More Than A Millionaire (Contemporary Romance)

by Sophie Weston

  She would have been astonished if she had seen the trepidation with which his arrival was awaited in the Madrid office.

  ‘He’s going to be so mad,’ said his Spanish PA, her face ashen. ‘Can’t we do something?’

  ‘Like what?’ said the chief executive officer of Diz España. He was more composed but no less concerned. ‘I’ve never even heard of the woman.’

  So when Emilio walked in, he found an office in the grip of cathedral gloom.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he said, used to a cheerful buzz.

  ‘Press cuttings,’ said his faithful PA of ten years.

  She thrust a folder at him and almost ran out of his room.

  Emilio turned it over. It was not thick. Only one press cutting. He judged. With a sense of foreboding he opened it.

  There was a colour photograph of Abby. She had clearly posed for it. She was raising a champagne flute to the photographer. But it was not the champagne that Emilio looked at. She had a half moon curved sexily round the corner of her pouting mouth. Her nails were the same colour as her hair. And her skirt was split to the waist.

  For a moment Emilio quite simply did not believe it. Then he looked at the partying figures in the background, the tell-tale shaky eyeliner above her right eye. Oh, yes, this was no fake.

  He felt his rage ignite. He went physically hot with it. Then deadly cold.

  He applied himself to the text of the article.

  Monday was a thin day for Tracy’s Town Gossip. So Abby got the full treatment. And so did he.

  The Fab Ab Hits The Scene.

  Lovely Lady Abigail Templeton Burke, snapped at the Ariadne Films’ Moon Maid party.

  The Fab Ab, 25, recently hit the headlines when she dumped Deor Spiro of boy band Hackney Wick. Deor said he had no idea why the daughter of the Earl of Nunnington went off him. Now Tracy, exclusively, can give him a clue.

  Gorgeous Abby, who works at PR firm Culp and Christopher, has been changing her image. First her hair. Then her gear. And her colleagues are all asking why.

  They’re answering, too. The word on the street is that the Fab Ab has a new squeeze. She disappeared from her trendy basement flat in SE11, to reappear in even more upmarket SW3. Tracy hears that only last week the lovely ex deb was out looking for film set furniture to glam up her new pad.

  Or is it hers? Templeton Burke is not among the listed owners in swish St. Francis Place. A listed resident on the floor where the Fab Ab has been seen getting out of the lift, however, is Emilio Diz.

  Dishy Diz, readers will remember, has broken more hearts than Tracy has had hot dinners. Once an international tennis star, then a software tycoon, these days Emilio is into property. Some of the property he has checked out in recent years is movie star Callie Dean, heiress Florita Guzman, and socialite Rosanna Sanchez Montijo—see photographs.

  But Emilio was not around this weekend. His office didn’t know where to get in touch with him when Tracy rang. Is that why the Fab Ab went partying alone?

  Emilio’s loss is some lucky guy’s gain. Check those legs. Go for it, Ab!

  Emilio flung the folder away from him.

  In the outer office everyone heard the squashy sound as the cardboard hit the wall. They all winced.

  The door to the inner sanctum was flung open. Emilio appeared at it. Every single person in the room took one look at his black frown and grouped around the PA’s desk for mutual support.

  But when he spoke it was with low-voiced control.

  ‘Beatriz, get me on the next to flight to London. There’s something I have to deal with.’

  He closed the door with a studied care that was somehow more alarming than violence.

  Everyone let out a shaky breath.

  ‘Well at least he didn’t say someone,’ said the post boy practically.

  ‘But that’s what he meant,’ said the PA, dialling. ‘Poor woman. She doesn’t know what she’s let herself in for.’

  ‘Poor woman indeed. I hope she’s not in love with him,’ said her tender-hearted assistant. ‘She’s really blown it now. He’ll never look at her after this.’

  Abby stared at the page of newsprint as if she had forgotten how to read English.

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ she said.

  Molly di Perretti, unusually subdued, brought her coffee.

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you’re living with Diz? Is that why he didn’t call?’

  Abby looked up from the newspaper clipping. ‘Well—it’s complicated,’ she hedged. ‘But basically I suppose—yes, I am.’

  ‘You’re living with him? You?’

  ‘I’m old enough,’ said Abby defensively.

  ‘And six months ago you still had straw in your hair.’ Molly sounded despairing. ‘Oh, hell, this is all my fault. I should never have told you to go out and party.’

  ‘You didn’t. And anyway, I do what I want, not what anyone tells me,’ said Abby, revolted.

  ‘So why did you get mixed up with Emilio Diz? You know what he’s like. His sort of guy is in and out of this place all the time. They’re good fun and they’re usually great in bed. But they’re not your type.’

  Abby bridled. ‘What do you mean, not my type? Why should I turn up my nose at a man just because he’s great in bed?’

  ‘Oh, Abby.’ There were tears in Molly’s eyes. ‘You’re a commitment junky. You’re always running round doing stuff for your family. Hell, even for your godchildren. You’ve never loved ’em and left ’em in your life.’

  ‘But I’ve changed—’

  ‘Not that much. It takes more than turquoise hair to turn a home-maker into a brazen hussy,’ said Molly, bravely attempting a joke.

  ‘I thought I’d learned so much.’

  ‘You have. But you’re still human. And when it comes to heartlessness, you ain’t in the same class as Emilio Diz. Take it from an expert.’

  A sudden suspicion occurred to Abby. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘No,’ said Molly. ‘But I’ve been a groupie and I’ve been a publicist. I know guys like him. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Get out before he takes you to pieces.’

  Abby looked down at the newspaper cutting.

  ‘After this piece of nastiness, I’m probably not going to get the choice to do anything else,’ she said.

  She tried to call him. But the number on his business card just transferred her to his message service and she did not know what to say to it. So she hung up.

  Abby was worried. A couple of journalists tried to get in touch with her at C&C. Fortunately she had already put up the barrier of voice mail but it was not a comfortable feeling. And if they went chasing Emilio with more success than she had had…It did not bear thinking about.

  ‘Relax,’ said Molly, seeing her agitation. ‘He’s had more experience at this game than you have. He’ll handle it with one hand tied behind his back.’

  ‘Yes, but I should have been more careful. He shouldn’t have to handle it.’

  Molly shrugged. ‘Probably won’t give a toss.’ She gave a shadow of her old grin. ‘He’s not a sensitive flower like you.’

  ‘You could be right,’ admitted Abby.

  But she was doubtful. Her instincts told her that Emilio would be mad as fire. And that he had every right to be.

  So she was not surprised when she got back to the flat that night to find an overnight case in the hall and a dark overcoat thrown over the end of the drawing room sofa.

  The drawing room itself was empty. So was the kitchen. So was the dining room.

  Abby stood in the corridor and looked at the closed door of the master bedroom.

  ‘Emilio?’ she called.

  She was quite proud of the way she sounded. Friendly, confident, no trace of guilt. Yes, it wasn’t a bad effort at standing her present feelings on their head. She had never felt more miserably responsible in her life.

  It was wasted. There was no reply. Perhaps he had come in and gone out ag
ain.

  She prowled round the sitting room for clues. No message on the desk. But—yes, there were his keys on the console table under the lamp.

  She went back to the hallway and called again, louder.

  The door of the master suite slammed open. And Abby’s stomach did a tap dance through the floor. She stood rock-still, her mouth open.

  Emilio had been in the shower. He had a towel round his waist. He was rubbing his hair vigorously with another.

  His skin was golden. His muscles were startling. And his expression was volcanic.

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ said Abby involuntarily.

  He stopped towelling his hair. His dark eyes stayed molten, though.

  ‘Well, well. The Fab Ab.’

  Abby flinched. ‘Don’t call me that.’

  ‘Why not? It seems to be your preferred label.’ His accent was very strong.

  ‘Of course it isn’t.’

  ‘No? Then maybe it’s what in the business world we call your unique selling point.’

  Abby was getting angry in her turn. ‘There’s no need to be nasty. I’m as unhappy about that article as you are. But you’re at least as much responsible as I am. If you weren’t Dishy Diz the Celebrity Slayer they would never have mentioned you. And they might have left me alone, too.’

  ‘Are you saying it’s my fault?’ He sounded outraged.

  ‘No, of course not. But you’re not exactly low profile, are you?’

  ‘I,’ he said with deadly precision, ‘don’t pose for cameras with my clothes falling off.’

  That hurt. Because, of course, she had posed for that photograph and it must be perfectly obvious that she had.

  So she fought on the other front. ‘My dress wasn’t falling off. It was perfectly respectable.’

  ‘There was not enough of it to be perfectly respectable,’ Emilio said crushingly.

  She flushed. But she was not going to let him get away with that. She had enough to apologise for. She could not afford to let unfounded accusations go unchallenged.

  ‘You’re very puritanical for someone who dates three women at a time,’ she snapped.

  ‘Three—’ He looked thunderstruck.

  ‘Callie Dean, some heiress or other and Rosanna Montijo,’ she quoted at him.

  ‘You believe that nonsense?’

  ‘Why not? You did.’

  He glared but for a moment, it seemed, she had silenced him. Then, to Abby’s dismay, he returned to the one point on which she knew her defence was shaky.

  ‘So why did you give them a picture?’

  Abby bit her lip. ‘I didn’t think—’

  ‘I can believe that.’

  She raised her voice. ‘I didn’t think he would use it like that. I thought it would probably get lost on the cutting room floor. At the most, I expected him to put it in a montage of pictures of the party. You know the sort of thing. Ermentrude Gutbucket enjoying a joke with the Shah of Euphoria. That sort of thing.’

  He regarded at her unflatteringly. ‘Why? You weren’t enjoying a joke with anyone. Except the reptile who took the picture I guess.’

  Abby sucked her teeth. She could not deny it. ‘Sorry,’ she said in a small voice.

  ‘Who was he?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Sort of,’ she muttered.

  ‘Sort of? What does that mean?’

  ‘I thought he was a friend.’

  He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Journalists don’t have friends. They have angles.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Think about it,’ he advised.

  He pushed a hand through his damp hair. The fury seemed to have died down, at least for the moment. Abby saw it with relief.

  ‘I haven’t talked to any journalist today. They’ve all been calling but I kept my head down.’

  ‘Well, thank God for that, at least,’

  She looked at him with dislike. ‘Everyone at C&C,’ she said pointedly, ‘was very sympathetic. Very supportive.’

  ‘Of course they were. It’s in their interest.’

  Angry tears leaped to her eyes.

  ‘They’ve been kind,’ she protested. ‘They don’t need to be. I’m still new. They only employ me because they need someone to run errands.’

  ‘I know why they employ you,’ Emilio said coldly. ‘Turquoise hair and a title.’

  There was a shattered silence.

  ‘You are hateful,’ Abby whispered.

  She turned her back on him and stormed back into the kitchen. The tears were starting to fall. She couldn’t bear it if Emilio saw that. She could not afford any weakness in front of him.

  She tore off some kitchen roll and blew her nose vigorously. Then she blotted her eyes with care. No tell-tale mascara smudges for her.

  She banged about the kitchen loudly. That ought to tell him that she was making coffee, just as she always did. And she did not give two hoots for him and his criticism. If she had known how, she would have whistled something upbeat to show how little she cared. But she had never mastered whistling and she did not want to risk a song. Her voice might break.

  Eventually, the water boiled. Abby made the coffee she did not want and sat down at the kitchen table. To all appearances she was lost in thought. But she kept one eye on the door, half wary, half belligerent.

  She did not have long to wait.

  Emilio had got rid of the towel but he had not managed to replace it with much. Just a pair of black jeans. His feet were bare and so was his golden, gleaming torso.

  Abby was startled. This, she thought, was not fair. She gulped audibly and swallowed some scalding coffee by mistake.

  ‘Ow.’

  He did not notice. He came and sat opposite her. He seemed to have got rid of his temper, too. At least, his eyes were not smouldering anymore. In fact she could not read any expression at all in the dark depths.

  ‘OK,’ he said.

  As if he was in the middle of one of his business negotiations, Abby thought resentfully.

  ‘We have a situation here. I can contain it but I need to know the truth. I want you to tell me what else you’ve told this guy.’

  Abby forgot her blistered palate in her indignation. ‘Nothing. I told him nothing.’

  ‘So how did he find out about the furniture?’

  She spread her hands helplessly. ‘Pass.’

  He looked at her narrowly. ‘You’re taking this very lightly, for a girl who was willing to sleep in a student dive to avoid publicity.’

  Abby studied the tabletop. ‘It’s not the same thing.’

  ‘No? How is it different?’

  She struggled to explain. ‘Well, my father’s wife hasn’t got anything to do with it, for one thing. If anyone gets hurt it’s just me. My family isn’t involved.’

  He drew a breath as sharp as if he had run a splinter under his nail.

  But when he spoke, his tone was even. ‘No,’ he said pleasantly. ‘They’re not. I am.’

  Abby looked up so fast, her spine jerked.

  ‘Why should you care?’

  His eyes were almost black. ‘Is that a polite way of telling me I don’t count?’

  She had been wrong. He had not got rid of his temper. It was still there. Oh, it was banked down and he was not letting it show. But underneath he was furious.

  Abby felt as if she was being suffocated by that fury. All the more so because she did not understand it.

  She said, in a bewildered voice, ‘You can’t be bothered about that sort of gossip.’

  ‘I have a family, too.’

  ‘Then they must be used to it,’ she said hardily. ‘The columnists have been linking your name with dozens of women for years. I’ve got a file full of your old press clippings at the office.’

  The moment she said it she knew she shouldn’t have done. His eyes narrowed until they were almost invisible under the fierce brows.

  ‘You—have—what?’

  The oxygen supply reduced even fur
ther.

  She tried to explain. ‘The guys at C&C have been sending them to me.’

  ‘So you have been researching me?’ His accent was like a machine gun. ‘Is this an orchestrated campaign?’

  ‘No,’ gasped Abby, appalled.

  He ignored that. ‘Can I look forward to another episode tomorrow?’

  She leaped to her feet. ‘No!’

  He looked her up and down. Slowly. Insultingly.

  ‘I should warn you. You’ve picked the wrong man for games.’

  Abby huddled her arms round herself. ‘Oh, I know that,’ she said bitterly. ‘Any games you play, you play to win.’

  Emilio got to his feet.

  ‘So long as that’s clear. I also prefer to play fair,’ he said obscurely.

  And before she could demand an explanation, the oxygen supply gave out altogether.

  It was not polished and it was not seductive. But it was very efficient.

  One moment she was standing there, hugging herself and flinching under his basilisk displeasure. The next she was in his arms. She had not even seen him move. But he prized her arms apart and clipped them ruthlessly behind her back.

  And then he was kissing her.

  Abby’s thoughts whirled.

  His mouth was hard. His body was hard. His chest felt like an iron grille. The constraining hand at her wrists gripped like a vice.

  But…

  But…

  All the experience of the last nine years dissolved, as if she had never known any other man. As if in a dream, Abby stood there and let him feast on her mouth.

  She thought, Why didn’t I remember that it felt like this?

  She thought, He feels like an alien. Why don’t other men feel like an alien? It’s exciting.

  She thought, So this time he’s kissing me. At last!

  And then, in a sudden blaze of triumph, He’s shaking.

  She wrenched her hands free and flung them round his neck.

  Suddenly his mouth wasn’t hard anymore. Just slow and deliberate.

  Abby ran her hands over his skin. She luxuriated in the strangeness of it, the warmth and the shocking sensitivity. His gasp of reaction thrilled her.

  His hold tightened and she curved into his body as if she had been designed for it.