Chapter One
“You’d like me to what?” Estrella’s husky voice couldn’t hide her shock. This was the Gala Reception for the Marché International du Film, and the Marché, or Market, was the nuts and bolts side of the Cannes film festival. All the important people were here tonight.
“It could be a good time.”
Heat scalded her cheeks. Ignoring the financiers gathered around them, Estrella met the arrogant Italian’s gaze. “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong woman.”
One of his eyebrows lifted. He seemed utterly oblivious of the others and the fact that this was a private reception, a very exclusive reception, for those with deep pockets and the right connections. The Market was the place where films were acquired, foreign rights were traded, and money changed hands. And the Market was the sole reason Estrella was in Cannes. “You are Estrella Galván. Model?”
She felt as if he’d put a choke-hold on her. She could barely breathe. “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to do business here.”
His light eyes — a cool silver gray — narrowed. “So am I.”
There was an embarrassed laugh and a low murmur of voices from the group of men. Some were amused, some uncomfortable, and Estrella’s face burned from temple to chin.
“I think we could have a good time,” the Italian continued with the same appalling smile. “Call me.”
She stiffened as he pressed a satin-finished business card into her hand, and immediately tried to return the card. “I don’t want it.”
“Why not? You look like a fun girl. I’m always interested in a party.”
Why was he doing this? What was he trying to achieve? She’d pulled a hundred strings to get an invite to the party tonight and she had just one chance — this chance — to interest these financiers in her film. The two-week festival was halfway over and so far she hadn’t found anyone willing to back her project. The movie was everything right now. The children were depending on her.
“I appreciate your vote of confidence,” she said tightly, keeping her flawless smile in place, “but Italian men don’t really do it for me.”
It was as if she’d plucked the string of a violin. The air hummed, a note of tension zinging between them and it was the most intensely physical sensation she’d known in years.
“No?” His voice mocked her.
“No.” She could feel him, feel him inhale, feel him breathe, feel him think. She trembled inwardly, shaken by the intense undercurrent.
“Yet your last lover was Italian.”
Her cheeks grew hotter. She shouldn’t be surprised he knew about her love life. The paparazzi haunted her everywhere, especially when she’d dated Andre Mossimo, an Italian race car driver, earlier in the year.
“Last being the operative word,” she answered with a smile, and yet her eyes blazed with anger.
“That’s right. You dumped Andre after his tragic accident, didn’t you?”
That seemed to do it for the group of international financiers. The executives began to drift away in twos and threes and Estrella felt pure panic. She was losing them! Losing out on her chance to pitch her film, and there was no way people would think she had a serious subject after the way this man had embarrassed her in front of everyone.
“Perfect,” the Italian said as they were left alone. “Now it’s just you and me.”
Estrella’s eyes burned and she clenched her hands, crumpling the card he’d forced on her. She had a film without backing, an important documentary in need of distribution, and this man had just turned her into a joke.
“How could you do that?” she choked, overwhelmed by the opportunity lost. She’d pinned so many hopes on tonight. She’d needed tonight so badly.
He thrust his hands in the pockets of his black tuxedo trousers. “Do what?”
But Carlo knew what he’d done and he knew exactly what he was doing. He’d heard Estrella, one of Milan’s hottest models, had been angling for an invitation for the posh party, and curious, he’d been the one to get an invitation to her.
Having seen the beautiful Estrella in action before, he knew how devious she could be, and he wanted to know just what the calculating Argentine model was up to now. Why was she in Cannes? What was she wanting - or more correctly - who was her prey?
“Humiliate me like that,” she shot at him, tears filling her eyes.
He had to admit she was good. The tears looked genuine. If he hadn’t known the anguish she’d put Andre through, he might have fallen for the shimmer of tears in her green-hazel eyes, but she, like his ex-girlfriend, Joy, was a top-notch manipulator. There was always something women like this wanted, and always someone new in the food chain.
“Come on,” he said, hailing a uniformed waiter and taking two champagne flutes from the silver tray. “It’s not so bad. The night’s young. The festival has just begun.”
“It ends in a week,” she answered, refusing the champagne he held out to her.
“Seven whole days. With your looks, you’ll have no problem finding your next cash cow.”
“Cash cow?”
Her voice had risen. She’d turned almost white. He shrugged and sipped his champagne. “Sugar daddy, then.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“You are a beautiful woman.”
She flinched. “And that makes me a whore?”
She sounded so shocked. Her injured tone reminded him of a Catholic schoolgirl. Carlo had to admire her skill. She was a far better actress than he’d expected. Or perhaps Joy had just made him more perceptive. “Hardly, cara. You’re exquisite. You carry yourself like a princess.”
“And let me guess. You have a thing for princesses.”
“Spoiled princesses,” he answered, tilting his glass, letting the bubbles rise. “But you’re going to tell me you’re neither.”
“You think you know me.”
“Oh, I know enough.”
Estrella felt sick to her stomach. There were times she hated her career, hated that her face and body were familiar to strangers, but she’d chosen her career at eighteen. Modeling in Europe had been her ticket out of Argentina, and once she left Buenos Aires behind, she’d never looked back.
“You don’t know me,” she said coolly. Her late father had been Count Tino Galván. One of Argentina’s wealthiest aristocrats, he had bought and sold small countries in a day. She knew all about arrogant, powerful men.
“Then educate me,” he said. “I’m dying to learn.”
His bold scrutiny made her want to run and hide. He wasn’t just sizing her up. He was projecting, picturing what she looked like beneath the glittering evening gown, and yet she was sure he already knew what she looked like. She’d been splashed over half of Italy last year in a very revealing lingerie ad. “I don’t like you.”
“And to think I went to all that trouble to get you an invitation to tonight’s reception.”
Estrella felt as if she’d stepped in wet cement. “You sent the invitation?”
He sipped from his flute and yet his gaze never left her face. “Yes.”
“Who are you?”
He smiled. “I gave you my card.”
He had. She’d been clutching it, smashing it into a ball in the damp creases of her hand. She smoothed the thick ivory card and glanced down. Just a name. And a phone number. Nothing else.
Then she read the name. Carlo Gabellini.
Estrella felt positively light-headed. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t be…
“Something wrong, Miss Galván?”
She looked up at him, her mouth drying. He couldn’t be Carlo Gabellini. Carlo Gabellini was head of the investment bank that was Andre’s main sponsor. Carlo was the money behind Andre’s car, and he’d easily poured a couple million into Andre’s account in the past year.
Carlo’s head tilted and he smiled almost benevolently. “Were you still Andre’s mistress when you wiped out his bank account, or was that after his stroke?”