Page 29 of Forbidden Until Midnight

She masked her expression the moment she saw him, not wanting a single reflection of the impact he made on her to show. Not wanting anyone to guess that the moment she’d seen him it had felt as if the air had been sucked from her lungs. As if time had stopped the beat of her heart.

Standing nearly a foot taller than almost everyone else, he insolently surveyed the room. Thick, dark hair, effortlessly styled; his hands had run through the wet strands, with maybe the slightest slick of gel, she imagined. A rich olive tan graced his skin, presumably from his time outside amongst the olive groves.

Eleanor’s cheeks flushed. In the brief moments she had to herself, away from work or studies, she had pored over any news about him she could find.

From where she stood, his face side on to her, she couldn’t see, but could well remember, the scar he’d confessed was inflicted by his father. And yet she couldn’t help but wonder at the invisible ones he bore, where no one could see them, or reach them to heal.

Santo turned to the doorway and smiled, the expression completely changing his face. The stern lines that defined him eased and he looked a little younger, he looked softer, without undermining the powerful impact he made. He reached out his hand and Eleanor followed the line of his arm to see a young woman emerge from the doorway.

She pressed her lips together to stop the gasp of hurt from escaping. Because the way that Santo looked at the young, dark-haired woman was nothing she’d ever seen from him before.

Just as he returned his gaze to the room, Eleanor shifted so that her back was to them, desperately hoping that Santo hadn’t caught her staring. After what had passed between them last year, she wanted to avoid him at all costs.

Santo held his arm out to Amita. The new stepdaughter of one of the few men here he could almost bring himself to respect, Santo had promised to accompany her to her first New Year’s Eve party. Karl Ivanov’s investments in the Sabatini Group were largely silent, making him one of the easier investors to deal with. But also Santo appreciated that the man didn’t get into any of the backbiting and backstabbing that most of the others seemed to delight in.

Amita was a nice girl, but timid. Her stepfather was right to be worried. Originally from Jaipur, her whole sheltered world had been uprooted dramatically and Karl was incredibly concerned about her.

Despite the clear and very platonic understanding between him and Amita, she’d clung to him like a limpet from the moment they’d entered the room. He could feel the curious gazes they’d attracted and when Karl and Amita’s mother, Aditi, joined them the whispers grew to an almost audible level.

‘They’re going to think we’re together,’ whispered Amita for his ears only.

‘Let them. It doesn’t matter,’ he replied sincerely.

In fact, after the last few years, it was probably a good thing that people here thought that he was ‘off the market’. Carson’s blows had lessened, having presumably found bigger fish to fry, and Marie-Laure had found herself a new plaything. He was hardly surprised that the rumour mill had named Antony Fairchild as her new lover.

Poor bastard didn’t know what he was in for.

As Santo led her towards their table in the Casa Llotja de Mar, he was impressed by the space. White and black squares covered the floor like a chequerboard, but it was the huge stone arches that drew the gaze to the dizzying height of the ceiling. A first-floor balcony wrapped around the magnificent room, and a smile caught his lips when he heard Amita gasp.

‘It’s so beautiful.’

‘Mmm,’ he replied noncommittally.

The white-clothed, perfectly dressed tables waiting for the promised eight-course meal that evening hugged the edges of the space, leaving the centre of the room free for those standing and chatting or even dancing a little.

As he took his seat, he kept his gaze firmly on his companions and away from where he knew Eleanor Carson would be found. He had absolutely no intention of running into her tonight.

He was here, keeping his promise, he just didn’t have to interact with her personally.

Which was precisely why he’d asked Mads Rassmussen to dangle himself enticingly as a prospective boss for her. Santo had killed two birds with the same stone—created a way to keep an eye on Eleanor without getting directly involved, in exchange for working with Rassmussen on the side project he’d resumed after rectifying the damage done the year before.

Pietro hadn’t been overjoyed by the news of what she was doing, but his hands were still firmly tied. Watching the old man’s helplessness had been...difficult for Santo. He’d been a mentor, a father figure, representing authority and security. But Eleanor was making the man weak, making him vulnerable, and Santo didn’t like that one bit.

She was a thorn in both their sides and he wanted her gone.

But, no matter what he wanted, his body had different ideas. Torturing him with erotic images at night, with memories during the day, with awareness of her right here, right now. Fingers tripped across his skin, beneath his shirt, gripping him in places that made him damn thankful he was sitting down at the table.

‘Do you two want to go and mingle before we eat?’ Aditi asked, her accent inflecting her words in a pleasant way.

Amita shook her head, and Santo nodded that it was fine to stay at the table. Aditi’s smile was enough to tell him how important this was to her. He should tell Karl to get them both away from here and never come back. But Karl had enough of both clout and charm to make himself unthreatening to others, so Santo was sure that they would be fine.

As the waiter passed, he and Karl removed the bottles of wine from the table.

‘You can drink,’ Amita assured him.

‘That’s okay, I’m happy not to,’ he explained, the gratefulness in her answering gaze more than he deserved. He’d already decided that he was done drinking around this lot.

He had warned Eleanor last year about growing up and taking things seriously. It was time that he did the same.

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