Читать книгу The Forbidden Touch of Sanguardo - Julia James - Страница 10

CHAPTER FOUR

CELESTE WONDERED THE next day whether Rafael Sanguardo would try to get in touch, but there was nothing from him. She told herself she was glad—must be glad—for there could be no future for her with him in it.

So why, then, did she keep thinking about him, replaying her time with him? There was no point! Yet, berate herself as she might, she could not get him out of her head. Even when she was enduring the final photographic sessions under her Reiner Visage contract he was there, dominating her consciousness, her thoughts. Vivid and potent. And as disturbing as ever. As tormenting as ever.

His sculpted features, the mobile mouth, the sable hair, the dark obsidian eyes, the deep, accented voice...

And then she was back to the beginning again, trying to get those images out of her mind. Trying to move on beyond the completely pointless question of what it was about him that was getting to her.

Because it doesn’t matter why! It’s irrelevant—totally irrelevant! It changes nothing! Nothing at all! If he tries to get in touch with me again I’ll just say no, that’s all. The way I always do. Always... Because nothing else is possible. Nothing.

In her eyes a shadow passed. An old, familiar shadow... And with it came the clenching of her stomach, the crawling of her skin.

* * *

Rafael relaxed back in the first-class seat on the plane, a pleasant sense of satisfaction filling him. And anticipation. He’d been in Geneva, raising finance for his latest ventures; with his track record, banks were always eager to meet with him. But his thoughts were not on business now.

An image floated tantalisingly in his mind. Pale, beautiful...celestial...

He’d given Celeste time and space since delivering her to her flat, but now he was going to make his next move. Would she respond? he wondered. Or would she try and evade him? His mind flickered over the situation. She was not immune to him—he could tell that with every male molecule in his body—yet she was holding him at bay. Why, since she had admitted she was not involved with anyone else, he could not fathom. She gave no impression of trying to play him, and her evasiveness seemed totally genuine. But why be evasive in the first place?

His eyes narrowed as he thought it through. Maybe it was because of men like Karl Reiner. If he was the norm for men in the world of fashion and modelling she moved in, he could understand Celeste’s evasiveness. To be treated as that all-time prime jerk had treated her would make anyone cautious about accepting attentions from men.

Well, he was no Karl Reiner, and he would win her confidence and make her realise he was nothing like that! Soon—very soon now—he would convince her that all he wanted from her was what he knew with every instinct she wanted, too...

Time together—with him.

His pleasant sense of anticipation intensified.

* * *

Celeste’s phone was ringing. It was Sunday evening and she was ironing. She was keeping busy—deliberately so. Anything to keep Rafael Sanguardo out of her head! Her work with Reiner Visage had finally ended, to her relief, and since then she’d thrown herself into a round of activity while waiting for another modelling assignment to come up.

So far she’d given herself a whole set of beauty treatments and set a challenging exercise schedule—runs in Holland Park, yoga, Pilates and dance classes. And she had a full medical assessment booked for a few days’ time as well, with blood tests and body scans.

It was not just for the sake of her modelling career that she paid such attention to herself. A shadow dimmed her eyes. She needed not only to stay beautiful but to stay fit and healthy. She would not go the way of her poor, stricken mother...

A familiar sadness filled her, squeezing her heart. She had promised her mother she would not suffer the same terrible fate that had befallen her—forewarned was forearmed, and regular check-ups were routine for her.

Now, as she folded a pillowcase and reached for the next one to iron, she let the phone go to the answer machine. As the caller started speaking she froze.

She did not need to ask whose was the distinctive accented voice.

How did he get my phone number? was her first thought, swiftly discarded. He knew her name and address—easy enough to find her landline number! At least, she thought with a sense of relief, he hadn’t phoned her mobile, so hopefully he didn’t have that number.

She listened to him speak, the iron poised in her hand. The deep tones wove into her senses almost before she caught the gist of what he was saying.

‘I was wondering whether you might like to have dinner with me some time. I’m in the UK this coming week—let me know what evening would suit you. You can reach me on the following number.’

He gave the number—a London landline—and hung up. He didn’t bother, she noticed, saying who he was.

He knows I know...

As the phone went quiet again she stared out across her living room. The TV was on in one corner, playing an old black-and-white movie. She did not see the images—only the inner image in her head. Rafael Sanguardo in all his disturbing, unsettling, lean good looks.

Why is he getting to me?

The question formed again, as it had been doing since she had first seen him watching her. And it was just as unanswered. As unanswerable.

And all the more disturbing for it.

The following day she was booked for a catalogue shoot—it wasn’t the most glamorous of modelling work, but it paid solidly and Celeste welcomed it now she was without the Reiner contract. When she got back to her flat the entrance hall contained a vase with a huge bouquet of white lilies in it, their scent filling the small space. A gilt-edged card with her name on it was attached to the lavish wrapping.

Upstairs, she opened the envelope. The card said simply ‘Rafael’. Nothing more than that. Her face set, she put the extravagant bouquet on the dining table. Behind her set expression, though, her thoughts were tumbling around.

They resolved into a single question.

What am I going to do about him?

The question stayed with her all the evening.

So did the scent of the lilies, pervading the living room, the whole flat. It was a scent she could not avoid, nor ignore. Just like the single, simple question hovering in her head. She knew perfectly well what answer was required. Go on ignoring Rafael Sanguardo, whatever he did.

It got increasingly hard during the rest of the week. He phoned again, leaving another message—more or less a repetition of the first—and the following day yet another bouquet of flowers arrived. These were quite different from the exotic, opulent lilies—just a slender posy of freesias in delicate pastel colours, with a sweet, fresh scent. The card held just a question: ‘Perhaps you prefer these flowers?’

She put them in a vase on her dressing table in her bedroom, so their delicate scent would not be drowned by the heady lilies. But it meant that wherever she was in her flat there was a reminder of Rafael Sanguardo.

At least her days were very busy with the catalogue shoot, and she was glad of that. Less glad, though, to return home and find yet another floral tribute had arrived from Rafael Sanguardo. This time it was a cluster of tiny rosebuds in the palest blush-pink. She put them beside the freesias. If he kept going like this she could open a flower shop, she thought.

But his phone call that evening told her she was going to have a respite. He simply left a message saying that he was flying to the Far East for a week, but would be back in London thereafter.

‘Perhaps your schedule will allow you some evenings out then,’ he said. ‘I’ll phone you.’

He seemed totally unperturbed by her persistent lack of reply to him. Yet the deep, accented tones of his voice seemed to linger in her consciousness long after she’d deleted the message.

She eyed the phone warily. Maybe she should simply call him and tell him that he was wasting his time. But even that seemed an ordeal. Why can’t he just take the hint—get the message from the fact I’m not phoning him back? Why can’t he just disappear out of my life?

But even as she thought that she felt a strange little pang go through her. A pang that was the most disturbing reaction of all...

Thoughts and emotions crowded into her head. If Rafael Sanguardo was going to be abroad, then maybe she should plan to do likewise. Go somewhere different from where he was going to be—somewhere she could try and get him out of her mind.

Resolved, the next morning she went to her agency with a request for a foreign location shoot.

Her booker looked put out. ‘Just because you ditched Reiner Visage, it doesn’t mean you can get the work you want at the drop of a hat!’ he pointed out tartly. Then he relented. ‘OK, OK—I know. Creepy Karl’s enough to make anyone run a mile! Hmm...let’s see. Hang on for a mo—I’ll put some calls in.’

He picked up his phone and Celeste wandered off to sit on one of the group of white leather chairs nearby. She’d just sat down when the door from the street was pushed open and someone came in. It was a model Celeste didn’t recognise. She was very fair-skinned, with hair as blonde as her own. She looked young, still in her teens, and unsure what to do. One of the bookers greeted her, and she went up to him eagerly, sitting herself down, her long, thin legs splaying like a newborn foal’s.

Celeste looked at her. The girl could have been herself all those years ago. Memory pierced. Sharp—like a needle under the skin. Finding the nerve beneath. She picked up a magazine and busied herself with its contents. A few moments later her own booker called her across.

‘Can you do Hawaii? Five days, end of next week? One of the models booked for it has just discovered she’s pregnant and wants out!’

Celeste nodded. Hawaii was definitely far enough away to get some perspective and would suit her very well.

Her booker finished telling her the details and she got up to go. As she did so the very young new model got up as well. Her face was shining.

‘Oh, that’s brilliant! Thank you!’ she said excitedly to her booker.

She got to the door just before Celeste, and held it open for her. As they stepped out onto the pavement Celeste said in a friendly voice, ‘Got a casting?’

The girl beamed. ‘My first one! Tomorrow! It’s for skincare. I’m just terrified I’ll wake up tomorrow with a zit!’

Celeste laughed. ‘Drink nothing but water for the rest of the day,’ she advised, half joking. ‘Who’s the client?’ she asked, just to be friendly.

But when the girl answered Celeste’s expression changed.

‘Reiner Visage,’ breathed the girl. ‘They’re ever so posh! I can’t afford any of their stuff myself! Do you think I can get some free samples?’ she asked ingenuously.

Celeste didn’t answer. Her face was grave. The girl looked so young— Young and naive and vulnerable...

Memory’s needle went under her skin again.

‘Listen,’ she said, sounding serious, ‘if you do get picked, please be careful. Karl Reiner’s nickname is Creepy Karl, and he’s earned it!’

She debated whether to tell the girl about the hassle she herself had had, then decided not to. The odds were against her getting a Reiner contract at her very first casting, and she was obviously so thrilled right now that Celeste didn’t want to spoil the moment with an unnecessary warning.

She fished in her bag for a scrap of paper, scrawled her name and mobile number on it and gave it to the girl. ‘I’m Celeste Philips. Let’s have a coffee some time,’ she said, her voice friendly again.

The girl’s eyes shone. ‘Oh, that would be brill—thanks! I don’t know any other models yet. My flatmates all work in offices. I’m Louise, by the way—Louise Foreman,’ she said.

‘Well, good luck, Louise,’ Celeste said, refraining from adding, But not tomorrow.

‘I’ll put your name and number in my phone right away,’ Louise said happily. ‘Thank you ever so much! I can’t wait to tell my mates I’ve got a casting!’

She trotted off, busy with her phone. Celeste watched her go. Was I really ever that young? she thought. That eager?

But she had been. Of course she had. After all, modelling had been going to make her fortune. The fortune she’d wanted so much...

Like a guillotine, she sliced down the steel door in her head that she kept forever locked. Seeing that young girl, so like herself once, had let it start to open.