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* * *
Celeste was asleep and dreaming. Despite her fears that it would not, sleep had come immediately after she’d gone to bed, barely staying up long enough to take her make-up off before pulling her nightdress on and slipping under her duvet. She was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow.
And then she started to dream.
But not about Rafael’s kiss.
Hands—hands all over her. And she could not stop them. There was a voice, too, talking at her, and she had to hear it, could not block her ears. She could feel her dress falling off and she could not stop it. And then the touching started...the stroking...and the hot breath on her skin. And she could not stop that either.
She could not stop anything.
And there was one more thing she could not stop.
She could not stop remembering.
* * *
Rafael replaced his phone in its cradle on his desk, a look of grim satisfaction on his face. The conversation he’d just had had been off the record, but it had confirmed that Karl Reiner was not popular even on his own company’s board.
Louise was the first teenage model he had plied with what a lab analysis of the water Rafael had taken from him last night had confirmed as Rohypnol. Reiner’s unsavoury reputation had become a liability, and his fellow directors were going to take action—Karl Reiner was about to be removed from the board and sidelined from the running of the company.
Wanting to pass on the good news, Rafael phoned Celeste. As ever, it went to the answer machine, but he was unfazed by it. He was used to it by now. He kept his tone casual and conversational, with only an underlying trace of concern.
‘How are you? Have you heard anything from Louise? Let me know if there’s anything I can do on that front. And I have some welcome news about Karl Reiner. Give me a call some time and I’ll tell you about it.’
He had no very great expectation that she would do so, and he was not disappointed. Instead, addressed to him at his London office, there arrived a card adorned with a Dutch still life from the National Gallery’s collection on which she’d handwritten, ‘Thank you for your help the other evening. It was very good of you’.
It was signed simply ‘Celeste’.
The glint came to his eyes again. Then he picked up his phone and called her number. Not her landline, her mobile.
She answered it promptly, simply saying, ‘Hello?’ in a businesslike tone.
‘Celeste—I’m glad I’ve reached you.’
There was a choking sound at the other end. The mordant glint in Rafael’s eyes intensified.
‘How did you get this number?’ Celeste demanded. She did not sound businesslike now. She sounded agitated.
‘Louise. She was very helpful.’
‘Louise?’ Celeste expostulated.
‘Yes. I called at her flat yesterday evening, asking how she was. She said you’d talked to her and had been “really sweet” and she said how sorry she was, and how grateful to us both, and how she’ll never be such an idiot again. I took ruthless advantage of her gratitude and asked if she had your mobile number.’ He paused. ‘She was thrilled to give it to me, and said you were “really lovely” and “really friendly” and hoped we’d be “really happy” together.’
There was another choking sound.
He waited for it to subside, then continued smoothly. ‘So, in order to fulfil her rose-tinted romantic expectations, I would therefore like to invite you to the theatre one evening. Will you come?’
There was a moment’s silence at the other end. Then, ‘It’s very kind of you, but it isn’t possible.’
She spoke with what, Rafael could tell she intended to be, an air of finality.
‘Louise will be extremely disappointed,’ he replied. ‘How will you possibly explain to her that you turned me down? She’s played cupid, and this is her reward?’
