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Wrapping himself in a black silk knee-length bathrobe, Rafael came up to her.
‘Let me,’ he said fondly, and took the brush from her. With slow, sensuous strokes he started to brush the long length of her hair.
Her eyes met his in the mirror of the vanity unit. His glowed with a familiar fire.
‘You’re worried about Madeline, aren’t you?’ he said. His voice was careful.
Celeste swallowed. ‘Should I be?’ It was hard to ask, but she had to.
He stopped brushing. ‘No,’ he said. He resumed his brushing, then a moment later spoke again. His voice was steady—decisive. ‘Madeline is the past, Celeste. Yes, we were once an item, but we broke up some time ago, and that, I promise you, is that. Her only emotion when I ended it was anger.’
He paused, then went on. It was vital he make Celeste realise that Madeline was nothing to him now—nothing!
‘I see her from time to time in public,’ he went on. ‘We are civil to each other. But that is all. I know she’s had several liaisons since, and probably has one running now. I could not care less about that. I wish her neither ill nor well. I am completely indifferent to her.’
Celeste picked up her comb, then set it down again in a random gesture.
‘Do you think she feels the same indifference?’ she made herself ask. She tried to keep her voice neutral, as though she were asking a question about something entirely impersonal.
Rafael shrugged. ‘I don’t care, Celeste. I don’t care what Madeline feels or wants or doesn’t want. And right now...’ He set down the brush and reached for her hand, drawing her to her feet. ‘Right now the only thing I care about is taking you to bed.’
His voice was husky, his eyes washing over her, and the intimacy, the familiarity, sent a wave of warmth through her.
He kissed her. A kiss as tenderly arousing as it was sweetly sensuous. Meltingly, Celeste gave herself to it, gave herself to him, to everything he was—everything wonderful and wondrous and precious to her. Rafael! Her Rafael.
Her last conscious thought before bliss swept her away in his arms was, Poor Madeline...poor, poor Madeline, to have lost him!
* * *
Celeste was sitting in a pool of sunlight at the desk in Rafael’s study. She was making notes and sketching, with Lucien’s sapphire-blue evening bag in front of her. Excitement filled her. This morning—the morning after the Lucien Fevre party—Rafael had talked with her. Asked her to contribute her ideas, based on her long experience in the fashion world, to the advertising and marketing campaign that was being prepared for Lucien’s relaunch.
She’d been delighted—thrilled. Now she was jotting down everything she could think of, and making little sketches, to bounce off Rafael when he got back later. Dimly she was aware of the apartment door opening. Rafael must have been able to get away early.
‘I’m in your study!’ she called out. ‘Stealing your printer paper to draw on!’
The office door, ajar, opened fully.
‘So,’ said a voice behind her, ‘when you said “just a guest” to me last night, what you really meant was, “just” Rafael’s current squeeze!’
Celeste whipped round. Madeline Walters, looking stunning in a formidably well-cut navy blue business suit, which radiated ‘power player’ with every centimetre of fabric, was standing in the doorway.
Celeste’s expression changed. ‘How did you get in?’ she asked blankly.
Madeline looked scornfully at her. ‘I’ve kept sets of keys for all Rafael’s properties, though I’ve never made use of any of them till now,’ she said. She shifted position. ‘So, let’s have a proper look at you.’
Dark, dramatically made-up eyes flicked up and down over Celeste, who stood there, recovering her composure. Whatever the hell was going on, she was going to stand her ground.
