Lazaro? Scusi, but it’s your father. I’m afraid it’s urgent.’
And then he was gone, leaving her dazed, disorientated, and struck dumb with horror.
This man wasn’t her destiny. He was her nemesis.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS just a small scrap of paper, torn from the back of a pocket diary or notebook.
Lying in the darkness beneath crisp hotel sheets, Eve held it close to her body, absentmindedly sliding it through her finger and thumb so that she could feel the difference in texture along the torn edge and the slight stiffness where at some point coffee been spilled on it.
She didn’t need to switch the light on and look at it to know that the coffee stain was in the shape of a rather fat rabbit, or to read the numbers 592, which were the only remainders of the phone number that had once been written there. She had studied that scrap of paper in such minute detail so often over the last two years that she even knew that the smooth bit underneath her thumb right now was where the words Raphael di Lazaro were written. And just below and to the left of that, just by the rabbit’s ear, was where it said drugs.
The girl Ellie had shared a flat with in Florence—Catalina someone or other—had sent her things back to England following her death, and when Eve had finally been able to face going through them she had found this tucked into one of the pockets of Ellie’s jeans. The rest of the writing might have been consigned to eternal oblivion by the coffee, but Eve hardly needed to have it spelled out to her. These had to be the contact details of the person who had supplied Ellie with heroin. And that person was Raphael Di Lazaro.
By the time Eve had found the paper di Lazaro had already disappeared into darkest Columbia, and the Italian authorities had recorded a verdict of accidental death on Ellie and closed the case. But as far as Eve was concerned it wasn’t over. She had vowed to expose Raphael di Lazaro for what he was, no matter how long it took her to do it. Which was why, when Lou had called her at work two days ago, to report that a paparazzi contact had spotted him arriving back at Florence’s airport, she hadn’t hesitated in going along with Lou’s ridiculous plan. After all, strutting down a catwalk and pretending to be a fashion journalist were pretty insignificant hoops to jump through in order finally to come face to face with the man who was responsible for Ellie’s death.
Her fingers tightened around the piece of paper until it was scrunched up in the palm of her hand. She had certainly succeeded in doing that.
Big style.
Face to face, lip to lip, body to body…
Oh, sweet heaven…
She started violently as her mobile phone burst into noisy life on the bedside table, letting out a shrill explosion of sound whilst simultaneously vibrating madly and glowing fluorescent green in the darkness. Eve made a clumsy grab for it, knocking over a glass of water in the process, and accidentally switching it on just as she swore graphically.
‘Eve?’
Oh, God. It was Marissa Fox, editor of Glitterati, sounding terrifyingly brisk and efficient.
‘Sorry. I mean—yes. Sorry’
Mercifully, Marissa cut her off mid-stutter. ‘Look, Eve, I know the whole idea is that you’re shadowing Sienna, but can I be an awful bore and ask you to tear yourself away from her for an hour or so and pop down to cover the press conference this morning?’
Eve sat bolt upright in the hope it would make her sound more awake. ‘Press conference?’ she echoed faintly.
‘Yes, darling.’ There was a steely edge to Marissa’s voice that was more effective than any alarm clock. ‘Di Lazaro’s doctors are giving a press conference this morning on his prognosis. Not good, according to my sources.’
Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Eve felt the blood drain from her head.
Was Raphael hurt?
‘Eve? Are you still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘You do know that Antonio di Lazaro suffered a heart attack as he was leaving the party last night, don’t you?’
‘Antonio?’ Relief flooded through her, followed by a wave of self-disgust. Why should she care whether Raphael was hurt or not? If someone else had got there first it would save her the bother of doing it herself. But deny her the satisfaction.
‘Right. Yes, sorry—of course I knew that he’d been taken ill,’ she lied hastily. ‘Everyone I spoke to sort of played it down. Is it serious?’
‘Well, you’ll find that out at the press conference, darling,’ Marissa replied acidly. ‘Ten o’clock at the Santa Maria Nuova hospital. I’d go myself, but miraculously I’ve managed to get an appointment in the hotel spa for a Seaweed Body Wrap and Triple Oxygen Facial. I’ll be cutting it fine for the perfume launch as it is.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Such a shame that Lou’s got this hideous shellfish allergy—she’s always rather good at the whole press conference circus. But I’m sure you can manage just as well—can’t you, darling?’
Eve groped for her glasses and pushed them on, almost swearing out loud again as she squinted at her watch in the gloom. Nine-twenty.
‘Press conference? Absolutely. No problem. I’ll be there.’ Stumbling out of bed, she made a huge effort to sound like the professional journalist that Lou had told Marissa she was. ‘So…is it a…big press conference?’ She pulled open the lavishly swagged curtains, wincing as bright sunlight highlighted the chaos in the room, and the fact that Sienna’s bed was the only thing that was still neat and unused. ‘Are we expecting…er…statements from just the medical team, or will the family be present as well?’
‘Family? Good heavens, darling, I shouldn’t think so. Antonio’s heart attack didn’t stop Luca partying till the early hours, so I doubt he’ll be in any state to face the press—which just leaves Raphael, and he’s utterly allergic to publicity in any form. He’s quite pathologically anti-journalists and paparazzi. Ah! Here’s breakfast. Do you know, darling, this is supposed to be Florence’s top hotel, and they don’t do wheatgrass juice! Can you believe it? Anyway, darling, must dash. Give my love to Sienna, won’t you? Hope you’re getting lots of juicy gossip for the interview—can’t wait to see the copy. I’ll catch up with you both at the launch. Ciao, darling!’
Head reeling, Eve exhaled slowly into the sudden silence, and for a moment considered throwing herself onto the bed and screaming very loudly into a pillow. It was tempting, but ultimately not very constructive. And right now she needed help.
Picking her way through the ankle-deep mulch of discarded designer clothing that was the only sign of Sienna’s occupancy in the room, Eve speed-dialled Lou.
Waiting for her to pick up, Eve felt her panic start to subside. Lou would know what to do—about the press conference and the case of the disappearing supermodel and yesterday’s embarrassing incident, where the guy she’d thought was the man of her dreams had actually turned out to be—oops, sorry—the dark figure who stalked her nightmares.
No. No. Noooo! Please, please don’t be…
Voicemail.
With a wail of anguish Eve threw her phone down
