Читать книгу At the Argentinean Billionaire's Bidding - India Grey - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

BLUE ball, top-left pocket.

With narrowed eyes Alejandro looked thoughtfully at the billiard table. It was a difficult shot, and in his own personal game of dare this was sudden death.

If he got it in, he would play on. If he missed, he had to go back out and rejoin the party. He had to go out there and watch Tamsin Calthorpe tease and flirt her way around the rest of the England team. And, he thought with a grimace of scorn, judging by her earlier performance, probably most of the Barbarians as well.

It was probably just as well he never missed.

Lazily he bent to line up the shot. From the other side of the massive polished-wood door he could hear the raucous sounds of the party. As a major investor in Argentine rugby he ought to be out there; after today’s game he was the man everyone wanted to talk to and he should be capitalising on that to get publicity for Los Pumas. That was, after all, what he’d come back for.

Unhurriedly he adjusted the balance of the cue. To even up the odds a little he closed his left eye, leaving only the bruised and swollen right one to judge the angle of the shot.

With a sharp, insouciant jab the blue fell neatly into the top-left pocket.

Alejandro straightened up, smiling ruefully as a sting of perverse disappointment sliced through him. He had no desire to go out there and mix with the great and the good of the rugby world, but there was a part of him that would have rather enjoyed the chance to watch the amazing Lady Calthorpe in operation some more, for no other reason than to marvel at how much more polished the routine had become in the last six years. Back then there had been a gawky awkwardness about her, a trembling sort of defiance, but it had affected him far more powerfully than tonight’s virtuoso display of sexual invitation.

Powerful enough to cloud his judgement and get beneath his defences, he thought acidly.

She’d upped her game considerably since then, and as a result it seemed that she was no longer kept in the background as a handmaid for her father’s sordid, secret schemes. Now she was much higher profile, which of course made perfect sense. Henry Calthorpe was now chairman of the RFU, and, judging by the photoshoot Alejandro had just witnessed, the organisation had become one big, indulgent playground for his spoiled daughter. He wondered how far her influence spread now.

With sudden violence he threw down the cue and went to stand in front of the fire.

Henry Calthorpe was obviously too important these days to invite the riff-raff into his own home, but the hotel had apparently been chosen to provide a very similar setting. The billiard room was a gentleman’s retreat in typical English country-house style, with leather wing-backed chairs and oil paintings of hunting scenes on the walls. The long, fringed lamp hanging low over the table made the billiard balls glow like jewels in a pool of emerald green, and firelight glinted on a tray of cut-glass decanters beside him.

He reached for one and splashed a generous measure into a crystal tumbler, and had just thrown himself into one of the high-backed chairs facing the fire when there was a sudden rush of noise behind him as the door opened and then closed again quickly. Alejandro didn’t move, but his hand tightened around the glass as, reflected in the mirror above the fireplace, he saw her.

She went straight to the billiard table and leaned against it, dropping her head and breathing hard, as if she was trying to steady herself or regain control. His first thought was that she was waiting for someone to follow her into the room, and he glanced towards the door again. But it stayed shut, and a moment later Tamsin Calthorpe lifted her head and he saw that the laboured breathing, the bright spots of colour on her cheeks, weren’t caused by desire but by anger.

Picking up the cue he had so recently thrown down, she barely glanced at the table before stooping, and, with a snarl of fury, took a vicious shot which sent the balls cannoning wildly across the table.

In the mirror Alejandro watched the white rebound off the top cushion, just missing the pink and the black and sending the brown ball cannoning into the middle pocket. Still completely oblivious to his presence, Tamsin punched the air and gave a low hiss of triumph.

‘Lucky shot,’ he said sardonically.

In the mirror he saw her freeze, the billiard cue held across her body like a weapon.

‘Who said luck had anything to do with it?’

Her voice was cool and haughty, but he caught the nervous dart of her eyes as she looked around to see who had spoken. Her blonde head was held high, her shoulders tense and alert. She looked oddly vulnerable, like a startled deer.

‘It was a difficult one.’ Alejandro stood up and turned slowly towards her, feeling a flicker of satisfaction as he watched her eyes widen in shock and the colour leave her face. She recovered quickly, shrugging as she walked towards the curtained windows.

‘Precisely. What would have been the point in taking it if it was easy?’

It was Alejandro’s turn to be stunned. As she walked away from him he saw that the dress that had looked so demure from the front was completely backless, showing a downwards sweep of flawless, peachy skin.

He made a sharp, scornful sound—halfway between a laugh and a sneer, which sent a tide of heat flooding into Tamsin’s face and a torrent of boiling fury erupting inside her. Her heart was beating very hard as she whipped round to face him again.

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘Frankly, no.’ He moved around the chair and came towards her. He’d taken off his dinner jacket and undone the top two buttons of his shirt. His silk bow-tie lay loosely around his neck, giving him an air of infuriating relaxation that was completely at odds with the icy hardness of his face. She was pleased to notice that there was a muscle flickering in the hollowed plane of his cheek.

‘You don’t strike me as a girl who likes to try too hard to get what she wants,’ he said scathingly.

The injustice of the statement was so magnificent she almost laughed. Pressing her lips together, she had to look down for a second while she fought to keep a hold on her composure. ‘Don’t I?’ Her voice was polite, deceptively soft as she met his gaze. ‘Well, may I suggest that your assumption says more about you than it does about me, Alejandro?’

He flinched slightly, almost imperceptibly, as she said his name, and for a moment some unfathomable emotion flared in his eyes. But it was gone before she could read it or understand its meaning, and she was left staring into hard, golden emptiness. It was mesmerizing, like meeting the eyes of a panther at close range. A scarred, hungry predator.

‘What does it say about me?’

He spoke quietly, but there was something sinister about his calmness. Above the immaculate, hand-made dress shirt his black eye and swollen mouth gave his raw masculinity a dangerous edge. Tamsin felt fear prickle on the back of her neck, and was aware that she was shaking.

Which was ridiculous. She wasn’t afraid of Alejandro D’Arienzo. She was angry with him. Clenching her jaw, she managed a saccharine smile. ‘Let me see,’ she said with sugared venom. ‘It says that you’re an arrogant, misogynist bastard who thinks that women are for one purpose and one purpose only.’

His mouth, his bruised, sexy mouth, curled slightly in the barest, most insolent expression of disdain. ‘And don’t you rather perpetuate that stereotype?’

Tamsin felt the ground shift beneath her feet. The panelled walls seemed to be closing in on her, leaving her no chance of escape, no alternative but to confront the image he was holding before her of herself the girl who dressed like a slut and had thrown herself at him without even bothering to tell him her name.

‘That was six years ago,’ she protested hoarsely. ‘One night, six years ago!’

‘And how many times has it happened since then?’ he said, draining his glass and picking up another cue.

Surreptitiously holding the edge of the green-baize table, Tamsin took a quick, shaky breath and made herself hold her head high as she gave a nonchalant shrug. The entire contents of the Cartier shop window wouldn’t induce her to let him see how much his rejection had hurt her, how far-reaching its consequences had been. She managed a gratifyingly breezy laugh.

‘I don’t know, it’s hardly a big deal. Don’t try to tell me you’ve lived a life of monastic purity and celibacy for the last six years?’

He didn’t look at her. ‘I’m not going to.’

‘Well, don’t you think it’s a bit much to expect that I have? What did you think, Alejandro, that I would have hung up my high heels and filled my wardrobe with sackcloth and ashes just because you weren’t interested?’ She laughed, to show the utter preposterousness of the idea. ‘God, no. I moved on.’

‘So I saw. A number of times, evidently,’ he drawled quietly, bending down and lining up a shot. ‘The England squad seems to be your personal escort-agency.’

Idly he jabbed the cue against the white ball, sending it hurtling across the table. Tamsin felt like it was her heart. ‘Wrong, Alejandro,’ she said stiffly. ‘The England squad are my clients.’

His eyebrows shot up; he gave a twisted smile. ‘Indeed? My mistake. I got it the wrong way round.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ she snapped. ‘They’re my clients because I’m the designer who handled the commission for the England kit. The new strip, the suits and the off-pitch clothing.’

Just for the briefest second she saw a look of surprise pass across his deadpan face, but it was quickly replaced by cynicism again.

‘Did you, indeed?’ he drawled, somehow managing to make those three small, innocuous words convey his utter disbelief. But before Tamsin had a chance to think up a suitably impressive response the door burst open and Ben Saunders appeared, swaying slightly. His unfocused gaze flitted from Alejandro to Tamsin.

‘Oops. Sorry… Interrupting.’ Grinning, obviously misreading the tension that crackled in the quiet room, he began to back out again with exaggerated care, but Tamsin leapt forward, grabbing his arm.

‘Ben, wait!’ she said grimly. ‘Tell him—’ she jerked her head sharply in Alejandro’s direction ‘—about the new strip. Tell him who designed it.’

Frowning, Ben looked drunkenly at her as if she’d just asked him to work out the square root of nine hundred and forty two in binary.

‘Uh…you?’ he said uncertainly.

Great, thought Tamsin hysterically. Brilliant. Hugely convincing.

‘Yes. Of course it was me,’ she said with desperate patience.

Ben nodded and grinned inanely, obviously relieved to have got the right answer. ‘And the shoots,’ he slurred, turning around clumsily to show off his suit, and almost overbalancing. ‘You did the shoots too, didn’t you? Lovely shoot.’ He beamed across at Alejandro. ‘Very clever, Tamsin. Very good at measuring the inside leg…’

Alejandro glanced at her, his face a study of sadistic amusement. ‘I’m sure,’ he said icily. ‘That takes a lot of skill.’

Tamsin clenched her teeth. ‘Thanks, Ben,’ she said, turning him around and steering him towards the door. ‘Now, maybe you’d better go and find some water, or some coffee or something.’ When the door had closed behind him she turned back to Alejandro with a haughty glance. ‘There. Now do you believe that I’m not just some airhead heiress with time on her hands?’

‘It proves nothing.’ Malice glinted in the golden depths of Alejandro’s eyes as he picked up his glass again. ‘I’m sure it makes great PR sense for you to be used as a front for the new strip, but surely you don’t expect me to believe that you actually designed it? Sportswear design is an incredibly competitive business, you know.’

‘Yes.’ Tamsin spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Astonishingly enough, I do know, because I got the job.’

Nodding thoughtfully, Alejandro took an unhurried mouthful of his drink. ‘And what qualified you for that, Lady Calthorpe—your father’s position in the RFU? Or your own extensive research into rugby players’ bodies?’

‘No,’ she said as soon as she could trust herself to open her mouth without screaming. ‘My first class honours degree in textiles and my final year project on techno-fabrics.’ Looking up at him, she gave an icy smile. ‘I had to compete for this commission and I got it entirely on merit.’

His dark brows arched in cynical disbelief. ‘Really?’ he drawled. ‘You must be good.’

‘I am.’

It was no use. If she stayed a moment longer, she wouldn’t be able to keep the rip tide of vitriol that was swelling and surging inside her from smashing through her flimsy defences. She put down the cue and threw him what she hoped was the kind of distant, distracted smile that would convey total indifference as she turned to reach for the doorknob. ‘You don’t have to take my word for it, though. If you look at my work, it should speak for itself.’

‘I have, and it does. For the rugby shirts, at least.’ He laughed softly and she froze, her hand halfway to the door as a bolt of horrified remembrance shot through her. ‘I have one, remember?’

Her fingers curled into a fist and she let it fall to her side, the nails digging painfully into her palm. She could have sunk down onto the thick, wine-red carpet and wept. Instead she steeled herself to turn back and face him.

‘Of course,’ she said, unable to keep the edge of bitterness from her voice. ‘How could I forget?’

He came slowly towards her, his head slightly to one side, an expression of quiet triumph on his face. ‘I really don’t know, since you seemed pretty keen to get it back earlier,’ he said quietly. ‘Obviously it can’t be that important, after all. To you, anyway.’

Tamsin swallowed. He had come to a halt right in front of her, and it was hard to marshal the thoughts swirling in her head when it suddenly seemed to be filled with him. She closed her eyes, trying to squeeze him out, but the darkness only made her more aware of his closeness, the warm, dry scent of his skin. She opened them again, looking deliberately away from him, beyond him, anywhere but at him.

‘It is important, I’m afraid. I need it back.’

‘You need it?’ he said softly. ‘If you’re the designer, you must have lots of them. Surely you can spare that one?’

‘It’s not that simple. I…’

The mirror above the fireplace reflected the broad sweep of his shoulders, the silk of his hair, dark against the collar of his white shirt. She stared at the image, mesmerised by its powerful beauty as the words dried up in her mouth.

‘No. I thought not,’ he cut in, a harsh edge of bitterness undercutting the softness of his tone, like a knife blade wrapped in velvet. ‘It’s not about the shirt, is it? It’s about the principle—just as it always was. It’s about your father not wanting the English rose on an Argentine chest, isn’t it?’

Argentine chest. Alejandro’s chest.

‘No,’ she whispered.

Gently, caressingly, he reached out and slid his warm hand along her jaw, cupping her face, stroking his thumb over her cheek. A violent shudder of reluctant desire rippled through her. She felt herself melt against him for a second before his fingers closed around her chin, forcing her head back so she was looking straight into his hypnotic eyes.

‘I hope you’re a better designer than you are a liar.’

‘I’m not lying,’ she hissed, jerking her head free. Her hand automatically went to the place where his had just been, rubbing the skin as if he had burned her. ‘This has nothing to do with my father. There was a—a problem with the production of the shirts. I only found out yesterday when I suddenly thought to test one, and found out the red dye on the roses wasn’t colourfast. I had to contact the manufacturers and get them to open up the factory and start from scratch on a new batch of shirts, but there was only time to make one for each player. That’s why I need yours back, otherwise on the photoshoot at Twickenham tomorrow Ben Saunders will be half-naked, as well as hungover,’ she finished savagely, feeling her blood pressure soar as he gave a short, cruel laugh. ‘What’s so funny?’