Читать книгу The Argentinian's Virgin Conquest - Bella Frances - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

LUCIE CLUTCHED A glass of fortifying champagne between white-knuckled fingers and stood like one of the pillars on the mid-deck. Any minute now someone might drape a piece of muslin over her and tie a balloon round her neck.

Her first glass had been half emptied in a single gulp in her room, which had led to a choking fit and a grave look from the hairstylist, who had been packing up her stuff. She’d better not start throwing alcohol down her neck—even though she’d run out of ideas for a quick and painless death. A little deadly nightshade—how did that work?—or something one could simply inhale or swallow. And then she’d fold like a chimney struck by a wrecking ball, while all these strangers continued to sip obliviously on their champagne.

They were arriving all the time. She could hear them, smell them, see them—one big, sensory blur. Her face felt tight—was she even smiling? She had no idea—couldn’t feel anything other than the hammer of her heart and the flush of burning red that still bloomed across her chest and neck. She tried to open her mouth to say hello, but the word stuck in her throat, died there.

All she could do was stand there—shoulders back, stomach in, chest out—with her glass clutched in her hand and her face stretched into what she hoped was a smile. All she could do was breathe deeply and wait for it to be over.

‘I haven’t seen Lady Vivienne yet—is she here?’

The Mexican Wave of those words washed over her every few minutes. If she heard it one more time she might actually throw herself overboard. That would be quite dramatic. Lucie ran a mental image as another crowd of people who, like her mother, probably couldn’t tell the difference between a turtle and a tortoise, came trundling onto the yacht, making too much noise.

Suddenly the Mexican Wave turned back on itself. Bodies seemed to wheel around and preen and pose and Lucie’s heart began to pound even more loudly.

Someone interesting was arriving. Someone very interesting.

Could it be...? Could it possibly be...? Had her mother actually dropped everything back home and got on a jet to get here? Maybe she had heard the hurt and felt some kind of empathy or love or even just motherly duty towards her. Was that possible?

She turned with the crowd and strained her head to see. Everybody was thronging towards the steps. It had to be her. Who else would get this level of interest in a crowd that was already chock-full of the so-called ‘it-list’?

Maybe she had been too harsh? Too quick to judge? She hadn’t really given her a proper chance to explain. She had said she would come for part of it—hadn’t she? And she had been the one to plan most of the party—who’d laid down all those rules. And they’d really, really made Lucie focus. She did like the fact that she could see past her stomach to her feet now. And it felt good—it really did—that she could tolerate the heat so much more easily and not worry about her thighs rubbing together when she walked.

Yes, she had her mother to thank for all that—and she would. That was her, wasn’t it? Coming aboard? Strange that she hadn’t come in on the helipad, but maybe she’d found a different way to get here. Maybe that was what she’d been about to say on the phone before she’d cut her off so abruptly.

Lucie finally found a space in the crowd and got ready to greet her. But...where was she? There was no sign of Lady Vivienne. No gleaming perfect smile or couture-perfect outfit. No. There, strolling towards her, was another version of perfection. The male version. Dark blond hair flopped over an eye, golden skin, bluest, truest gaze and the laziest, most indolent grin.

The idiot from the boat.

What on earth was everyone doing, staring at him? Lucie looked to her left and right. And what on earth was he doing here?

Suddenly her dry voice formed words and actually delivered them.

‘Who invited you?’

He was strolling towards her as if he could barely find the energy, but her words had an effect. Oh, yes.

He straightened and his shoulders went back—rigid just for a moment, but no mistaking it. Exactly the same way he’d looked on his boat earlier, when she’d had the temerity to question his intelligence. When he’d seemed made of steel and stone.

And then he slipped back into that easy, breezy, nothing-is-a-problem attitude.

‘Invited? You mean begged, don’t you?’

Lucie fumed. The big idiot was standing right in front of her now. On either side of him stood two pull-up banners—sea turtles swimming, with white lettering clearly displaying the name of her foundation: Caribbean Conservation Centre.

‘Not if you were the last man alive! This is for people who’re trying to do something to save endangered animals. You probably can’t even spell endangered!’

He looked at her, tucked one hand on his hip—and her eye slid there again! Despite herself. His perfect wide shoulders, broad, strong chest and narrow waist were all tucked up inside a soft blue shirt the colour of his eyes. Not that she particularly cared about his eyes. Or how arresting they were. Or how hard it was to look away.

‘Maybe you can find someone to play schools with later, Princess.’ He was looking down at her as if he had some other kind of game in mind. ‘But you don’t have a monopoly on helping save the planet. I’m sure my friends’ money is quite as good as everybody else’s.’

Lucie slid her eyes around to see the party he’d come with all disappearing into the crowd. She knew she should get over her disappointment towards her mother and her anger towards him and find someone out there who could run the auction. But his very presence riled her.

‘You have friends? How did you get them—kidnapping them? Throwing them onto your boat?’

‘Trust me, kidnapping you couldn’t be further from my mind.’

He slipped her a self-important smile, bared a flash of teeth between two proud dimples.

She could sense the crowd getting fuller, the time coming closer. Suddenly the realisation of where she was and who she was and what she was supposed to be doing overwhelmed her.

An anxious voice to her right told her there were only twenty minutes until the auction. Followed by yet another question about her mother. Followed by a third question about who exactly was going to announce the items if not Lady Vivienne... Were they to assume that Lady Lucinda would be doing it in her stead?

She hadn’t sorted anything out. She had buried her head, hoping the problem would just solve itself. That a miracle would happen. But it hadn’t.

The faces around her were all staring. People began to crush in. Her personal space was disappearing, and with it the air to breathe. And still he stood, right in front of her, with that dimpled smile plastered all over his face, that supercilious look dripping contempt.

‘Lady Lucinda...? We need to get started now. Will you...?’

She turned, and a sickening grey mist swept down over her vision. A hand moved, sweeping out to show her where she should proceed. Blindly she moved ahead, her eyes focused on the little podium that had been built up at the head of the ballroom.

To its left and right were the various objects and artefacts that had been gifted by her mother and her coterie of high society friends who had been persuaded to be part of this. A couture gown here...a handbag there... Jewellery, silk scarves, cosmetics and more. A week on someone’s island in the Indian Ocean...a fortnight at an English country house in the shooting season. A signed polo shirt and tickets to a match in Dubai...

Dazedly she realised that that was who he was—the polo player. The one her mother had practically passed out over when she’d heard he’d be coming. The one who was an ‘utter Lothario’.

But what did any of that matter now? Her mother wasn’t here and she was—and she had to step up, get on with this auction. She had to.

She stared again at the tables set up with all the goodies. She could list each and every one. She had typed them into the programme that she’d sent out, into the advertising copy she’d placed in various local and international publications—she knew every single thing and who had donated it.

But there was no way she would be able to say that. Say anything at all. Her voice was buried under a rock of anxiety.

There was nothing she could do—nothing she could do. The suffocating fear built, the tightness returned, and the terror of being right here, right now, became excruciating. She looked for one of the staff from the conservation centre. She scanned the room, but all she could see was the crushing crowd of people, hovering and staring. They were all around her, gawping as if she were some kind of crazy. Which she was.

She had to get out—had to get out or she’d pass out.

‘Hey, what’s going on?’

She could see jewel-bright colours, dresses,, jewellery, glasses... She could hear voices, feel the daggers of their derision.

‘Hey.’

A warm, strong hand wrapped around her arm. She jumped at the sudden contact and tried to jerk away, but the sickness was overwhelming.

‘Get your hands off me,’ she whispered.

‘Slow down, Princess. You trying to take someone’s eye out?’

Lucie slowed...stopped. He was right behind her, his hand still on her arm. Her skin, clammy now, felt the chill of the night breeze and the warmth of his touch. She reached out, tried to lay her hand on the railing—missed. She stepped forward, unseeing, stumbled...

‘Steady on. Stand still.’

She grasped the rail and stood staring down at the black sea. Her stomach still heaved, but the spinning had stopped and the whirling grey settled as the world became centred around a solid warm wall behind her, stabilising her. A large male body. He laid one hand beside hers on the rail and placed the other at her neck, weighted and heavy, and for once she didn’t flinch.

‘This is the last thing I want to be doing, but you look as if you’re about to pass out.’

She felt the warmth seep through her. Her freezing skin was suddenly soothed, enveloped and wrapped up in another human’s body. How many times had she been held like this? Ever? Never?

Could she remember a time when the touch of another had been accepted, never mind encouraged? No. She wasn’t the type. The Bonds did not hug each other—never mind strangers.

She pushed away from him—put her hands against the solidity and shoved hard as she could.

‘Get off me—go away.’ Her voice came out like a hiss.

He stepped back, hands up in mock surrender. Her eyes flashed to his face and she caught a look of surprise.

‘No problem.’

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the auction is about to begin. Can you please take your places in the salon?’

‘No problem at all—and believe me when I tell you this: there won’t be a third time.’

‘Can Lady Lucinda please make her way to the podium for the start of tonight’s charity auction? So many wonderful items for such a wonderful cause.’

The voice, like a call to the gates of hell, boomed out across the Tannoy.

‘I can’t...’ she breathed to the wind. ‘I simply can’t...’

He turned. The blue shirt, broad back, warmth and strength moved away, and she knew that there really was no way out.

‘Me either,’ he said, and he was stepping away, leaving her in the grip of the suffocating black velvet night and the sickening dread of the sea of upturned, staring faces.

‘Please...’ she said, reaching him, grabbing for his arm.

He turned immediately, glancing down at the hand that gripped his elbow.

‘What?’

She opened her mouth, looked over his shoulder.

The tinny voice boomed out again, calling people forward, making some kind of apology about her mother’s lack of appearance. Her fingers gripped his arm. Pressed into his flesh.

‘I’ve got to say, Princess, you’re sending out some very conflicting signals. So allow me to be clear...’

He put his hand over hers and slowly began to prise her fingers up.

The voice sounded again. Everyone was in position. She had to do this. She had to locate her breath, count in and out slowly, and then she’d be fine. She would be absolutely fine.

Her fingers, now free of his arm, hung in mid-air like a wizened claw.

‘I can’t go in there. I can’t be in front of all those people.’

He stepped back into her space, blotting out the view. ‘You can’t be in front of all those people? Hang on—is this your party? Are you Lady Lucinda?’

She clenched her eyes and nodded.

He looked behind him, as if expecting to see something horrifying, then turned back to face her. ‘What’s going on? Is this some kind of emotional blackmail?’

She could barely breathe now, the panic had gripped her so fiercely.

‘It’s the auction,’ she gasped.

‘You’re telling me that’s what’s got you like this? Is that what this is all about? Really? The auction?’

He was staring at her as if she was deranged. Which was exactly how she felt.

‘You might have thought of that before you organised it, then, wouldn’t you say?’

She nodded, swallowed, put her hand on her chest and tried hard to slow her furious heartbeat.

‘Just another example of your consideration for others? Impressive. Awesome. You really are something else, Princess.’

And he turned on his heel.

‘No—no, you can’t. Please!’ Lucie heard herself begging and saw herself reach out, grab his arm, pull him back. She really pulled him back.

He turned. Looked down at her, hands on hips.

‘Please? Please, what? What do you expect me to do? Help you? Are you serious? After the way you’ve acted?’

‘I can’t go in there.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘I simply can’t.’

She didn’t know herself what she expected him to do. All she knew was that for some reason his presence, his body—whatever it was—she felt warmed by it. And when she felt warm she was less likely to run away—or in this case swim away.

He turned to look at the room full of people. Restless people.

‘All these good people here are waiting patiently for you to go in there and start this off, aren’t they?’

Lucie nodded, held her head in her hands.

‘And you’re in no fit state to deliver. Are you?’

Her shoulders drooped as she shook her head. What an idiot she was. A gauche idiot with social anxiety as an extra talent.

Suddenly she felt her chin being lifted up.

‘Is it nerves? Is that it? You’re stressed out because your mother hasn’t turned up and suddenly the spotlight’s on you?’

She heard him murmur the words. Someone understood. Someone genuinely understood. How many times had she tried to explain to the people close to her that she simply couldn’t do the things they could? How many times had she heard the word ‘nonsense’ fired at her? And how many times had she seen her mother sweep past her, shaking her head and rolling her eyes, making her feel such an abject, worthless piece of garbage just because she wasn’t like her?

‘God only knows why I’d do anything other than get as far away from you as possible, but I don’t suppose it would kill me to help you out. And I can’t really stand back and watch you let all those people down...’

She stared up into that face. It was suddenly serious, the dimples subsumed into all that beautiful golden skin. His eyes were grave. And she felt again that strange sense of caring, of kindness, of being anchored.

Lucie nodded. She stood in the shelter of his warm, strong body and nodded.

He looked at her for a long second, then stepped away, shaking his head.

‘God only knows...’

She watched his back as he walked into the crowd, her breaths lengthening and her heart gradually steadying. Easy and lazy—no problem at all for him to go and stand before a crowd, all eyes trained on him.

Lucie’s gaze fixed on the breadth of his shoulders, the slight swing of his backside, so fabulously formed inside those trousers, the angle of each leg as he stepped so damn nonchalantly onto the podium, before the crowd of women who clearly thought exactly the same as she did closed over his path like waves of hungry harpies.

She might have solved one problem, but she had the feeling she had launched herself head-first into another.