Page 29 of Last Shot

Ah. Forrest Valentine. That’s why Blondie looked familiar. He was the boyfriend whose jaw had collided with Luca Barbarani’s fist a year ago. Max was pleased her connection-making synapses had not gone limp these past six months. Valentine’s headshot had been next to Luca’s in Kingsley’s article. What else had Kingsley said about him? Something about a boat?

Forrest watched their little group with the same suspicious underwear-removing glare of his headshot as Raphael led them out the glass door onto the La Marca acreage.

The cold teeth of the ocean wind gnawed through Max as she followed Raphael to the corner of a balcony, the glass guardrails forming a point like the helm of a ship. Grey tucked his hands into his pockets again, his infuriatingly warm-looking jacket sealing him in.

Raphael peeled off his own expensive-looking trench and held it out to Max. For a strange second she thought he wanted her to hang it up on a rack for him. ‘Your lips are blue,’ he said.

‘It’s fine.’ She waved him away, jaw vibrating uncontrollably.

‘I insist.’ He basically threw it over her.

If she thought she’d seen Grey glare before, it was nothing on what his face did now. If she wasn’t so unbelievably cold, she would have laughed. ‘Th–thank you.’

Now that her basic needs at the bottom of Maslow’s Hierarchy were met, she was able to assess the man standing in front of her. In her internet searches she hadn’t come up with anyone named Raphael. Was he a La Marca? He looked Italian – thick, dark eyebrows, long face and broad jaw dotted with stubble. His olive-black hair was shaved at the sides, with a styled comb-over that should have looked a bit Hitler-esque but on him, it worked. He was slightly shorter than Grey (to be fair, most normal humans were) and slender, and his long fingers were shackled with black and gold rings.

‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ Raphael’s smile was indulgent as he looked at her, but she didn’t miss the flicker of his eyes towards Grey. Right. Max had done a bit of undercover work; she knew how to deal with guys like this. She’d have to go with the exact opposite technique she’d been trying with Grey. Telling Raphael she was a cop wouldn’t do her any favours. But snuggling into his jacket and flicking her hair back might.

‘I was thinking you might be able to enlighten us.’ Grey stepped his feet apart like guys do when they’re taking a piss or trying to take up as much space as possible to show who’s in charge.

Raphael did the same.

‘I had nothing to do with that university student in the ICU.’

Thewhatnow? Max watched closely, wishing she could read Grey’s micro-expressions. But his face barely moved; neither did Raphael’s. Neither did the Earth, in that moment.

‘The Barbaranis don’t make compromised wine,’ Grey said.

‘And the La Marcas don’t make suicidal business decisions,’ Raphael offered. ‘Giovanni’s family is far more adept at ruining his reputation than any external source.’

Max thought of the articles about Luca and Frankie. The humiliation Giovanni clearly wanted Luca to feel at the bachelor auction. ‘I don’t see how the fall of Barbarani Wine would be suicidal to the La Marcas,’ Max said. ‘Aren’t they business rivals?’

Grey looked at her like she’d squatted and taken a dump all over Raphael’s Italian loafers.

‘Are you familiar with the concept of mutually assured destruction?’ Raphael asked quietly, his eyes narrowed but more curious than accusing.

‘I’ve seenOppenheimer.’

‘The La Marcas and the Barbaranis share the market,’ Grey interjected. ‘They have an understanding, which is none of your business to understand.’

‘But if a Barbarani bleeds,’ Raphael said, ‘everyone turns to a La Marca to find the knife.’

‘Thank you for that segue.’ Grey glared. ‘It brings me to why I’m really here.’

Not true.Max could tell he wanted more from Raphael about this compromised wine. She could join the dots well enough: a student in the ICU and a rumour about dodgy wine. But the Barbarani Fixer didn’t seem to be the type to demand answers.

He was the type who took them.

Raphael didn’t look fazed. ‘How about yousegueto that by introducing me to your, ah ...’

‘Max,’ she said, before Grey could start his favourite rant about how disgusting and repulsive he found her. She leaned a hip against the glass and watched Raphael’s eyes do that thing men do: Operation Check-out – stealth mode activated – looking but not looking.Nowshe was thankful for the cold air and Nella Barbarani’s thin little pearl singlet.

‘And what are you to Greyson Hawke?’ Raphael knew all the tricks too. Chin ducked, eyelashes lowered, mouth curving.

‘My security guard,’ Grey growled.

‘The Barbaranis have given you your own personal security, Greyson? Surely not just to come around here? Are you really that incapable of looking after yourself?’ Raphael’s eyes sparkled with deliberate misunderstanding.

‘She’s patrolling at the gala.’ Grey looked like he was teetering on the edge of explosive rage. Good to know it didn’t take much.

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