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She ordered a glass of red wine and retreated to a private alcove off the main reception room, wanting to absent herself as much as she could without actually leaving.
She took a sip of wine, enjoying the velvety liquid and the way it slipped down her throat, coating all the jagged edges she felt inside.
‘Are you hiding?’
The voice, low, melodious, masculine, had her tensing. She flicked her gaze up from the depths of her glass and her eyes widened in shock at the sight of the man in front of her. Him.
It was as if she’d magicked him from her mind, teleported him across the room to stand here like a handsome prince from a fairy-tale, except there was something a little too wicked about the glint in his eye, something too hard about the set of his mouth, for him to be the prince of a story.
Was he the villain?
Too stunned to form a coherent response, or one of any kind, Allegra simply stared. He really was amazingly good-looking—dark hair cut slightly, rakishly long, those glinting, amber eyes, and a strong jaw with a hint of sexy stubble. He was dressed in a dark grey suit with a darker shirt and a silver-grey tie, and he looked a little bit like Allegra imagined Mephistopheles would look, all dark, barely leashed power, the energy she’d felt from across the room even more forceful now, and twice as compelling.
‘Well?’ The lilt in his voice was playful, yet with a dark undercurrent that snaked its way inside Allegra like a river of chocolate, pure sensual indulgence. ‘Are you?’
Was she what? She was gaping, that much was certain. Allegra snapped her mouth closed and forced her expression into something suitably composed. She hoped.
‘As a matter of fact, I am. Hiding, that is. I don’t know anyone here.’ She took a sip of wine, needing the fortification as well as the second’s respite.
‘Do you make a habit of crashing funerals?’ he asked lightly, and she tensed, not wanting to admit who she was...the rejected daughter, the cast-off child, coming back for scraps.
“Not unless there’s an open bar,” she joked, hefting her glass, and the man eyed her thoughtfully. Did he believe her? She couldn’t tell. ‘Did you know him?’ she asked. ‘Alberto Mancini?’ The name stuck in her throat, and she saw a flash in the stranger’s eyes, a single blaze of feeling that she couldn’t identify but which still jolted her like lightning.
‘Not directly. My father did business with him, a long time ago. I wanted to...pay my respects.’
‘I see.’ She tried to gather her scattered wits. The look of sleepy speculation in the man’s eyes made her skin prickle. His gaze was like a caress, invisible fingertips trailing on her heated skin. She’d never reacted to someone so viscerally before, so immediately. Maybe it was simply because her emotions were raw, everything too near the surface. She certainly couldn’t ever recall feeling this way before. ‘That’s very kind of you.’ He smiled and said nothing. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘I didn’t.’ His gaze swooped over her again, like a hawk looking for its prey. ‘But it’s Rafael.’
* * *
Rafael Vitali didn’t know who this beguiling woman was, but he was captivated by her cloud of Titian curls, the wide, grey eyes that were as clear as mirrors, reflecting her emotions so he could read them from across the room. Weariness. Sorrow. Grief.
Who was she? And what was her relationship to Mancini? It didn’t really matter, not now his business was done, justice finally satisfied, but he was still curious. A family friend—or something less innocuous? A lover? A mistress? She hadn’t come just for the bar, of that he was certain. So what was she hiding?
Rafael took a sip of his drink, watching the emotions play across her face like ripples in water. Confusion, hope, sadness. A lover, he decided, although she was surely young enough to be his daughter. Mancini’s wife and daughter were across the room, looking sulky and even bored. Rafael would have spared a second of sympathy for the man’s widow if he hadn’t known how she’d raced through his money. And tomorrow she would discover how little there was left...perfect justice, considering how Mancini had done the same to his mother, leaving her with nothing.
