Читать книгу The Spaniard's Revenge - Susan Stephens, Susan Stephens - Страница 6

THE man lounging back on the pale hide sofa appeared infinitely more at ease than the camera crew and reporters crowding the room. But he was suffering the glare of the lights, and people from Wardrobe were still buzzing around him like gnats.

As he sent a look spinning up to dismiss them, one girl holding a fat brush loaded with powder misread the signs and froze, trapped in his stare. Her eyes darkened and her lips plumped, all within the space of a few seconds. The television lights were blindingly bright but, as far as she was concerned, they might have been alone in a candlelit hacienda full of soft lights and low music.

‘Enough,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t do make-up.’

The other girls took the hint, backing away step by step in a timid, doe-eyed flock, dreaming wildly he might call one of them back.

‘Go,’ Xavier Martinez Bordiu insisted in a low, gravelly voice, flicking his wrist at the remaining girl. ‘Go join your friends. You’re not needed here.’

Abruptly, her eyes cleared and, as he watched them fill with tears of embarrassment, a pang of regret caught him unawares. Straightening up, he reached out to apologise, but she had already gone with the others and the double doors leading out of his apartment at the presidential palace had closed behind them.

What the hell was wrong with him?

As Xavier made a deep sound in his throat, feeling a stab of familiar pain, he saw the Floor Manager starting to panic. He made a signal to deflect the man’s concern, but he was already calling. ‘Water for Dr Martinez Bordiu.’

Xavier sat back again, oblivious to the splendour of his surroundings: chandeliers the size of houses, ivory fretwork screens, precious paintings banked up side by side as far as the eye could see on towering walls decked out in crimson silk.

This was a temporary stay at the President’s personal invitation, but he had lived with such opulence all his life. It meant nothing to him. However sumptuous his living quarters, however attentive his staff, even a life of unremitting luxury could pall in the end. That was why he had trained to become a doctor. And that was partly the reason he had chosen to lose himself in Peru, in a medical project that meant everything to him.

His jaw clenched and then released again as he waited impatiently for the vanities of the woman who was shortly to interview him about the project to be indulged.

She had the dark flashing looks of a true South American beauty. She was voluptuous and provocative, with a fall of glossy, nut-brown hair cascading over her smooth tanned shoulders. And when she turned to look at him he saw the tip of her tongue creep out to moisten her lips.

He viewed her lazily through hooded eyes and saw her squirm a little on her seat to ease what he knew would be bolts of desire. He knew then he could have her after the show: here, where he was sitting, or straddling his lap on the hard, upright chair where she was having her make-up perfected…or there on the Aubusson rug in front of the wall of windows so that everyone in Lima could get an eyeful.

He had that effect on women. And somewhere along the way it had all become too easy for him.

He never got involved. He didn’t need to. He didn’t need anyone. He was fine by himself. He had trained himself to be that way. Loving and losing, they were the same thing as far as he was concerned—and better avoided.

But that didn’t give him the right to trample rough-shod over other people’s feelings, Xavier thought, mouthing a quick response as someone brought over a jug of iced water and a glass. His thought processes changed track suddenly. Shutting out the rest of the room, he ran over the moment he almost made someone cry—not in pictures, but emotions, and found he cared…he really cared.

He subdued the rush of relief that gave him as the presenter came to sit across from him on a matching sofa, and tuned his expression to neutral as the interview began.