Читать книгу Champagne Summer - India Grey - Страница 12

TAMSIN gave a low moan of despair as she looked at her reflection in the big, cruelly lit mirror.

The lighting in the ladies’ loo at Twickenham might be designed for functionality rather than flattery, but there was no doubt that the face that looked back at her was a mess. Mortuary-pale, with matching white lips, the only hint of colour came from the bluish shadows beneath her bloodshot eyes. It wasn’t a good look.

Right at that moment she would rather face a firing squad—than photographers and journalists from the sports desk of every major national and special-interest publication in the country, but she didn’t have much choice. Her father, along with members of the England management, was waiting for her, and he would expect her presentation to be seamless.

With a shaking hand she dabbed some lipstick onto her pale, numb lips and pressed them together, remembering with a slice of sudden breathtaking pain how they’d swelled and burned beneath Alejandro’s kiss last night as the blood from his torn mouth had crimsoned them.

No.

She couldn’t go there now, not when she had to get out there and look like a poised professional instead of the creature from the crypt. It was absolutely not the time to revisit the ground she had worn bare throughout the long hours of the night as she had asked herself the same question over and over again.

Why had she been so stupid?

Letting him humiliate and reject her once was bad enough. Giving him the opportunity to do it a second time … Well, that was nothing short of insanity. And yet, at the time she had been powerless to stop it. It was as if, the moment he’d left her shivering in the freezing darkness of the orangery at Harcourt, she had shut down and had gone into a state of mental suspended-animation. She remembered reading somewhere that extreme shock could do that to people. For six years she had gone about her life, looking for all the world like a normal person, a perfectly healthy, successful young woman, so that even those closest to her—even Serena—had no idea that beneath the surface she was frozen. A stopped clock.

Until last night.

Putting the lid back on the lipstick, she threw it into her bag and pressed her palms to her cheeks as tears smarted in her eyes again. Big girls don’t cry: that was what her father always said. By the time Tamsin had been born Serena, two years older, had already cornered the market on ‘pretty and feminine’. Tamsin did ‘tough’ instead, and Henry had accepted her as the son he’d never had. Tears were for babies, he’d told her, and Tamsin had learned very early to hold them in.

Last night had been a minor blip—well, quite a major blip, actually—but she was back on track today. She stepped back, taking a deep breath and giving herself one last look in the mirror before heading back out there. As a designer, her clothes were about so much more than fashion, both mirroring her mood and influencing it. The way she dressed always made a statement, and today’s severe black trouser-suit said very loudly ‘don’t mess with me’. The four-inch heels she wore with it added, ‘or I’ll smash your face in’.

The noise from the press room spilled out along the corridor as she left the sanctuary of the ladies’, a loud babble of conversation, as rowdy and excited as the bar on match day. Tamsin shuddered. Right now it sounded good-natured enough, but she had a horrible feeling that in a few minutes it could turn into the sound of a pack of journalists baying for her blood.

‘Ah, there you are, Tamsin. We were waiting.’ Henry Calthorpe looked at his watch as he came towards her. ‘Is everything all right?’

Tamsin summoned a smile. It felt like strapping on armour plating. ‘Everything’s fine, Daddy,’ she said ruefully. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘No reason.’ Henry was already moving away. ‘You look pale, that’s all. But if you’re ready let’s get started.’

The noise level in the press room rocketed as they filed in. The cameras started whirring and journalists got to their feet, keen to get their questions answered.

Boards showing life-size images of the players lined up at the start of yesterday’s game had been placed behind the long table at the front of the room. Taking a seat right in front of Matt Fitzpatrick’s hulking figure in the picture, Tamsin found herself sitting between her father and Alan Moss, the team physio. He was there to comment on the effect the techno-fabric of the new strip was expected to have on the players’ physical performance, but he’d also come in very handy if she passed out, Tamsin thought shakily, picking up the pen that had been left on the table in front of her and starting to sketch.

Henry introduced them all, saying a few brief words about each person’s role in the new team. When he reached Tamsin, the reporters seemed to strain forwards, like greyhounds in the stalls the moment before the start of the race.

‘As you may be aware, Tamsin Calthorpe won the commission to design the new strip, as well as the off-field formal attire of the team.’

‘Surprise, surprise!’ shouted someone from the back. ‘I wonder how that happened?’

Outrage fizzed through Tamsin’s bloodstream. Instantly her spine was ramrod straight, her fingers tightening convulsively around the pen in her hand as her body’s primitive ‘fight or flight’ instinct homed in on the former option. Forcing a grim smile, she looked into the glittering dazzle of flashbulbs in front of her.

‘It happened thanks to my degree in textiles and my experience designing for my own label, Coronet.’ She didn’t quite manage to keep the edge of steel from her voice. ‘I believe there were three other designers competing for the commission, and the selection process was entirely based on ideas submitted for the brief.’

‘But why did you put yourself forward?’ someone at the front persisted. ‘You’re best known for designing evening dresses worn by celebrities on the red carpet. It’s quite a leap from that to top-level sports kit, wouldn’t you say?’

She’d been expecting this question, and yet the hostility of the tone in which it was asked seriously got to her. She wondered if the microphone just in front of her was picking up the ominous thud of her heart.

‘Absolutely,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘And that was exactly why I wanted the commission. I’d built up my own label from nothing, and I was ready for the next challenge.’

‘Was it the challenge you wanted, or the money? Rumour has it that the recent spate of high-street copies has hit Coronet hard.’

Tamsin felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. The bright lights of the cameras made it hard to see anything beyond the front row, but that was probably just as well. Lying was easier if you didn’t have to make eye contact.

‘Coronet’s designs are as in demand as ever,’ she said coldly. ‘My business partner, Sally Fielding, is already handling requests for next year’s Oscars and BAFTAs.’

All that was true. Sally had been approached by several stylists in Hollywood and London, but, since all of them expected dresses to be donated for nothing more than the kudos of seeing them on the red carpet, it didn’t help Coronet’s cash flow. But there was no time to dwell on that now. If she let her focus lapse for a second this lot would tear her limb from limb.

‘Would you agree that your background as a womenswear designer had an obvious influence on this commission?’ another voice asked.

Thank goodness; a straightforward question.

Tamsin was just about to answer when the speaker continued, assuming an outrageously camp tone. ‘The oversized rose-motif and the dewdrops on the rugby shirts are simply to die for, aren’t they?’

A ripple of laughter went around the room. Tamsin’s patience was stretched almost to its limit.

‘Maybe it might be an issue for any guys who aren’t quite confident about their masculinity,’ she said sweetly. ‘Fortunately, that doesn’t include any of the team. The dewdrops, as you call them, are small rubberised dots that maximize grip for line-outs and scrums. But you’re right—my background in couture has been influential. The starting point for any design is the fabric, and this was no different. Working in association with Alan here, and experts in the States, we sourced some of the most technologically advanced fabrics in the world.’

The room was quieter now. People were listening, scribbling things down as she spoke. A bolt of elation shot through her. ‘We started with tightly fitting base-layer garments beneath the outer kit,’ she continued, her voice gaining strength. This was safe ground. Whatever poisonous comments people could make about who she was or where she came from, no one could say she didn’t know her subject. ‘These are made from a fabric which actually improves the oxygenation of the blood by absorbing negative ions from the player’s skin. It also prevents lactic acid build up, improving performance and stamina.’

‘So why did England lose yesterday?’ someone sneered from the back.

Because Alejandro D’Arienzo was playing for the opposition.

Tamsin’s mouth was open, and for a terrible moment she thought she’d actually said that out loud. Casting a surreptitious, panicky glance around, she realised that the cameras were now pointing at the coach, who was talking about form, injury and training. Thank goodness. She picked up the mini bottle of water from the table in front of her and took a long mouthful, grateful for a moment of reprieve. On the pad in front of her she’d unconsciously been sketching the outline of an elongated female figure, and looking at it now she felt a wave of anguish. All the critics were right, she thought miserably, adding a drapey flourish of fabric falling from one shoulder of the figure. She didn’t belong here. She should be back in the studio with all the team, working on next autumn’s collection.

The pen faltered in her hand as dread prickled the back of her neck. If the business was still going then. The RFU commission had helped appease the bank a bit, but …

She gave a small start, dimly aware of Alan’s gentle nudge. ‘Tamsin? This one’s for you.’

She blinked and looked ahead into the gloom beyond the dazzle of the camera lights. ‘Sorry? Could you repeat the question, please?’

‘Of course. I wondered—’ the voice was leisurely, unhurried. ‘—did you encounter any particular problems in the production of the strip?’

A hand seemed to close around her throat so that for a moment she could hardly breathe, much less answer. There was no mistaking that deep, mocking, husky voice with its hint of Spanish sensuality. ‘No,’ she said sharply, her eyes raking the darkness, trying to locate him.

‘None at all?’

He stepped forward, people standing around the edges of the room beyond the rows of chairs moving aside to let him through. His eyes, bruised and shadowed, burned into hers with laser-like intensity that belied the lazy challenge in his voice, and Tamsin noticed with a thud of sheer horror that in his hand he held the shirt.

The missing number-ten shirt.

The treacherous, sadistic, ruthless, vindictive bastard. For a moment she was speechless with loathing. He was trying to force her to admit, in front of people who were already cynical enough about her ability, that she had messed up.

As if he hadn’t humiliated her enough.

‘No,’ she repeated coolly, lifting her chin and meeting his gaze head-on. ‘I was lucky that the manufacturing team was excellent, and the whole production process was very straightforward. When working with very specialised fabrics like these, technical problems with dye or finishes are almost to be expected, but in this instance I managed to anticipate all potential issues and as a result there were no problems at all.’

There. She stared defiantly at him, daring him to say anything to the contrary. After all, if he did, that would betray the fact that he had inside information, which would be an extremely unwise move to make in front of a room full of journalists.

Tamsin’s heart was pounding. She watched him glance down at the shirt in his hand, and back up again. Back at her. His face was like stone.

‘I see. You had an excellent team. Does that mean that your involvement in this commission was merely nominal?’

‘No, it does not,’ she said in a low, fierce voice. Beside her, Tamsin heard her father make a sharp sound of impatience and disgust, and was aware of him leaning over to whisper something to the RFU official on his other side. She knew that at the smallest signal from her he would summon security to remove Alejandro D’Arienzo from the room, but the knowledge gave her no satisfaction. She didn’t want him to go anywhere before she’d made him see that she was more than just a dizzy, vacant heiress playing at having a grown-up job.

‘In that case,’ said Alejandro smoothly, ‘may I assume that you’re available for other commissions of a similar kind?’

‘What do you mean?’

The rest of the room was watching—waiting with the same morbid fascination that make people slow down when they passed a road accident, Tamsin thought bitterly. She felt like a cat who had been lured into the lion’s cage at the zoo and was about to be devoured in front of a crowd of avid onlookers.

‘Miss Calthorpe—sorry, Lady Calthorpe.’ Alejandro’s voice was husky, seductive, eminently reasonable. Only she could sense the barbs beneath the silk. ‘You’ve convinced us all that you won this contract fairly and have been single-handedly responsible for seeing it through every stage from design to completion. I’m sure I’m not alone in admiring the results of your work.’ There was a murmur of grudging assent from the rows of reporters. Tamsin felt irritation prickle up her spine as she noticed the rapt expressions on their faces as they looked up at Alejandro. ‘I’m one of the sponsors of Los Pumas—the Argentine rugby team,’ he was saying, ‘And I’d like to invite you to redesign their strip for their relaunch next season.’

A moment ago they’d been preparing to lynch her, but one word from their hero and they were rolling over like puppies. It was sickening.

‘I—sorry?’

Tamsin’s head snapped round to look in bewilderment at her father as her mouth opened in astonishment. She should have been paying closer attention. For a moment there she thought he’d just asked her to design the Pumas strip, but surely she’d misheard?

Henry Calthorpe cleared his throat importantly. His voice was utterly dismissive. ‘I’m afraid that would be impossible. Tamsin’s schedule is booked up for months in advance, although I’m sure if you put your request in writing …’

A low, derisive murmur went around the room as the reporters shifted in their seats and looked meaningfully at each other, sensing carnage. But Tamsin was oblivious to everything but Alejandro. His dark, handsome face wore the look of a pirate king who had just forced the damsel in distress to walk right to the end of the plank.

There was nowhere for her to go, and he knew it. It was a case of give in, or give up. If she refused him now, it would make everything she’d just said sound like a lie.

Tamsin didn’t give in easily, but she knew when she was outmanoeuvred. She forced herself to look straight at him, but it was more than she was capable of to manage a smile as well.

‘I’d be absolutely delighted, Mr D’Arienzo.’

So, Tamsin Calthorpe had talent, of that there was no doubt. Whether it extended into the field of design, or was simply confined to deception and dishonesty remained to be seen.

Alejandro pushed through the crowd of journalists, many of whom had now turned in his direction to pick up on the unexpectedly juicy twist the story had just taken. Ignoring them, he made straight for the door through which the RFU officials, with Tamsin amongst them, had just disappeared.

He saw her straight away, deep in conversation with her father at the far end of the room where croissants and coffee were set out on a table. If that severe black trouser-suit was supposed to make her look grown up and professional, she’d got it completely wrong, he thought sourly. She just seemed absurdly young; far too thin and somehow …

Ah. Of course.

Vulnerable.

Silly of him to be so slow on the uptake. That was exactly the effect she must have been going for.

As he crossed the room towards them, he watched her put a hand on her father’s arm, as if restraining him. Deliberately he avoided looking at Henry Calthorpe, instead focusing on his daughter. She was very pale—he’d thought before that was just the harsh TV lighting—but he could see now that she looked as if she were about to pass out. Could it be that he’d finally managed to shake the oh-so-secure world of Lady Tamsin?

Leaving Henry’s side, she came over to him. She was trembling, he noticed with a twisting sensation deep in his gut.

‘I hope you’re satisfied.’

‘Extremely,’ he said in an offhand tone. ‘I’ve just secured the services of an extremely talented designer who’s apparently booked up for the foreseeable future. Now all I need is a cup of coffee and my day would be made.’

Her fine eyebrows rose. He could almost see the sparks of hostility that seemed to electrify the air around her. ‘Secured? I’m sorry—shouldn’t that be blackmailed?’

Alejandro laughed. ‘You’ve been watching too many films. Or did I miss the part when someone held a knife to your throat?’

‘You know what I mean,’ she hissed, looking swiftly around her, as if checking to see if anyone was listening, and taking a step towards him. ‘You know that there’s no way I could refuse out there, with the world’s press just waiting for a chance to tear me to ribbons.’

With some effort Alejandro kept his face and his voice completely blank. Her clean, floral scent as she moved closer gave him a sudden flashback to last night, and how it had felt to kiss her. His lip, swollen and bruised this morning, throbbed at the memory.

‘Refuse? Now why would you want to do that?’

‘Because I cannot and will not work for someone I don’t respect.’

He moved past her, and with complete insouciance began pouring coffee from the cafetière on the table into a china cup. ‘Oh dear,’ he drawled. ‘Well, you’d better get over the artistic-diva tantrums, because by tomorrow morning every paper is going to be carrying the story of how England’s up and coming celebrity designer is off to Argentina to work her creative magic on the Pumas.’ He turned back to her, leaning against the table as he took a thoughtful sip of coffee. ‘Unless of course you’d like me to call some contacts and tell them you’ve reconsidered—’

‘Argentina?’ Her eyes widened in horror, ‘Who said anything about Argentina?’

For a split second she looked so scared that Alejandro almost felt sorry for her. Almost. But the memory of what she’d done to him six years ago burned like his split lip. It was her turn to be sorry now.

‘Did you really think I would bring the whole team over here? That may be how people in Tamsin’s world usually operate, but you’re going to have to get used to a whole new way of doing things, sweetheart.’

Watching her eyes darken from emerald to the dark, opaque green of yew trees in winter, he waited for the storm to break. He had seen from the little firework display last night when she’d tried to hit him that Lady Tamsin had a formidable temper, and wondered what she would do now. Scream? Throw something? Or turn to Daddy for help?

She tilted her chin, her blistering hostility cleverly cloaked in ice-cold nonchalance. Alejandro was grudgingly impressed at her restraint.

‘Why are you doing this to me?’

‘To you?’ he said very quietly. ‘Oh no, Tamsin, I’m doing it for you. I’m giving you a chance to prove yourself. I’m giving you a chance to showcase your talents and seal your reputation. You should be grateful. I thought you liked a challenge.’

She laughed softly then, almost as if she was relieved. It sounded breathy and musical. ‘I get it. You think that I’ve had my hand held and all the hard work done for me here, don’t you? You think that I’m going to be absolutely clueless out there on my own, and you just can’t wait to watch me fail.’ She looked up at him, her soft, pink mouth curved into a smile. ‘Well, Alejandro, I won’t fail. I did it all myself, and I can do it again—better, more easily this time—so, if you’re dragging me over to the other side of the world just so you can have the pleasure of watching me screw up, you’re wasting your time.’

‘Fighting talk. Very impressive,’ he drawled sardonically. ‘But I warn you, Tamsin, this isn’t a game. This isn’t like last night, where you can flirt and seduce your way through when the going gets tough. This is work.’

A rosy tide flooded her cheeks and the smile evaporated instantly. ‘And you’re the boss, right?’ she said with quiet venom. ‘Good. I’m so glad we got that straight, because if you so much as lay a finger on me I’ll have you for sexual harassment faster than you can say “hotshot lawyer”.’

Before Alejandro could respond, a member of the grounds team in an England tracksuit and baseball cap had appeared beside them, looking anxious. ‘Miss Calthorpe?’ he said nervously. ‘The photographer’s ready to start the photo-shoot down on the pitch. But, er, unfortunately we seem to be missing one shirt …’

For a moment she didn’t move. And then, still keeping her gaze fixed to his, she said, ‘Thank you. I’m bringing it right now.’

Alejandro smiled as much as his swollen lip would allow. ‘A car will come for you tomorrow morning,’ he said with exaggerated courtesy. ‘Please be ready by eleven o’clock.’

‘Tomorrow? But—’ She stopped abruptly, visibly struggling to rein in the furious protest that had sprung to her lips. Finally, pressing her lips together, she gave a curt nod and turned on her heel to follow the grounds official.

Alejandro watched her go, her narrow back ramrod-straight, her blonde head held very high. She was hanging onto that fiery temper by a thread, he thought wryly. She seemed very confident that she could handle the professional aspect of the next couple of weeks—but how would she do on the personal? Would the spoiled little diva be able to cope?

He waited until she was almost at the door before calling, ‘Oh—and Tamsin?’

She turned, her face set into a mask of politeness. ‘Yes, Mr D’Arienzo? Or, now I’m working for you, should I call you “sir”?’

‘Alejandro is fine. We’ll be flying on my private jet tomorrow. It’s only a small plane, so bring one bag only, please. I know what women are like for packing ridiculous amounts of unnecessary clothes.’

The look she shot him was ice-cool. ‘You’re saying clothes will be unnecessary? Careful, Mr D’Arienzo—this is business, remember?’

And then she was gone. Alejandro was left staring after her, his coffee cooling in his hand, his mind swirling with disturbing thoughts of Tamsin Calthorpe sprawled naked on the leather seats of his jet, and the unwelcome suspicion that she’d just scored some victory over him.

He’d take her advice. He would be careful.

He had an uneasy feeling that this was going to be a whole lot more trouble than he’d bargained for.