and Hannah greeted her fondly as she crossed to the refrigerator.
‘There are messages for you, and two for the señor,’ the housekeeper informed her as she wielded a chopping knife with considerable dexterity. ‘I put them in the señor’s study.’
Hannah extracted a bottle of chilled water and poured some into a glass. ‘Thanks. I’ll go check them in a minute.’ A piquant aroma teased her nostrils. ‘Mmm,’ she murmured appreciatively. ‘Something smells delicious.’
‘Seafood,’ Sofia enlightened. ‘Served with a mixed salad.’
She lifted the glass to her lips and took a long swallow, then moved to the cook-top and lifted the lid on the gently simmering saucepan. The temptation to retrieve a steaming mussel was too great, and she quickly passed the hot shell from one hand to the other as she tore it apart and extracted the succulent flesh.
‘You want? I pull some out and put on a plate,’ Sofia determined, and Hannah shook her head.
‘No, I’ll save it for dinner.’ Her stomach growled in protest of insufficient sustenance. ‘I’ll go shower and change. Is Miguel home?’
‘The señor ring an hour ago. Delayed. I serve dinner at seven. Okay?’
Hannah savoured the mussel flesh, and followed it with yet another glass of water. Maybe she’d go swim a few lengths in the pool first. She had time, and she felt strangely restless with a need to expend some nervous energy.
It took only minutes to reach her bedroom, and a few more to discard her clothes and don an aqua bikini. Then she caught up a beach towel from the linen closet, quickly retraced her steps and made her way through the wide set of French doors at the rear of the house to the tiled pool area.
Heaven, she breathed a short while later as she cleaved sure strokes through the cool salt-chlorinated water.
She didn’t allow herself to think, only focused on the silky feel of the water against her skin, the weightlessness of her body and the measured movement of her arms and legs.
It was so quiet, with no neighbourhood noise to disturb the air. High walls, with tall trees lining the boundaries, lent a secluded atmosphere, making it difficult to believe a large cosmopolitan city hummed with vibrant life mere kilometres away.
She could be anywhere, she mused, intent for a few seconds imagining a place far removed from here, where there were no phones, no social obligations, no distractions. Just her, with Miguel. Lazing in the sun, relaxing. Making love, eating when they felt the need for food, and sleeping when everything else palled.
Except that was a fantasy. Reality was a hurried break in between scheduled meetings…whether it was Paris, Rome, Madrid or Frankfurt. A snatched day here and there, always within reach of a mobile phone and an important call that inevitably broke the spell.
It was life in the fast lane. The need to make and close the
