as you mean to go on, a tiny voice prompted.
‘I’ve already ordered. I can only spare an hour.’
The wine steward appeared and Camille ordered Dom Perignon. ‘I thought we’d celebrate, darling.’
‘And the occasion is?’ Hannah queried with a lift of one eyebrow.
‘Why—life.’ Camille’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Isn’t that enough reason?’
‘Not,’ she countered firmly, ‘when you’re determined to interfere in mine.’
The waiter presented the menu and Camille spared it the briefest of glances, ordered a salad, then flipped Hannah a hard, calculated look. ‘Haven’t you learnt I am a formidable adversary?’
‘A very foolish one.’
Camille’s gaze narrowed. ‘What did you think of the prints, darling?’
‘The digitally altered ones?’ Hannah posed silkily. ‘Or the few of you sprawled among the sheets in a state of déshabillé?’
The calculation evident intensified into something that was almost dangerous. ‘How else would I be, when Miguel had just left my bed?’
‘Wrong, Camille,’ she corrected with deceptive quietness. ‘Miguel was never in your bed.’
Camille’s expression didn’t change. ‘Failing to face up to reality, darling?’
Hannah speared a succulent asparagus, dipped the tip in the river of hollandaise sauce on her plate, and took time to savour it. ‘It is you who needs a reality check,’ she offered seconds later.
‘The prints were explicit.’
She looked at the Frenchwoman, and almost felt sorry for her. ‘A fantasy, Camille.’
Camille’s lips tightened. ‘Irrefutable proof. The date function does not lie.’
‘No,’ Hannah agreed. ‘You made just one small mistake.’
‘And what was that?’
She took her time in answering. ‘Miguel flew home Tuesday evening.’
‘Impossible. The suite was still occupied.’
‘By Alejandro,’ she confirmed. ‘You were just too clever in activating the camera date function. It made a mockery of Miguel being in your bed, when he was already in mine.’
‘What of Monday night, Hannah?’ Camille queried hatefully, and Hannah fought back the desire to slap the Frenchwoman’s cheek.
‘Camille, give it up. You played what you thought was your trump card, and it proved to be the joker.’
Red lacquered nails on one hand curled round the table napkin. ‘You invited me to lunch to tell me this?’
‘No,’ she denied. ‘I wanted the opportunity to warn you in person that I won’t tolerate your attempts to interfere in my life, 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
