Then she saw the reason, and her fingers tightened into a vise around the fragile stem of her wineglass. As the crowd shifted, she saw Francesca di Paoli enter to stand at Steve’s side, a hand on his arm as she leaned close to whisper into his ear.

Diamonds glittered in the Italian singer’s hair and on her earlobes and around her neck, reflecting lamplight in sparkling-hued rainbows. She was slim and very beautiful, with the pale skin of a madonna and classically oval features set off by large, flashing dark eyes and thick masses of glossy, dark-brown hair coiled at the back of her small head. She radiated arrogance and confidence in her appeal to men—especially the man on her arm.

Fury clogged Ginny’s throat and burned her eyes, but she forced herself to remain outwardly calm as she lifted her wineglass and sipped the smoky, brisk wine that did nothing to cool her rising temper.

Garbed in a snowy brocade fitted to her voluptuous curves, di Paoli ignored everyone but Steve, her attention trained on his handsome face. Paco Davis, Steve’s old friend and longtime partner, had told Ginny about her, admitting without words the intimacy of the Italian singer’s relationship with Steve, as if she had not already known it. Hadn’t she seen newspapers touting them as a couple? Yes, and though it had been when she was entangled with Prince Ivan Sahrkanov, she had still been furious with Steve for flaunting the Italian diva so openly.

Apparently, he had not severed their relationship.

How difficult it was to break old habits. Would Steve resist the obvious allure of di Paoli? After all, he had once told her that Francesca was more of a friend to him than anyone had ever been. That taunt had rankled for a long time. It still did.

Foregoing the temptation to react rashly, Ginny ignored her aunt’s worried glances and instead turned to the dowager at her side, chatting casually as if nothing were amiss.

Behind the flutter of a jewelled fan, the dowager’s eyes sparkled with open curiosity, but her conversation was as mundane as afternoon tea.

“I understand that your husband is from Mexico, is he not, Mrs. Morgan?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Odd, he certainly doesn’t look very Mexican, though he is rather dark complected. All that bright sunshine in Mexico, I would think. It is hot there, I understand.”

“Yes, it is very sunny in Mexico, and warm. And my husband is only half-Mexican. His father was American.”

“Ah, I see,” the dowager commented, and her shrewd eyes shifted to the little group dominated by Steve and Francesca that stood by the portico. “Do you attend the opera often, Mrs. Morgan?”