The Forbidden Touch of Sanguardo (6 page)

Casually, he walked up to her. ‘You really do take evasion to the limits, don’t you?’ he said pleasantly.

Celeste glared at him. ‘What are you doing here?’ Her heart had started to slug, and she hated him for it. Hated herself.

‘Asking you to dinner,’ Rafael answered, unconcerned by her aggrieved tone.

The grey-blue eyes flashed. ‘Thank you—but no, thank you,’ she said. Then she frowned. ‘I thought you were in the Far East?’

‘I came back early,’ Rafael said smoothly. His voice changed. ‘I found I didn’t want to be away.’ He paused. ‘From you,’ he finished.

His eyes were resting on her. She was flustered, he could see. More than flustered. Her skin had flushed—that pale, translucent, flawless skin that he wanted to reach out a hand and smooth with the tips of his fingers...

Her skin betrays her—her own body betrays her...

Celeste Philips could stonewall him all she liked. She could ignore his calls—ignore
him
—but what she could not do was hide her response to him.

‘So,’ he went on, his voice still smooth, his eyes still resting on her, ‘are you busy tonight?’

He saw her square her shoulders.

‘Look,’ she began, ‘I really don’t think—’

‘Then don’t,’ he interrupted.

His voice wasn’t smooth any more. Something had changed within it—something that reached into her, past all her defences.

‘Don’t think, Celeste. Just smile and say,
That would be lovely!
And then I will smile, too, and we’ll agree what time I’ll send the car for you, and then you’ll go up to your flat and spend the next couple of hours making yourself even more beautiful than you look right now. And I will drive off and bury myself in work, the way I’ve been doing since I last saw you, because that’s the only way I’ve kept functioning.’ He drew breath, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘So, that’s all agreed, then. The car will be here for you at eight.’

She opened her mouth again. He laid a single long finger against it, silencing her. He felt her lips tremble beneath his touch.

‘Dinner,’ he said, holding her gaze with his—a troubled gaze that told him of her wariness, her mixed emotions. ‘Just dinner, Celeste. Simple, pleasant, undemanding. You can get to know me a little more, and I you. And if we agree that, yes, we enjoy each other’s company—after all...’ the slightest tug pulled at his mouth ‘...we share a fondness for astronomy and geology, and who knows how many other ologies, hmm?—then, and only then, we can decide whether we would like to enjoy more of each other’s company. There—is that really so very onerous?’

He dropped his hand. This time she did not open her mouth to speak. She just looked at him, an almost helpless look on her face now, as if she had finally run out of ways to gainsay him.

He took a breath. ‘One evening of your life, Celeste. That’s all.’ He held her eyes, then veiled his own with a dipping of his long black lashes. He turned away, reached for the handle of the car door. ‘Eight o’clock, Celeste,’ he reminded her.

Then he lowered himself into the rear passenger seat and pulled the door shut. A moment later the car had moved off into the road, leaving Celeste behind, standing motionless on the pavement.

But with a heart-rate that felt as if she’d just sprinted five hundred metres.

Slowly, very slowly, she raised the tips of her fingers to her lips. It seemed to her they could still feel Rafael Sanguardo’s cool touch...

CHAPTER FIVE

T
HE
CAR
CAME
at eight. Celeste could see it from her living room window, pulled over by the kerb. She stared down at it. Was she mad to be doing this?

She knew she was. Mad even to think of doing what she was going to do. Have dinner with Rafael Sanguardo.

But it’s only dinner! And I need to do this! I need to use it to tell him that what he wants isn’t going to happen! It just isn’t!

She picked up her evening bag, headed downstairs to the waiting car. Tension pulled at her as she walked out onto the pavement. Deliberately she had chosen a dove-grey dress with a high neckline and a modest knee-length hem. Her make-up was subdued and her hair was in a neat French pleat.

All the way to the restaurant she strove for calm composure. Tonight she would tell Rafael Sanguardo that his efforts were in vain—that there could be nothing between them.

The restaurant—a double-fronted white stucco house in Knightsbridge—was not one she knew. She was shown into the dining salon and instantly her eyes went to the man who dominated her thoughts...her senses. As she was shown to his table, Rafael got to his feet.

‘You came,’ he said.

His voice was warm. His gaze warmer. It did things to her that it shouldn’t. That she must not allow.

She looked very slightly taken aback at his greeting. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’

He quirked an eyebrow. ‘Would it have been so surprising? Given your reluctance?’

She said nothing, only took her place as the chair was drawn out for her. She settled into her seat, accepting the napkin unfurled for her and the pouring of water for her. A pair of menus was discreetly placed on the table, and then they were left alone.

The restaurant was almost full, she could see that instantly, although the tables were skilfully arranged such that none was too close to another and each seemed to have a circle of privacy around it, helped by the copious greenery that adorned the room. The decor was late Victorian, with a lot of dark red.

Rafael saw her looking around. ‘A little florid, I agree,’ he murmured. ‘But the food is outstanding, and I don’t think this restaurant features on the fashionista circuit.’

‘No,’ Celeste said. ‘I’ve not been here before.’

‘Good,’ said Rafael. ‘I’m pleased to be able to offer you a new experience.’ He picked up his glass of water. ‘To new experiences,’ he said.

There was a glint of mordant humour in his dark eyes.

Celeste bit her lip, but did not reply. Rafael reached for the menus, opening one and offering it to Celeste, who took it and busied herself studying it.

It saved her from studying him instead. Which, she knew with a little plunge of her stomach, was what she badly wanted to do. She wanted to study him—take in every one of his features and understand, finally, what it was about him that had such an effect on her. Why him? Why this man?

Why, why, why...?

‘Will you eat as little as you did at the charity show?’ he asked, making her lift her head from the blurring words on the menu.

She frowned slightly. ‘Oh, no—I skipped lunch today, as I was working, so I have a full calorie allowance tonight.’

He nodded. ‘So you’ll go for the baked Camembert, followed by
confit
of duck, and a very large chocolate mousse with cream to finish—is that it?’

He said it straight-faced, and just for a moment Celeste thought he meant it. Then she saw the glint of humour in his eyes.

‘I wish...’ she said. She looked quickly at the menu again. ‘Undressed prawns, and sole with green vegetables—no sauce.’

‘Hmm...really splashing out, I see,’ Rafael murmured. ‘Do you have any calories to spare for wine?’

‘Dry white,’ she answered, then promptly wished she hadn’t. Rafael Sanguardo was disturbing enough to her without the aid of alcohol...

But he was beckoning the wine waiter and going through the wine list with him in a knowledgeable fashion. Then, their dinner order given and the ritual of the arrival of the wine performed, she was left facing him with no other distractions.

‘What do you think of the wine?’ Rafael was asking, and she took a grateful sip—that would occupy a few moments of time.

‘Very good,’ she said, for it was crisp and tart and perfectly chilled.

‘I’m glad,’ he said. Then, glancing at her, he said, ‘I’m saving the champagne for our breakfast in bed tomorrow morning.’

She choked, clunking her wine glass down on the table. As she recovered, her eyes flew to his face. It was completely deadpan. Then, a second later, that glint in his eyes came again.

‘It’s what you think of me, though, isn’t it?’ Rafael said. He took a breath, his expression changing. ‘You know,’ he said slowly, ‘I’ve never met anyone as...as
wary
...as you are. I’m truly astonished that I’ve actually finally got you sitting here, of your own free will, having dinner with me.’ His eyes rested on her. ‘Can it be that you’ve finally decided I’m safe?’

Celeste blinked, her eyes flaring.
Safe?
Rafael Sanguardo sat there and called himself
safe?
A man who was getting past every defence she possessed? Defences she had never even needed till now!

She pulled herself together. He was giving her the perfect opportunity she was looking for. To inform him, as clearly as was needed, that this was not the start of something—it was the end of it.

‘Mr Sanguardo—’ she began.

‘Rafael,’ he corrected.

She couldn’t bring herself to say his given name. It would create a level of familiarity that was exactly what she was trying to distance herself from.

‘I really do have to make something clear to you,’ she went on. She fiddled with the stem of her wine glass, steeling herself. Why was it so hard to say what she had to say? It wouldn’t be the first time. Usually it never came to this, because men who were keen on her had backed off long before now—frozen out by her lack of response to their overtures—but from time to time she’d had to spell it out with capital letters. This was definitely one of them.

But it wasn’t like any of the earlier times. Because then, she knew, with a hollowing of her insides, it had been no effort at all to say no to what was on offer. Whereas now...

I don’t want to say no to him...

The words were in her head before she could stop them, forcing themselves into her consciousness. For the first time she had finally encountered a man to whom her customary rejection to all males was not easy and effortless to make. For the first time she had encountered a man to whom she did not want to say no.

She wanted to give a completely different answer...an answer that was singing in her blood, that had leapt in her eyes the very first moment she had seen him, that was making her want to do nothing more than let her eyes gaze at him, soak him up. Her nerves were tingling in every limb, her heart was beating that much faster, her breathing was unsteady...

Then harsh reality sounded in her head.

But it’s no good! I have to say no! I have to say no to Rafael Sanguardo. Because I always have to say no.

How could she ever say anything else when that clinging trail of slime still left its fetid trace across her skin...would always do so...?

I can’t escape the past—what I did. And I can never be free of it—never! So what else can I say to any man except no...

And that was exactly what she was going to do now.
Make
herself do.

‘I have to be completely honest with you,’ she ploughed on. She was looking at him full in the face and he sat back, a veiled look in his eyes. ‘This isn’t personal, I assure you, but it wouldn’t be fair of me to let you think that having dinner like this is in any way...um...well, a date—because it isn’t.’

‘Why not?’ The question cut across her hesitant explication. It was asked with an air of casual curiosity. The veiled look was still in his eyes.

‘Well, because—’ She stopped.

‘Yes?’ One dark eyebrow quirked. He picked up his wine glass, holding it in long fingers but not drinking from it. He looked relaxed, unfazed by what she was saying.

‘Because I just don’t
do
this stuff, that’s why,’ she said bluntly.

‘Ah, “stuff”,’ he repeated with an air of discovery. ‘That’s very enlightening. Do, please, elaborate.’

She took a breath. ‘Like I said, it isn’t personal, but I’ve made it a rule not to...to... Well, to do what I’m doing now, I guess. Or,’ she added pointedly, ‘anything else!’

‘Such as champagne breakfasts in bed?’

‘Yes!’

Rafael responded ruminatively. ‘Well, I can understand why, if you move in a world populated by the likes of Karl Reiner, you have that rule, and I regard it as entirely sensible. But, Celeste...’

Now his eyes were unveiled, and she reeled from the expression in them that blazed like a searing fire.

‘I am
not
cut from that cloth, and therefore you have absolutely nothing to be wary of in that respect. I had hoped you’d realised that already, but if I have to make it even clearer then I shall!’

‘It isn’t that. I don’t think you’re anything like Creepy Karl. It’s just—’

‘Yes?’

He was back to veiling his gaze again, waiting to hear what she said next. She looked away a moment. Only a glance into the restaurant beyond her. But it went a lot further than that.

Back through time...

Then, slowly, she brought her gaze back to his face.

‘I don’t date,’ she said. ‘I don’t date and I don’t have relationships. Or romances. Or affairs. Or whatever you want to call them. I just...
don’t.
’

She could hear the silence. Hear it stretching between them. Keeping them apart.

She saw him set down his wine glass, straighten in his seat, lean towards her. He reached a hand out and covered one of hers, still lying palm-down on the tablecloth. His hand felt warm and strong. He held it for a few seconds only, then released it. It felt cold, suddenly, without his there.

‘We’ll take it very slowly,’ he said.

She shook her head. She felt a heavy weight in it. Yet with a flicker of her mind she knew she did not sense the weight as crushing.

Comforting...

The word formed in her mind and she tried to shake it loose. She must not think that—
must not.

She heard his voice continue. ‘As slowly as continental drift,’ he said.

And now his eyes were resting on her, and the expression in them was one she had not seen. It did strange things to her, tightening her throat as if she were about to cry, which made no sense at all.

‘Will that be slowly enough for you?’ he asked.

She felt her head incline, for the weight it was bearing was too great. Continental drift... A pull of desolation went through her. She had her own version of continental drift.

An island of my own, cut off from the rest of the land—drifting ever further away, taking me with it, taking me away from everything like this. Everything that goes with a man like Rafael Sanguardo...

She wanted to tell him so—tell him that even geological time would not be enough to accomplish what he wanted. But she kept silent.

‘Good,’ he said. His voice was quiet. Then, in a different tone, he said, ‘Ah, I believe this is our food arriving.’

It was, and she was glad. It gave her the chance to pull herself together, to shake loose the weight in her head. What had happened just then she did not know—only that she was glad she was past it. She’d said what she had to say—that his attempt to persuade her into dating him, romancing him, having an affair with him, was not going to work and could not work—and that was the important thing. At least his words had indicated that he wasn’t going to try and hustle her, pressurise her or hurry her. And that meant, she realised with a little ripple of relief that carried agitations of its own, that she didn’t have to keep her guard sky-high this evening. That she could afford to lower it a little—just a little.

The way I want to...

The realisation was impossible to suppress. And that in itself was disturbing, too. But she was here now. To stand up and leave would be rude, and churlish, and he did not deserve that. It was not his fault that she could not do what he had so openly stated he wanted to do.

He’s done nothing wrong—he has not behaved badly. When he intervened over Karl Reiner he was chivalrous and protective. Now he is only being attentive, as he said he wanted to be. There is nothing to fault him.

No, the fault was not in Rafael Sanguardo...

She felt them again—those trailing tendrils that dragged across her skin, the miasma of the mind that she could never banish. Never free herself from. That barred her for ever from what Rafael Sanguardo was offering her.

All I can have of him is this—this brief time with him.

And she must make the most of it! Take what little she could. Put aside, just for now, her endless reserve, for she had made it as clear as she could that there could be nothing between them—nothing more than this.

So slowly, very slowly, she started to feel the tension around her begin to ebb a little. She would have this evening and then go home. Home to her solitary life. The only life she could have.

But until that moment she was here, with Rafael Sanguardo, making conversation with him, safe and innocuous.

‘Apparently,’ he said, ‘this house was owned by a Victorian banker who bankrupted himself aspiring to impress the aristocracy—doubtless those who went riding in Rotten Row, as you described the other evening—but they regarded him as a
parvenu.
’

‘You were only supposed to inherit money then,’ Celeste commented, ‘not make it yourself.’

‘That rules me out, then,’ Rafael replied, that mordant glint in his eyes again.

‘I think,’ she answered with a slight frown, ‘that if you were foreign it was actually a bit easier to get into high society. No one knew who you were, you see.’

One dark, arched eyebrow quirked. ‘Wouldn’t I have been regarded as one up—if that—from a savage native escaped from the jungle?’