a word he leant towards her and attached the delicate platinum chain in place and fastened the clasp at her nape.
It took only seconds, but it felt like an age as his warm breath feathered her cheek, and the touch of his fingers at her nape wrought an intimacy in the close confines of the limousine.
How easy would it be to move her head a little and have her cheek brush his own? To turn into him and seek his mouth, feel the sensuous slide of his tongue in an erotic tasting that could never be enough … merely a tantalising preliminary to how the evening would end. As it had in the early days of their marriage.
A time when she had dared and teased, and exulted in every moment.
Now she sat still, waiting with indrawn breath for him to move away so her heartbeat could return to its normal rhythm.
She made a slightly strangled protest as he lifted his fingers to her ear and carefully attached the hooked pin of one ear-stud before tending to her other earlobe.
Shannay couldn’t fault his touch, or accuse it lingered a little too long. But the action felt incredibly personal, intimate … and she had to fight against the way it affected her wayward emotions.
As he meant it to do?
And if so, to what purpose?
Physically, Marcello could do nothing to prevent her leaving the country.
So why this persistent niggle of doubt?
The hotel was one of the city’s finest, and Shannay cursed Marcello afresh as she pinned a smile on her face and prepared to play an expected part.
Numerous photographers’ cameras flashed as they alighted from the limousine and trod the red carpet into the foyer.
Marcello’s hand was warm as it rested at the back of her waist, and the bodyguard who’d ridden up front in the limousine now flanked her as they moved towards the gracious staircase leading to the mezzanine level.
A well-remembered scene, Shannay perceived, with the beautiful people who mostly came to be seen. Women who chose to showcase designer gowns and expensive jewellery, gifted by husbands and lovers who presided as captains of industry.
Socialites, fashionistas, models … she caught a glimpse of a few familiar faces, smiled and kept her head high.
Waiters and waitresses dutifully presented trays of drinks, from which Marcello selected two flutes of champagne and placed one in her hand.
Alcohol on an empty stomach wasn’t such a good idea, and she merely took a sip of the chilled bubbly liquid, then regarded the flute as a prop.
‘Marcello!’
‘Miguel and Shantal Rodriguez,’ Marcello intoned quietly as a man and woman greeted them, followed by voluble Spanish … which Marcello immediately explained was not his wife’s first language.
Shannay was supremely conscious of him at her side, the occasional touch of his hand at the edge of her waist, his attentive manner, and suppressed the wayward desire it was real, instead of the expected portrayal of a husband with his wife.
It was a relief when the large ballroom doors opened and guests were instructed to begin making their way to reserved seats at designated tables.
There was one face in the crowd Shannay subconsciously searched for, and failed to notice.
Estella de Cordova.
A woman whose presence at the evening’s prestigious event would be obligatory.
Then there she was, tall, impossibly elegant in Versace only someone with a superb figure and an overdose of panache could wear.
Dark, thick, curling hair framed her perfect features, and an abundance of diamonds sparkled with every move she made.
The centre of attention as always, and actively seeking to make an impression.
Shannay’s gaze shifted slightly to the man at her side. Distinguished, and at least fifteen years Estella’s senior.
Estella de Cordova was known to scope out a room, hone in on her quarry, then patiently wait for the opportune moment to strike.
Somehow Shannay doubted anything had changed.
Impossible the news of Marcello’s reconciliation with his Australian wife hadn’t reached Estella’s notice. Or the knowledge Shannay’s attendance tonight at his side wouldn’t garner speculation.
It wasn’t so much a matter of if Estella would make her move, only when.
Not, she perceived, before the guests were all seated.
Those who had been aware of the purported affair between Estella de Cordova and Marcello Martinez would be subtly watching for the slightest sign to fuel the social gossip mill.
Shannay could almost sense it, and hated being the focus of speculative interest.
Sandro and Luisa moved into sight, and their exchanged greeting held politeness, faint smiles and a reassuring touch to Shannay’s arm together with a whispered “brava” from Luisa a few seconds before they were shown to another table.
How … nice, Shannay conceded silently. A friendly ally.
The thought of calmly forking morsels of food into her mouth, sipping wine, and participating in meaningless conversation while waiting for Marcello’s former mistress to strike was enough to ruin her appetite.
Maintaining a façade didn’t help, for she was supremely conscious of her husband’s presence, the faint, exclusive tones of his cologne and the essence of the man himself.
Worse, the tantalisation of having an intimate knowledge of his touch, the caress of his hands, his lips, the way he could make her body sigh, then heat with passion. The heights he helped her reach, and how he held her when she fell.
‘It is good you have returned to Madrid.’
Shannay heard the heavily accented feminine voice, attached it to a woman seated directly opposite and offered a polite smile in acknowledgement.
‘Thank you.’
‘A man in your husband’s position needs a wife by his side.’
But not a wife and a mistress.
And the mistress had won out.
Words she didn’t care to voice. Didn’t need to, surely? Estella’s contretemps at the time had caused sufficient speculation.
‘I’m sure Marcello didn’t lack for a suitable companion.’
An understatement, if ever there was one. The women would have been lining up … keen, willing and able to serve in every way possible!
‘Why—no. Marcello usually chose to accompany his aunt, or appear alone.’
He did? How … surprising, was the only word that came to mind.
Shannay
