‘And what does parchment smell like?’
To his amusement she closed her eyes to answer him with total attention. ‘Linen. Dust. Afternoon sunshine through tall windows onto a stone floor. Maybe a touch of beeswax.’
He blinked, startled.
She opened her eyes and saw it. It was her turn to be amused.
‘I know my smells. And I know my roses.’
‘So I see.’ He let the rose fall back among its brothers and looked at her curiously. ‘Isn’t that an odd hobby for someone your age? How old are you, as a matter of interest?’
Abby sighed. ‘Sixteen. And age has nothing to do with it. It’s not a hobby, it’s necessity.’
He sank onto the grass at her feet and looped his arms round his knees.
‘Explain,’ he commanded.
Abby looked down at him, taken aback. No man had ever sat at her feet before. Oh, her brothers sprawled all over the place. But they never actually sat and studied her, dark eyes intent, as if they had nothing in the world that interested them except her and what she had to say.
In spite of the evening breeze that stirred the roses, she suddenly felt uncomfortably hot.
He laughed softly. Abby pulled herself together.
‘Our garden,’ she said practically, ignoring the heat she could feel behind her ears. ‘It’s planted with all the old roses. But there’s no one but me to look after it. I learned which was which because people wrote letters about them and someone had to answer.’
His eyes were very dark brown, like the mahogany table in the big dining room at home, only when it was buffed so that it shone like glass. That had only happened a couple of times in Abby’s memory but she remembered it vividly. It turned the table halfway to a mirror, so that everything looked different. It was the same effect of this man’s strange eyes. Even in the twilight she could see the way they glittered. It was not comfortable.
The long, curling eyelashes did nothing to soften their expression, either. He looked as if he knew exactly what effect that melting expression had. As their eyes met, his mouth lifted in a half smile.
That made it worse. Abby raised her chin.
‘So tell me—’ His voice was like a lion’s purr, deep and languorous. Deceptively languorous. This was not, thought Abby, a creature you would want to lull you to sleep. ‘If I wrote to you about your roses, what would you tell me?’
Abby met his eyes and found they were like a caress. The warmth was palpable. Instinctively she turned towards it, like a flower to the sun. She could almost feel her skin being stroked.
She brought herself up short. Caress? Stroked? What was it her father had said? She thought that people always meant what they said and she had to learn that they didn’t?
Learn, she told herself feverishly. Learn. Whatever it feels like, it’s not real. No glamorous man wastes caressing glances on a scrubby teenager unless he has some ulterior and probably unkind motive.
No, she definitely didn’t want him lulling her into anything. She took refuge in briskness.
‘That we don’t sell plants. You can have a leaflet about the old roses. You can go on the waiting list to come to one of the summer open days. That’s it.’
‘Where does the leaflet come from?’
Abby grinned. The grin lit up her face, making her briefly beautiful. She did not know that, of course. ‘Me mainly.’
He stared at her for an unnerving moment. But in the end all he said was, ‘What’s it about?’
Abby laughed aloud. ‘Rose of Castile, introduced by the Crusaders in the twelfth century, red, pink or white with occasional stripes. Very strong fragrance. I think it smells like Turkish Delight but some people think that’s unkind. The White Rose of York, of course. White with golden stamens. Another strong pong, less headachy than the Rose of Castile. Sweetbriar. Pink. True rose scent. The leaves smell like apples.’ She ran out of breath and sent him a naughty challenging look. ‘Shall I go on?’
‘You’re clearly an expert.’ He sounded slightly put out.
Well, at least he had stopped looking languorous. Though that was a two-edged sword, because he stood up and she saw how the muscles bunched and relaxed in the graceful movement. Abby could not remember ever noticing the way a man’s muscles rippled before and she lived in a house in which it was virtually impossible to avoid them. She flushed again, hating her transparent skin.
He said abruptly, ‘Who did you come with? I didn’t see you earlier, did I?’
‘I’m staying here. This afternoon I was with Señora Montijo watching the tennis…’ She made a discovery. ‘You’re that tennis player,’ she said, without thinking. ‘The one who beat Bruno.’
Briefly his eyes flashed. ‘Oh, you’re a friend of Bruno’s, are you?’
‘No. I’ve only seen him from a distance. In fact his grandmother was annoyed with me for not recognizing him when you were playing him, I think. The house is full of photographs of him and I should have known which was which. Especially as—’ Realisation hit her. ‘You’re Emilio Diz. You’re famous.’
How right she had been to resist that caressing look. Not just a glamorous man but the guest of honour! An international tennis star who according to Felipe Montijo had been dating movie stars for years! And she had nearly let him lull her into—well, into—she was not quite sure what. She knew she was blushing furiously.
Emilio saw the fierce colour rise and said goodbye to any more untainted conversation.
So this was where the little crane fly asked for his autograph, after all. He sighed inwardly. Well, as long as it was only his autograph. Too many teenage groupies wanted a kiss. Or more. The incident in Paris had left a scar. He braced himself to be kind but firm.
He misjudged her.
‘You shouldn’t be here talking to me,’ said Abby, so agitated that she leaped to her feet, to the imminent danger of decency, as the straps of her dress fell further. ‘You should be mingling. They wanted you to meet—I mean, you’re important.’
Emilio laughed aloud. ‘Not that important.’
He reached out and twitched her straps back into place, one after the other. It was a passionless gesture, almost absent. He might have been tidying a younger sister. But Abby was suddenly breathless.
His hand fell. His eyes grew intent.
She said hurriedly, at random, before he said anything she couldn’t deal with, ‘I know that Señor Montijo wants you to meet some people.’
He took a step forward. ‘Met them.’ He did not sound as if he could be bothered to think about it further.
‘But you’re the guest of honour, aren’t you?’
He flung back his head and gave a great laugh at that. It revealed a long tanned throat. He was as strong and beautiful as the horses in the Montijo stables. And about as tame, thought Abby, shivering with a nervousness she only half understood.
‘Guest of honour?’ said Emilio Diz scornfully. ‘Is that what you think I am?’
‘Th-that’s what they said,’ said Abby faintly. She did not want to remember what else Rosanna and her friend had said about him, in case she started blushing again.
‘Then let me put you straight. As far as the Montijos and their kind are concerned, I’m a commodity.’
She didn’t understand.
His eyes glittered. ‘I’m a guy from the wrong side of town and I always will be. I have no advantages except an ability to hit a ball over a net at a hundred miles an hour plus. That gets my photograph in the papers. That’s what they like. When the papers find someone else, the Montijos won’t even remember my name.’
It was what the Montijo matriarch had said, too, so it must be right.
‘Oh.’
Abby knew she ought to feel sympathy for him. Maybe even indignation. But she was shaken by these new little tremors and she could not think about anything except that golden skin under his crisp white shirt. About how his muscles moved like some great cat’s, lithe and powerful and potentially deadly. About how easy it would be t
o slip her hands inside—
Fortunately he was not a mind reader.
‘I shall do business with Felipe Montijo. Maybe even with some of the other men here tonight. Eventually. I’m on my way up and they can be useful. I have a family to educate.’
A family? A family? This golden puma of a man was married?
Quite suddenly Abby’s trembling stopped as if she had been unplugged from a power source.
‘But I am not a performing monkey,’ said Emilio Diz, not noticing. ‘I’ll talk to who I want.’
‘Well, don’t waste your time with me.’ It came out much more rudely than she meant. She didn’t mean to be rude at all. But quite suddenly she was desperate to get away from this scented nightmare. ‘I haven’t had anything to eat. I ought to go to the barbecue.’
His eyes narrowed.
‘You circulate,’ said Abby. She was fighting a desire to cry, which was ludicrous. She hadn’t cried once in all this horrible week. ‘I’ll get some dinner.’
But he wasn’t letting her go so easily.
‘We’ll both get some.’
He took her back to the party, skirting the band and the dancers on the lawn. She could feel people watching them. Some with interest. Some with envy. Some—heaven help her—with amusement. She stumbled on the grass and he put an arm round her.
‘Sit here. I’ll get you a plate.’
Biting her lip, she perched on the fallen tree stump he indicated.
A waiter—these people had a waiter at a barbecue?—gave her a glass of something. Abby took it but didn’t drink. She was shivering. She did not want to drink. She wanted to run.
But Emilio Diz was coming back with plates and forks, followed by a couple of men bearing the most enormous tray of meat Abby had ever seen in her life.
And quite suddenly she was the envy of every woman in the place. She could feel the air change around her. He gave her that caressing smile again, the one that started in his eyes and slid straight down her spine. And everyone looked. That slid down her spine, too.
So Abby had to smile and say thank-you and pray her dress would stay up.
She drank.
‘Choose what you want,’ he said, handing her the plate and beckoning the man bearing the tray to her side. ‘I know the English like their meat rare.’
He picked up an instrument that looked like a toy devil’s pitchfork and turned a couple of substantial steaks over. He speared a particularly red one and held it up for her inspection.
Abby shuddered. She drained the rest of the champagne and put her glass down.
‘N-no thank you. I’m not that hungry. Perhaps some chicken?’
He put back the steak and gave her what looked like half a chicken.
‘What else? Filet steak? Sirloin? Lamb?’
‘No, th-that’s fine,’ said Abby, recoiling.
A group of dancers had broken off and came over. One of them was Rosanna. She looked at Abby’s plate with concern.
‘Are you feeling all right, Abby?’
‘Abby,’ said Emilio Diz softly.
Abby felt he had speared her with that pitchfork. She looked up at him quickly, shocked. Their eyes locked.
How could a man who was married look at her like that? Look at anyone like that?
The group did not notice.
‘You need some meat,’ said the voluptuous beauty who had been painting her nails in Rosanna’s bedroom.
‘I’ve got some.’
‘No, no. Meat.’
‘On an Argentine estancia, chicken and pork do not count as meat,’ explained Emilio, amused.
‘Of course not. Beef is what you need. Wonderful Argentine steak and wonderful Argentine red wine. Strength,’ breathed Rosanna’s friend sexily, ‘and passion.’ She was looking at Emilio as if she would like to eat him, too, thought Abby.
He looked even more amused. Amused, maybe just a little wary—and appreciative.
I don’t understand these people, thought Abby in despair. How can that woman pant over him like that, quite openly, when he has a family? His poor wife must be at home waiting for him right now.
‘Do you tango, Emilio?’ murmured Rosanna’s friend.
It did not, thought Abby, sound as if she was talking about a dance. Is this what Pops means about learning to hear what people mean, not what they say? She’s not asking him anything. She’s telling him she’s available.
The realisation stabbed like a stiletto. Abby could feel herself getting stiffer by the minute. She was turning back into the English schoolgirl they all dreaded, in spite of the sexy dress. She nibbled a piece of chicken, trying to pretend she was at ease. She felt it would choke her. So she chewed hard, smiling.
‘Of course,’ Emilio said calmly.
Rosanna’s friend licked her lips. Definitely wanting to eat him, thought Abby, repelled and fascinated in equal measure.
‘But not,’ he went on softly, ‘in the open air, to a Paraguayan band, at a family barbecue.’
So he wasn’t talking about a dance, either. Abby thought her heart would break. Which was crazy.
And then he did something which really did break her heart.
He took the plate away from her. Put it down on the grass with her discarded wine and took her hand.
Smiling straight down into her eyes he said, ‘No tango. But come and hop about the Paraguayan way.’
Abby went. She could feel all the eyes burning into her exposed back. She clutched the glittery scarf round her like a security blanket.
He took her among the dancers and put his arms round her. His hands were powerful, experienced and utterly indifferent. It made no difference. Abby was as tense as a board.
‘Relax,’ he said, smiling down at her.
‘I don’t know how to do this dance,’ she muttered. She knew she sounded sulky. She couldn’t help it. Oh, would this evening never end?
‘Listen to the music and trust me. All you have to do is march in time. Just put a bit of a hop into it as you land.’
She did. It worked. She forgot her wretchedness for a moment, looking up at him with a grin of pure triumph.
His hands tightened. Suddenly she thought he was not so indifferent after all.
One of the other dancers, an older woman with kind eyes, spoke as she jigged sedately past.
‘You’ve got the bachelor of the evening there, Abby. Don’t hang on to him too long. You might get lynched. You’re too young to die.’
It was a warning. Veiled. Kindly meant. But a warning none the less. Emilio knew it. His mouth tightened as he looked down at her.
But the warning went straight past Abby. All she could think was: bachelor? And then she remembered the conversation between the Montijo women. Emilio was putting his brothers and sisters through college? Something like that?
So the family he had spoken of did not include the wife she had imagined sitting at home waiting for him.
‘Thank you,’ she said. To the woman, who had danced away. To Emilio, guiding her through the dance, with a hold that even unsophisticated Abby knew was a little too tight.
She tipped her head back and looked straight into his eyes. And smiled, dazzlingly.
It was quite dark now. The flambeaux illuminated the party but there were plenty of shadows if you wanted them. Emilio, it seemed, wanted them. He danced her out of the light.
‘Careful,’ he murmured. ‘There are a lot of people out there watching.’
He was trying to sound cool but his breathing was uneven. Abby could have hugged herself.
‘So?’ she said naughtily.
What she did then was utterly out of character. Maybe it was the unaccustomed champagne she had drunk too fast, suddenly catching up with her. Maybe it was the night, the stars, the music. Maybe it was because she had danced for a good ten minutes with a man who actually wanted to dance with her. She hadn’t actually felled anyone or fallen off her high heels, either. Both were firsts.
Or maybe it was, quite simply, the man himself
.
But in the darkness Abby leaned into him.
He went very still.
Oh, Lord, he had brought this on himself, thought Emilio. Why had he not seen what he was doing? She was so young, his little crane fly. So innocent. He had not thought—
It was going to be like Paris, all over again. Only with the daughter of one of Felipe Montijo’s influential business contacts.
Great stuff, Emilio! He congratulated himself silently. Just what you need to start the new career off with a bang.
More important, it was just what little Abby did not need, with the Montijo girl and her cronies circling like vultures. His sister had taught him just how cruel teenage girls could be.
He had thought he was doing her a favour by dancing her out of the spotlight. But it seemed he was leading her into something worse. Now, how was he going to stop her making a fool of herself? She would never forgive herself.
Abby stood on tiptoe, and brought his head down to meet her kiss.
Hell, thought Emilio.
Her mouth tasted of the wine but her skin smelled of flowers; those roses she had talked about, perhaps. She did not know how to kiss and she was quivering like a newborn colt. His heart turned over. This was dangerous!
He caught hold of her hands and held them away from him, not gently.
‘I think not.’
Abby could not believe it. He sounded so casual, so indifferent. Yet for a moment—surely?—his mouth had moved under hers. Or had she imagined it?
It was as if he had driven that little silver pitchfork right in under the third rib. For a moment Abby literally could not breathe.
Wanted to dance with her? Who was she fooling? Men did not want to dance with plain, awkward schoolgirls who broke things and fell over their own high heels, not for pleasure. He was being kind. Kind like Rosanna and Señora Montijo. Kind like her father.
They all knew she was a disaster. They all tried to help. They all failed.
She wrenched her hands out of his hold. And then, of course, the inevitable happened. The thing that had been threatening all evening. The danger she had skirted so closely ever since Emilio found her among the roses.
The borrowed dress fell off.
Well, it fell to her waist. For a moment she was so busy flapping her hands free that she did not notice.
More Than A Millionaire (Contemporary Romance) Page 3
