Forbidden Until Midnight

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

New Year’s Eve nine years ago, Munich

S ANTO S ABATINI GAZED about him with such open disdain and barely suppressed irritation that the guests attending the Albrechts’ party were giving him at least a three-foot-wide berth. He scowled again, shrugging into the black tuxedo jacket he disliked intensely. Supposedly the mark of money, Santo only associated the formal attire with the sneering superiority that disguised the kind of wilful ignorance and laziness that turned his stomach.

He would have turned his back on the whole sorry affair, but for one reason. Six years ago he’d made an unbreakable promise, a vow, and nothing and no one would stop him from fulfilling it.

Pietro had been more like a father to him than the bastard that had given him blood, genes and the eyes that stared back at Santo in the mirror every day. The only other thing he’d inherited from his father, after his death, was the Sabatini Group.

‘I don’t want it.’

‘You don’t have a choice, mio figlio,’ his mother had said, tears streaming down a cheek still bruised from his father’s fist.

‘Careful,’ a feline voice warned from behind him. ‘The glass you’re holding so tightly could snap.’

And just like that, Santo released the white-knuckled grip memories had tightened around the champagne flute’s thin stem. The alcohol handed to him upon arrival now at an unappealing room temperature, he paused a passing waiter and swapped the champagne for whisky. Wiping any trace of his thoughts from his features, he turned back to see Marie-Laure taking in the impressive display of opulent Renaissance architecture of the Munich Residenz’s Hall of Antiquities.

‘The Albrechts have outdone themselves this year,’ Marie-Laure observed, unable to hide the lascivious greed in her tone.

Santo took in the changes since he’d first met her five years ago, the year he’d gained entry to the most exclusive event of the financial year that neither Wall Street nor the FTSE had heard of. The year she’d seduced him, aged eighteen, in a baroque bathroom in Dubrovnik. A memorable event he almost wished he could forget. Almost .

Her dyed red hair had taken on more of a brittle aspect but, no matter how she behaved, it was undeniable that Marie-Laure Gerber was a startlingly beautiful woman who wore her sensuality like both a weapon and a shield. And while it hadn’t been his first sexual experience, it had been ironically his most honest. Proved perfectly by the way she had ruthlessly ignored him the following year.

But it would be wrong to mistake Marie-Laure as simply the lonely widow of one of Switzerland’s richest financiers. There was a reason the blundering, bulbous man had reached such dizzying heights before his death; his wife was sharper than honed steel and just as dangerous.

‘Tell me, tesorina , what has your claws out so early this evening?’ Santo asked.

The delighted peal of her laugh was as fake as his term of endearment had been.

‘Rumour has it that Edward Carson’s precious princess of a daughter is making her first appearance.’

Santo’s gut clenched instinctively, but only bland indifference marked his features. ‘Is she?’

Marie-Laure cut a side glance at him, her eyebrow raised. ‘They say she is absolutely exquisite.’

Santo gave a shrug of his shoulder. ‘Not my type,’ he dismissed.

‘They all say that. At first .’ Marie-Laure’s tone took on a diamond-hard edge, before she turned to look out across the hall. ‘The children have been talking of nothing else all evening.’

Santo looked over to where the progeny of the twelve families in attendance had gathered. Or, more accurately, eleven families. He was the last and only descendant of the Sabatinis. And it would remain that way too, he swore.

The group of young twenty-somethings were the heirs of the elite. They would grow up to become the wealth of Europe, the decision-makers of millions. And each and every one of them was a spoilt brat with absolutely no idea of what hard work was.

‘You think I pay even the slightest bit of notice to what they say?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she said, turning back to Santo fully. ‘You don’t. It’s why I like you so much.’

‘You only like cold, sharp, shiny things,’ he dismissed.

‘Exactly,’ she said, patting his chest just above his heart, and left him to stand staring at the group of young men and women whispering and gossiping, a few daring to send a glance his way once in a while.

With barely veiled scorn, he turned back to the gold-embossed display of Renaissance architecture and artwork covering every inch of the large hall. It was gaudy, it was impressive, awesome in the traditional sense of the word and, as much as he disliked every single bit of it, he respected the history of it, he respected history . He had to, in order not to repeat it.

Munich was as beautiful as Helsinki had been the year before and Stockholm had been the year before that. Each New Year’s Eve celebration was held in a different European city, by a different family. But Marie-Laure was right; the Albrechts had outdone themselves this year.

No one outside of the twelve families knew of, or even heard of, what happened here. And not because it was some bacchanalian event shrouded in generations of inherited wealth, hidden behind secret handshakes or cult-like devotion. Even though, deep down, Santo had expected as much the first time he’d attended the event.

No, what happened every year on the thirty-first of December, in a different European city, hosted by each different family, was simply this: the exchange and investment of money for more money.

In essence it was a financial cabal and he hated every single person here. Because they would do anything in order to protect their own financial security, including turning a blind eye to violence and abuse. The exclusivity of this group of people ensured the containment of inconceivable wealth. And it wasn’t lost on him that while Pietro was one of the best men he’d ever met, as the son of an ex-Mafia enforcer he would never be allowed within these hallowed halls, despite the fact that the people here were probably even bigger criminals. No, what mattered nearly as much as the zeros in your bank account to these people was genetics. And those two things made nearly every single person here almost pathologically selfish. And Santo Sabatini knew first-hand just how dangerous that could be.

He swallowed a mouthful of his whisky as the hum of whispers grew louder.

‘She’s here,’ he was just able to make out from the buzz.

Refusing to turn, to succumb to the desire to see her finally, in the flesh, take her place as Edward Carson’s heir, Santo instead remembered the words his mentor had said to him.

‘It’s not easy what I’m asking you. It’s the longest game you’ll ever play,’ Pietro had warned. ‘It may even take years. What I’m asking you is a lifelong commitment, so think carefully before you agree.’

Santo hadn’t needed time. He didn’t doubt what the older man was saying. He understood what he was being asked. He understood that it was a secret that must be kept from everyone. Because it could dramatically change the course of a young woman’s life. But the answer was easy, all the same. After everything Pietro had done for his mother, for him , Santo would give his all to whatever was asked. Even if that meant maintaining his connection to this hideous group of people.

So now, as Eleanor Carson finally emerged into the Hall of Antiquities of the Munich Residenz on New Year’s Eve, the day after her eighteenth birthday, Santo Sabatini prepared to make good on that promise.

‘Look after her, Santo . Protect her.’

‘I will.’

Eleanor Carson gasped the moment she entered the grand hall. She had never seen anything more beautiful in her entire life. Her heart beat so strongly it pressed her chest against the tight bustline of her gold dress.

She had waited years for this moment. Years .

And now she thought she might actually explode with happiness. Eleanor looked at her father, the sparkle in his eyes, the joy on his beloved features, and knew that he was as happy for her as she was. She reached for his hand and squeezed, as he nodded for her to go to join her friends. Throughout all the beautiful and gorgeous celebrations that she’d had yesterday, this had been her real birthday present. She cast a glance back at her mother, something in her gaze catching Eleanor just a little strangely, before it was masked with a smile.

‘Go on,’ her mother said with a kind laugh, and that was all the permission Eleanor needed before she searched out Dilly from amongst the crowd of familiar faces. Friends of the family, school friends from a few years above, the circles she moved in had been tight knit but, now she was eighteen years old, finally, she got to join them here.

Until this moment, the New Year’s Eve parties were known only to Eleanor through rumours and whispers. No one dared speak of what happened here, but the vague details and hints only increased her curiosity to fever pitch. In her mind it had become a fairy tale ball fit for a princess, and looking around the Hall of Antiquities, it was beyond her wildest imagination.

Gold, pale blue, dusky pink and alabaster filled the periphery of her vision, the gentle hum of chatter overlaying the pretty strains from a live orchestra hidden from view. Shivers of absolute joy rippled across her skin and her chest felt as full as if she’d held her breath for an eternity just to be here.

‘Lee!’ she heard Dilly cry from part way across the room and couldn’t help but laugh at the friend she hadn’t seen since she’d graduated a year earlier than Eleanor, last July.

‘Oh, I am so glad to see you,’ Eleanor said, allowing herself to be swept up in Dilly’s warm embrace.

‘Me too! It has been positively dull here without you,’ Dilly confided. ‘You look absolutely delicious—all the boys are having conniptions .’

Eleanor batted at her friend’s arm. ‘Don’t be silly.’

‘I’m not!’ Dilly cried, before tucking her hand into the curve of her arm. ‘Come, let me give you the tour,’ she said, pulling Eleanor towards the far end of the hall. ‘The Albrechts are hosting this year. Next year, it’s going to be the Pichlers in Vienna, which will be equally, if not more , impressive than this,’ Dilly confided.

Eleanor didn’t think it could get even better than this, but kept that to herself.

‘And how are the family? Mater and Pater?’

‘They’re good,’ Eleanor said with a smile, and remembered her younger brother’s sulking frown as they’d left him in the hotel before his bedtime.

‘But I want to come with you.’

‘Not until you’re eighteen, like Ellie,’ her father had said.

‘I’ll say. Your father’s just done a spectacular deal with the Müllers, he should be on cloud nine,’ exclaimed Dilly.

‘They celebrated all last night,’ Eleanor confirmed, with a secret thread of pride. She’d spent weeks listening to her father negotiate the deal, her nails almost bitten to the quick, because she had suggested the deal. Oh, she wasn’t na?ve, she knew that her father would never do anything he didn’t want to do, but she had suggested it. And he had thought it was a good idea. And secretly she hoped that would help him begin to see that she really did want to study business at university. That she wanted to follow in his footsteps one day. Oh, the business would be passed to Freddie, she knew that. But...she might be able to be a part of that business too.

They came to the far end of the incredible hall and turned, so that the entire room was on display.

‘Okay,’ Dilly announced. ‘As you know, no one from outside the families are allowed. It’s the one night of the year where everyone can just be themselves without worrying about political enemies or financial repercussions.’

Eleanor nodded. The impossible exclusivity and secrecy surrounding the New Year’s Eve gatherings had always been what had made her want to attend so much.

‘Now, over by the tables, you should probably be able to recognise some familiar faces.’

Eleanor’s gaze found a pair of deep brown eyes joining with hers, under a mop of rich blond hair and lips that had curved into a smile. Her heart beat just a little quicker, recognising Antony Fairchild.

‘Of course, you know Tony already.’

‘I wouldn’t say I know him,’ Eleanor confessed.

‘Looks like he knows you though,’ Dilly teased with a nudge of her shoulder.

Eleanor felt her cheeks pink under the older boy’s perusal. He’d been a few years ahead of her at Sandrilling—the boarding school on the outskirts of London that many of the children of the families gathered here had attended. She’d not thought that he’d even known her name, but the way he was still looking at her made her heart trip over itself.

Unable to stop an answering smile from curving her own mouth, she allowed Dilly to pull her attention back with a roll of her eyes.

‘Smitten already?’ Dilly asked.

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ she replied, a wry smile on her lips.

Eleanor looked across the hall and from amongst the nearly two hundred people gathered in the glorious hall found her parents talking to the Fairchilds, her mother looking a little distracted. Unease twisted in Eleanor’s gut. Her mother hadn’t wanted her to come tonight, but Eleanor didn’t know why. For years, all Eleanor had wanted was to be a part of this. To be part of the world her parents kept hidden from her. The glamour, the exclusivity, the secrecy ... Being here meant they trusted her with that and it was as much a signifier of adulthood as her eighteenth birthday. Now her life could really begin.

Dilly was distracted by something over Eleanor’s shoulder. ‘Give me two secs? I’ll be right back.’

Eleanor didn’t mind one bit. She’d actually been hoping for a moment to herself, just to take it all in. It was so much more than she’d expected. The noise was quite something from a crowd of nearly two hundred or so guests. A couple passed in front of her, forcing her to take a step back out of the way and to bump up against something hard.

Someone.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, turning to see who she’d crashed into.

Horror filled her as she took in the sight of a dark-haired man staring down at the amber stain soaking into his white shirt.

‘Oh, no, I’m so sorry!’ she exclaimed, reaching quickly for some napkins on the side table beside them and pressing them against the spilled alcohol in the hope of limiting the damage.

The moment that her hand met his chest the man moved back, his arms raised, as if to avoid any possible contact with her. But no matter the distance, the simmering anger in the man’s gaze was palpable.

She bit her lips together and raised her eyes from the man’s chest to his face and then stopped. Everything stopped. The brief flick of the man’s gaze to hers and then back to his shirt was all it had taken to strike her still.

Rich, dark, sumptuous curling hair covered a head that was bent to stare down at his now ruined shirt. But even then, she could tell that he was nearly a foot taller than her in her heels. The sharp lines of his cheekbones and patrician nose led her gaze down to near cruelly sensual lips that sent a shiver down her spine. A delicious one.

But it was the bright aquamarine of his eyes that struck her hardest. They were unexpected, against the clear Mediterranean stamp of his heritage. Greece maybe, Italy more likely. She was caught staring when he looked up and held her gaze when most would have looked away. She should have looked away. She would have, but for the moment when she thought that she saw something other than disdain in his gaze, but then he snatched the napkins from the hand that had dropped to her side and dabbed ineffectually at his ruined shirt.

‘I really am—’

‘Sorry, yes. I heard you the first time. And the second.’

Shame and embarrassment coloured her cheeks a hot pink. She felt gauche, foolish and a little childish next to this man.

But that was no excuse for bad manners. Shaking herself out of it, she put on her best smile and held out her hand.

‘Eleanor Carson,’ she said by way of introduction.

Santo hadn’t intended to actually have to speak to her. He’d thought, na?vely perhaps, that he might be able to keep watch over her from afar. So this awkward exchange had certainly not been a part of his plans.

As she stared up at him, her face strangely determined, he took a moment to take in the ‘exquisite’ Eleanor Carson. Oh, he could understand what had got the younger generation’s knickers in a twist. Eleanor Carson would grow up to be quite a beautiful young woman, he was sure. Dark hair swept back stylishly from skin as pale as milk. Her eyes, a deep brown, were almost infuriatingly innocent. An innocence he’d never had the luxury of.

Her dress made the most of it, of course. Never one to be particularly interested in women’s fashion, other than when he was taking it off his chosen companion, he supposed it suited her. Little puff sleeves capped her shoulders...his eyes skimming over a simple neckline and a corseted top...before flaring out into wide skirts, the entire thing made of a golden material that made him think of long-forgotten fairy tales.

But he had stared too long and just as he held out his hand, hers dropped away. He bit his teeth together, intensely disliking the awkwardness of the entire encounter, and waited. Belatedly recovering herself, she met his hand with her fingers, which left him fairly sure that the Carson girl was disappointingly insipid.

‘Isn’t it just incredible?’ she asked, full of a wholly unwarranted exuberance.

He stared at her blankly, her observation only more evidence against her.

‘It’s my first time here,’ she confided, pressing on despite his clear disinclination to pursue this conversation. He wondered absently what other inane observation she might be capable of, and looked away when she blushed beneath his scrutiny.

‘Would never have known,’ he uttered beneath his breath, snagging a fresh glass of whisky from a passing waiter, more than a little frustrated that he would spend the rest of the night smelling like a distillery.

Before the waiter could disappear, Eleanor beckoned him over and whispered something in the young man’s ear. The eagerness of the boy—probably the same age as her—was almost pitiful. He nodded and rushed off.

She’d probably ordered some frothy cocktail that disguised any offending taste of alcohol.

He opened his mouth to make an excuse to leave, but Eleanor pushed on determinedly.

‘I’ve not been to Munich before. I’m hoping that there will be some time to see it before we leave, the day after tomorrow. Have you? Are there any attractions you could suggest?’

He turned back to face her full on, with a raised eyebrow that was sure to convey his disbelief that she would actually be asking him for tourist spot recommendations.

Once again, he attempted to excuse himself.

‘Because, honestly,’ she pressed on, not giving him the chance, ‘I quite like looking around cities when they’re quiet. It’s as if you get to see something that no one else does. And tomorrow, I’d imagine most people will be still in bed, or nursing a hangover so...’

She trailed off, having seen something while Santo was still trying to make sense of the image he now had of Eleanor wandering along isolated streets just before sunrise.

‘Oh, thank you,’ she said to the waiter, who had returned and passed her a bag before leaving.

Eleanor turned back to Santo. ‘This is for you. It should fit. It obviously won’t be as nice as the one I ruined, but at least it won’t be stained. Or smell,’ she added with a smile that was near delightful. She bobbed her head, wished him a good rest of the evening and disappeared, leaving him holding a bag with a cellophane-wrapped white shirt, quite unsure as to what had just happened.

‘Wait,’ he called before he could stop himself.

She turned back, just a few feet from where he stood, a small smile on her face. It was a Mona Lisa smile—not fake or forced, but as if she knew she’d surprised him. Because he hadn’t thought her capable of the kind of awareness that was required not only to recompense him for the damage to his shirt, but more than that, to do it in such a way that it had been subtle, seamless. Anyone else here would have simply shrugged it off and left him to it.

‘Santo Sabatini,’ he offered.

‘Nice to meet you, Mr Sabatini,’ she said, a broad, almost beautiful, smile stretching across her features, before disappearing into the crowd, leaving a feeling turning in his chest that lasted for much longer than Santo was comfortable with.

As Eleanor made her way back to Dilly and the group she was with, she couldn’t help but feel a fizz of excitement humming through her veins. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder to where Santo Sabatini—Italian, most definitely—was still staring after her. Her heart fluttered a little. It had hardly been anything, but something about surprising him had pleased her.

She risked another glance, but this time he was gone, and that pleasure dimmed just a bit. Dilly welcomed her back into the group and pulled her to her side, next to Tony Fairchild. Eleanor smiled shyly at him when he turned to make room for her.

He caught her up on the conversation, an argument about whether one of the boys in the group should invest with another. Eleanor let the conversation flow around them until there was a lull.

‘Dilly, what do you know about Santo Sabatini?’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Best to stay away from him. His father died about six years ago and the ugly rumours are that Santo was there .’

The way that Dilly said ‘there’ seemed to imply involved rather than present , and Eleanor found herself frowning at the thought. Had she got it so wrong? Was Santo Sabatini actually dangerous? She didn’t think she’d felt that he was.

‘But he inherited the Sabatini Group—the biggest privately held company in Italy—at just eighteen and even though some of the families tried to group together to buy it from him, he refused.’

‘He’s a pompous git,’ Tony added. Eleanor started just a little, not aware he’d been listening to their conversation. But he caught her gaze and rolled his eyes in a joking way, becoming the handsome, charming rake she remembered from school. He closed the distance between them to say, ‘But don’t mind him. He doesn’t usually bother us much.’

Eleanor nodded eagerly as he took her arm and pulled her to his side, and when he smiled at her she felt a little flutter and thought that she was the luckiest girl here.

And by the time the clock struck midnight she’d forgotten all thoughts of the tall, brooding Italian and believed that perhaps, just like the fairy tales she’d loved so much, she had met her very own Prince Charming in Antony Fairchild. And the way that his eyes sparkled at her, she began to hope that it was more than just a fantasy.