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‘Thanks, Iz. You’re the best.’

Issy felt the edges of the credit card digging into her hand, and pushed away her feelings of guilt. I don’t have a choice, she told herself again. She would return it before anyone even noticed it was gone, as soon as she got paid.

Brad Redford would never know her shameful secret.

Lucia de Santis stretched languorously in her emperor-sized bed, pulling up her silk eye mask and blinking her long lashes as she adjusted to the pale daylight. She rolled to her side and checked the time on the clock: 10 a.m. Perfect. She wasn’t due in rehearsals until the afternoon, which gave her plenty of time to find some fun and cause a little mischief, she thought wickedly.

Lucia picked up the receiver on the ivory-coloured phone beside her bed and called her butler, requesting a hot water with lemon served in a bone-china teacup. Then she swung her long, tanned legs out from beneath the Egyptian cotton sheets, her bare feet landing on the soft carpet woven with the hotel’s insignia, and padded across her suite.

She was wearing a silk negligee and loved the way the material felt on her body, sliding sensually over her bare skin. Lucia caught a glimpse of herself in the enormous rococo mirror on the wall and was pleased with what she saw: a youthful, curvaceous body, her breasts full and gravity-defying. Any man would be lucky to have her, she thought, then her mood darkened as she remembered that the one man she wanted wasn’t returning her calls.

Turning angrily from her reflection, Lucia strode over to the window and threw open the curtains, taking in the extraordinary view across the lagoon. Venice was wreathed in fog, but shafts of sunlight were trying to break through, illuminating pockets of the city and beaming down on churches and palazzi. Lucia breathed on the cold window, causing a circle of condensation; she wrote her name with the tip of her finger, then encircled it in a heart, laughing at her own silliness.

Lucia wondered idly if there were any paparazzi lurking in the hotel grounds below. They would get a great shot: La Leonessa, staring distantly from her bedroom window, her semi-sheer negligee clinging to her incredible body and leaving little to the imagination. Lucia couldn’t see any photographers, realizing with disappointment that the White Palace had done an excellent job of preserving their guests’ privacy.

There was a soft knock at the door, then it opened cautiously, and Massimo, the personal butler provided by the hotel, entered the room carrying a tea tray.

‘Buongiorno, Signora de Santis,’ he said smoothly, averting his eyes from her state of undress. ‘Your breakfast—’

‘Leave it on the coffee table,’ Lucia instructed.

‘Of course. I brought you the papers too,’ Massimo added, laying them out beside the tea tray.

‘Grazie mille,’ Lucia purred, casting an eye over the display, gratified to see that her photograph was on the front page of all of them, and that she looked like a movie star arriving at the White Palace on the speedboat.

‘Will there be anything else?’ Massimo asked, carefully focusing on the wall behind Lucia, ensuring his gaze didn’t land anywhere it shouldn’t.

‘No …’ she hesitated, ‘Actually, maybe you can do something else for me. Who is the tall woman, with honey-blonde hair, she was watching when I came into the hotel.’ Lucia resisted saying how attractive Gina was, the thought that anyone else was beautiful only irritated her.

Massimo cocked his head to the side. ‘Gina Bellini? She is our head concierge …’

‘Gina Bellini …’ Lucia rolled the name around in her mouth. ‘What do you know about her?’

‘Gina? She doesn’t talk much about her private life, if that’s what you mean. I don’t think she is married.’ He shrugged.

‘She is not Venetian.’ Lucia said this as a statement rather than a question.

Massimo shook his head, ‘No, she was not born here, I know that, but where, I’m not sure …’ He trailed off. ‘Somewhere in the mountains, I think.’ A memory flashed across his face. ‘She told me once her family used to grow all their own food in their village.’

Somewhere in the mountains … interesting.

‘That is all, you can go now.’

‘Of course, Signora de Santis.’ He gave a half-bow and retreated quickly.

Lucia picked up her cup and took a sip of the hot water and lemon. It was boring but necessary. Lucia might be one of life’s rule breakers, but she wouldn’t take chances where her voice was concerned. She knew that it was her golden ticket, the gift that had catapulted her from poverty into a glamorous, rarefied world. Lucia was wild and reckless – but she wasn’t a fool.

She swept through to the second bedroom – the one she’d taken over as her dressing room – and smiled as she saw her Carnevale dress abandoned on the floor, where she’d stepped out of it as she came through the door late last night. It was her favourite shade of red, the colour La Leonessa was famous for wearing, and it was decorated with black lace. She had looked spectacular, wearing a half-face mask that made it obvious who she was; she certainly didn’t intend to conceal her identity, and wanted everyone to recognize her.

It had been a wonderful evening. Lucia had been the guest of honour at a ball thrown by Andrea Domingo, the artistic director of La Fenice, who knew what a coup it was getting La Leonessa to perform in her home region, and she had been celebrated accordingly. Lucia had been wined and dined, photographed everywhere she went, hounded by autograph hunters and feted by her adoring public. And she’d loved every single second. For Lucia de Santis, attention was as vital as oxygen.

Unfortunately, the one person she really wanted to hear from was ignoring her existence. She picked up her mobile to check – no missed calls – and threw it down in anger. Fortunately, it landed on the soft sofa; she’d already broken three in the past few months by hurling them at walls and, on one memorable occasion, at an eye-wateringly expensive Lalique crystal vase, which shattered on impact.

Davide Bruno. Lucia whispered his name, feeling its taste on her tongue. She wanted to moan at the sound of his name. Even the mere thought of him sent delicious sparks of electricity shooting through her body. The press thought that she was having an affair with Gerard Depardieu, but he was little more than a useful decoy.

Davide Bruno was the real deal. He was an art-house director who’d produced some of the most celebrated indie movies of the past decade, even winning an Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film. His movies were intelligent, thought-provoking and incredibly sexy, pushing the boundaries between art and cinema. Lucia was intoxicated by him. He was handsome, charming, a creative genius … and married.

Lucia finished her hot water and stepped out of her slip, leaving it in a silken pile on the floor. Someone else would pick it up later. She strode naked into the bathroom and stepped into the walk-in shower, enveloped by clouds of steam which were excellent for her vocal cords. She began to soap her body slowly with Acqua di Parma, slowly, sensually, wishing that Davide was there to do that for her. They’d had an incredible time in the oversized bathtub at The Plaza in New York; even now, the memories sent shivers of pleasure right through her.