Massimo hadn’t called since they got back from New York, but Victoria wasn’t panicking – yet. If that’s what it took for him to win his divorce case, to come out with his fortune intact, she was not going to throw a spanner in the works. He’d be back when he wanted her – and she’d made damn sure, during those coke-fuelled New York nights, that he wanted her, and all she could do for him. He loved her. He told her so repeatedly, rhythmically, sometimes while banging an eager twenty-something under her very nose. And he meant it. Of that, Victoria was sure.

‘Would you say she is a habitual drug user?’

‘I don’t know . . . I don’t like the word “habit”. It sounds like a junkie in the street.’

‘There’s very little difference between the models taking cocaine to keep their weight down and the addicts injecting in the park. They’re all part of the same depressing criminal network.’

‘You take a hard line on this sort of thing,’ said Rivelli.’

‘Of course. Do you?’

‘In the circles I move in, it’s hard to avoid.’

‘I see,’ said Christine. ‘And does your wife know about this?’

‘About what?’

‘Your drug use.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’

‘Once again we encounter that concept that you seem to find so difficult to grasp – the truth.’

‘But you disapprove of everything! You bloody English woman!’

‘I assure you that I do not. It may surprise you to know that there are some things that I actually enjoy. A nice cup of tea and a crossword, for example. Or a spot of knitting. I mean, we English women can get pretty wild sometimes.’

They stared at each other across the green leather desktop. Rivelli sighed, shook his head and laughed.

‘I see I must do as I am told.’

‘It would save an awful lot of time.’

‘Very well, mistress.’

‘I am not your mistress, Mr Rivelli. The question is, is Victoria Crabtree?’

A formal offer from Rivelli Srl came through a few days after that prickly encounter with Fiona Walker. He would take Cissé under exclusive licence at very advantageous terms, manufacturing all Isabelle’s designs and sending them out with that all-important ‘Made in Italy’ label inside them. In return, Rivelli Srl would enhance its reputation in the fashion world for signing up the hottest new designers just before they became world famous. Everyone was happy, doubts were swept away and Will made damn sure that everyone in the business knew about it.

‘And now,’ Will said to Isabelle when they had signed the contracts, ‘the final piece of the jigsaw is in place. World domination is within our grasp.’

‘It makes my head ache.’

‘Never you mind, Princess. I’ll take care of everything. Watch the money-go-round. This time next year . . .’

‘Don’t say it! It’s bad luck!’