or my marriage.’
Camille pressed a hand against the region of her heart. ‘I am so afraid.’
The degree of dramatic mockery was almost laughable, if Hannah was inclined to see humour in the situation. ‘Be afraid,’ she warned inflexibly. ‘I can have you charged with harassment and stalking.’ Her gaze was direct, her tone icy with intent. She waited a beat, then added, ‘I doubt your aunt will be impressed. Nor, I imagine, will Graziella and Enrico del Santo.’
Camille’s eyes glittered with dark malevolence.
‘I am not finished with you yet. Miguel—’
‘Finds you as much of a nuisance as I do,’ Hannah intercepted smoothly. ‘Go get a life, Camille. And get out of mine.’
A venomous stream of French issued from Camille’s perfectly outlined mouth in a pithy, street-gutter diatribe that left those who comprehended the language in little doubt of an attack on Hannah’s parentage, status and character.
Two things happened simultaneously, and Hannah had the briefest warning of both.
Camille’s hand snaked out and caught her cheek a stinging slap. Champagne spilled across the damask tablecloth. Then Rodney Spears appeared from nowhere and held the Frenchwoman’s flailing arms in a restraining grip.
What happened next was almost comedic, as the waiter almost flew to the table, followed close on his heels by the maître d’. Fellow patrons looked alarmed, others merely curious, and throughout it all Camille continued to demean every one of Hannah’s relatives, both living and those who had passed on.
It almost contained a surreal quality, like something out of a movie.
‘You wish me to call the police, madame?’ the maître d’ queried with concern. He was all too aware of Hannah’s identity and her connection to two of the city’s wealthiest families.
Hannah ignored Rodney Spears’ nod of assent. ‘No.’
‘You are sure, madame?’ he repeated anxiously. ‘You are not hurt?’
The left side of her face stung, emotionally she was a little shaken up, but that was all. ‘I’m fine.’
‘There will, of course, be no charge for the meal. Can I get you something to drink?’
‘I will take care of Mrs Santanas,’ Rodney asserted in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘Just as soon as I have escorted this woman from the premises.’
He shot Hannah a direct look. ‘You are quite sure you don’t want her detained?’
She turned towards Camille, who resembled a spitting cat waiting for another opportunity to lash out. ‘Come within ten metres of me again, and I’ll slap you with every charge in the book,’ she warned with quiet dignity. Difficult, when inside she felt like a nervous wreck.
Rodney strong-armed the Frenchwoman from the restaurant, and Hannah viewed the table, the spilled champagne, the scattered food.
‘I apologise,’ she offered simply, and had her words immediately waved aside. She gathered up her purse and withdrew her credit card.
‘No, no, madame.’ He waved aside the card. ‘There is no need to leave. Let me arrange another meal.’
‘Thank you, but I must get back to work.’ She had to get out of here and breathe in some fresh air.
‘You should wait for the detective to return.’
The bodyguard. Oh, hell, that meant Rodney would report to Miguel, and then, she grimaced, there would be hell to pay.
It didn’t take long. Ten minutes, Hannah counted, checking her watch as her cell-phone rang.
‘What in hell are you playing at?’ Miguel demanded the instant she acknowledged the call.
‘Protecting my own turf,’ she relayed imperturbably, and heard his soft curse.
‘Don’t be facetious.’
‘The cavalry arrived just in time.’
‘Hannah,’ he growled. ‘I am far from being amused.’
‘I wasn’t exactly laughing, myself.’
‘Close the boutique and go home.’
‘Why? I’m fine.’
‘Hannah—’
‘If you must conduct a post-mortem, it can wait until tonight.’
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
