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So he’d stayed in London. Where else should he go? If she turned up back in New York he would be informed. If she turned up at her London flat he would be informed. If she contacted her agency he would be informed. He’d even contacted Louise and asked...begged...her to tell him if she heard any news about her. He knew of no one else in the modelling world she might know.
But for five endless days now she had simply disappeared off the planet.
He’d stopped phoning, stopped texting. She wasn’t going to reply, it was clear. He could only wait until she reappeared out of the thin air she’d vanished into.
He reached sightlessly for the whisky bottle on the table beside the sofa, then stopped himself. He had to get a grip. Had to control himself. Getting mindlessly drunk to numb himself would serve no purpose.
He set the bottle back with a clunk on the table. As he did so, his mobile suddenly buzzed into life. He fell on it like a drowning man.
‘Ms Philips has just returned to her apartment,’ said the operative set to watch her flat.
Rafael could feel relief flooding him. Drowning his senses. Gratitude poured through him. He was out of his apartment moments later, flinging himself into his waiting car, and within twenty minutes he was outside her flat in Notting Hill. Launching himself up the steps from the pavement, he pressed the buzzer to her flat.
How long would it take her to answer? Perhaps she was in the bathroom, the kitchen—somewhere it might delay her picking up the entry phone. Maybe, of course, she just wasn’t going to answer her door at this hour of the night.
He flicked open his mobile, phoned her. But before it connected the front door was buzzed open. He was inside instantly, running up the stairs to her floor. Not caring if his rapid tread disturbed her neighbours. Not caring about anything in the entire universe except seeing her again—being with her again...
Celeste—his Celeste...
Always my Celeste!
Because he knew that now. Knew it with every fibre of his being. Knew it with every cell of his body. He could not do without her. Could not live his life without her. She was everything to him—everything!
Had he once truly, actually considered marrying Madeline? Had he ever been that deluded? It was impossible to believe now. Impossible to believe that he had felt anything for her.
Even desire...
But as he circled the stairwell, two steps at a time in his haste, he pushed Madeline out of his head. Celeste was everything Madeline was not—and was everything to him.
He rounded the last corner of the stairs onto Celeste’s landing. She was standing in the open doorway of her apartment. He’d never been there, he realised with a rush of surprise. Well, it was of no account. She wouldn’t be needing it any longer.
His arms went around her, enveloping her in a hug. ‘My God, where have you been?’ he asked into her hair. He drew back, holding her shoulders, drinking her in like a man who had been in the desert for five punishing, killing, waterless days.
She was in a dressing gown. Nothing glamorous or stylish—just a plain, light blue, thin wool, ankle-length, waist-tied wrap. Her hair was in a ponytail, her face bare of make-up. But his eyes feasted on her. She was the most beautiful woman in the world. The most wonderful. The most precious...
He guided her inside so he could kiss her properly.
But she backed away from him. ‘Rafael, no—’
Her voice was high-pitched, and there was something wrong with it. He looked at her, consternation in his face.
‘Are you all right?’ Concern was open in his voice. He wanted to put his arms around her again, hold her close.
‘Um...’ she said.
She was looking deathly pale, he realised suddenly. His expression changed.
‘Are you ill?’
The question shot from him, infused with fear. God, was that it—was that why she’d suddenly rushed off? Nothing to do with Madeline at all! Images sprang in his head of her in hospital, having tests, being told nightmare news...
