Red Angel by Helen Harper Page B

well.’
    ‘Her defection reflects badly on you. Why haven’t you tried to bring her back?’
    Medici’s gaze turns unpleasant again. ‘I will. I’m just waiting for the right moment.’
    My eyes narrow. Either he wants to force Dahlia back into the Medici fold at the point where it’ll cause Arzo the most pain – or all this is a bluff to make us think she’s not still working for him. A ball of frustrated anger rises up inside me. He knows every single button to push to piss me off. The only way I can win this is by staying calm and playing him at his own game.
    I gently kick Michael under the table to give him as much prior warning as I dare. His eyes meet mine as if he’s afraid about what I’ll do. He really shouldn’t worry so much.
    I raise my hand to the waiter and indicate that he should set an extra place for Medici. He rushes over while I carefully extract the Montserrat engineered flower from my hair and pass it over. ‘Here,’ I say. ‘Isn’t it pretty? You should wear it in your lapel. It would look fantastic against that Medici red.’
    The only hint I have that he’s affected by my actions is the faint tightening around his mouth. ‘I couldn’t possibly,’ he demurs. ‘It’s so becoming in your hair.’
    ‘Oh, but I insist. After all,’ I smile, ‘we’re all friends now.’
    Left with little choice, he takes the little bloom from me, pinching it in between his thumb and forefinger as if he’s afraid it’ll bite. He shoves it into his buttonhole and forces a smile. I cross my fingers, exulting when another of the pavement paparazzi nabs a shot. That’ll look good in the morning papers – Medici wearing Montserrat colours.
    Unfortunately for me, Medici hasn’t finished playing either. He leans across the table, taking my hands in his. For propriety’s sake I resist recoiling, although his touch makes me shudder. My mind flashes to the white pebble in my clutch bag on the table. I hold it in my mind’s eye while Medici goes in for the kill, planting his own mouth firmly on mine. There are delighted shouts and a strobe-light effect as yet more cameras go off.
    I pull away, using every part of my being to resist slapping him round the face – or breaking his slimy neck. Michael’s body is rigid, his fists clenched. He starts to rise from the table and I know that he’s about to punch Medici in the face. It will be a PR nightmare. I stand up hastily and position myself between them.
    ‘That wine has gone right to my head,’ I exclaim loudly. ‘I really don’t feel very well at all. Michael, darling, take me home, will you?’
    I can tell that my words are falling on deaf ears. I know what it’s like to be filled with burning rage; the last time it almost overtook me, Michael brought me back from the brink. It’s time for me to return the favour. I coil my arm round his neck and reach up on my tiptoes to kiss him deeply. He doesn’t immediately respond but I don’t give in. A few seconds later, I feel his body relax against mine. His hands move to my waist and he deepens the kiss. He tastes not only of the wine but something deeper and more masculine.
    I forget about Medici until one of the paparazzi, who somehow managed to sneak inside the restaurant while everyone was preoccupied, takes a photo from inches away. I pull away from Michael, telling myself that my rapid heartbeat is because of the tense situation with Medici, not the kiss.
    ‘That was lovely, darling. It even got rid of the bad taste in my mouth. I still think I should go home though.’ I pat my stomach. ‘I don’t feel quite right.’
    Medici turns to the photographer and bares his fangs. I could swear he’s about to bite the man and I almost hope he does. Vampires are above human law but no one would be able to ignore such a blatant act of aggression. It’s a shame he manages to restrain himself and the hapless journalist escapes. ‘She does look rather pale,’ he comments, as if nothing untoward has