One Week with the French Tycoon
Page 16
He turned. ‘And don’t forget your passport.’
* * *
Rafael Martinez parked on the gravelled drive of the renovated Caversham Castle Hotel and for a scant second wondered if he had run mad—whether this whole enterprise qualified him for bedlam.
No. Resolve tightened his gut and clenched his hands around the steering wheel. This was the best way forward—the only way to persuade Don Carlos de Guzman, Duque de Aiza, to sell his vineyard.
Correction. The only way to persuade Don Carlos to sell his vineyard to Rafael Martinez. Because Don Carlos despised Rafael without even knowing his true identity.
Anger burned as the voice of Don Carlos echoed in his brain and raked his soul. ‘Men like you, Rafael, are not the kind of men I like to deal with.’
Well, they’d soon see about that. Soon, Grandpapa. Soon. The taste of anticipated revenge was one to savour, but actual revenge would be better yet. Full-bodied and fiery and with a hint of spice—like the Rioja the Martinez vineyards produced.
But first things first—right now he had to persuade Cora to join his scheme. It was more than clear that Cora disliked him—and the only reason he could think of was the fact she too disapproved of his background. To Lady Cora Derwent, as to Don Carlos, he must appear the epitome of jumped-up new money and bad blood.
That new money might be despised but it would be the key—he was sure of that. The previous evening Cora had obviously wanted to tell him to take a hike, but the idea of filthy lucre had prevented her.
A glance out of the car window demonstrated that Cora herself was headed towards the car through the light smattering of rain. She was dressed in a dark blue trouser suit expressly designed, it seemed to him, to minimise her assets, and sensible blue pumps. She looked...muted.
He swung the door of the sleek silver two-seater up and climbed out of the car; stroked the roof of his pride and joy—the glorious creation that was proof he’d left his childhood in the dust.
Not that Cora looked impressed—in fact her lips had thinned into a line of disapproval that Don Carlos himself would have applauded.
‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning.’
Up close, Rafael could see that her ensemble didn’t just mute her: it almost rendered her invisible. Her red hair was pulled back in a severe bun, her posture was slightly slouched, her face ducked down. Perhaps it was a bid not to be recognised. Though why Lady Cora Derwent was masquerading as Cora Brookes was a mystery he fully intended to solve.
True, she had always kept out of the limelight, whilst the rest of her family played social media and celebrity rags for all they were worth. Nothing sold a paper like aristocracy, after all, and the Derwents were as aristocratic as they came—a family that traced its bloodline back to Tudor times.
The thought of bloodlines served as a reminder of his own and he felt the familiar pulse of anger. An anger he crystallised into purpose.
‘You ready to go?’
‘I am.’
Rafael walked round and swung the passenger door up, waited whilst Cora slid inside the low-slung car, censure radiating from every pore. Perhaps she felt the car to be a vulgar show of wealth.
Yet he caught her slight exhalation of appreciation as she nestled back on the sumptuous carbon fibre seat.
As he revved the engine he shifted to face her. ‘Cora, say hello to Lucille.’ Another push of the accelerator elicited a throaty purr. ‘See—I think she likes you.’
A very small smile tilted her mouth, and for a second his gaze snagged on her lips. Unadorned with lipstick, they were full and generous, and when she smiled he wondered why she didn’t do so more often.
‘You can’t fool me. Or Lucille. You are impressed.’
A decisive shake of her head emphatically denied the statement. ‘Nope. Not impressed.’ Then, as if relenting, she reached out to stroke the dashboard. ‘But you can tell Lucille that I prefer a British sports car to an Italian or German one any day. I like it that a UK designer came up with the idea, and I love it that it can compete with those European giants and come out the winner. Apparently Lucille is based on the “Blackbird” spy plane, and—’
She broke off and Rafael blinked. Genuine enthusiasm had illuminated her face and totally eradicated the dowdy image.
‘You’re a car buff!’
‘No. My brother is, so I know a bit about it.’
Her brother. Gabriel Derwent. Super-charismatic, super-intelligent, currently abroad and off the radar for a while, following a public break-up with Lady Isobel Petersen. There had been a harvest of rumours along the celebrity grapevine of a family rift, but these had been countered by the Derwent publicity machine with assurances that the Derwent heir was involved in an exciting, new project, details yet to be revealed.
Cora frowned—perhaps in regret at the mention of her brother, given the identity charade she wished to maintain. Then her lips snapped back into a thin line and she folded her arms across her chest.
‘That doesn’t mean I understand why anyone would spend such an exorbitant amount of money on a car. For the sake of a status symbol.’
‘I can’t answer for “anyone”, but I bought Lucille because of the immense pleasure it brings me to drive her.’
Cora shrugged. ‘I’ll stick to chocolate. Cheaper.’
‘But if you had the money...?’
Her expression clouded. ‘I’d buy more expensive chocolate. Anyway, what you do with your money is your business. I wish you and Lucille well. In the meantime, what’s the plan for the day?’
‘We’re on our way to Newquay airport. Then we fly to Spain.’
Shock etched her features. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘Nope. We’re going to one of the Martinez vineyards in La Rioja.’
‘But why?’
So that I can propose to you.
Somehow he couldn’t see that answer flying. ‘So I can outline the job I have in mind.’
‘So let me get this straight. You are paying me five grand to spend a day at a Spanish vineyard with you so that you can outline a job offer. What’s the catch?’
‘Hold on.’ This conversation needed his full attention. ‘I’ll find a place to stop.’
Minutes later he’d pulled into a layby and shifted his body to face her.
‘There is no catch.’
Her blue eyes focused on his face as her shoulders lifted. ‘There is always a catch.’
‘Not this time. I told you—all I want is for you to hear me out, and if you’re not interested so be it.’
Cora shook her head. ‘You seem mighty sure that I will be.’
‘And you seem mighty sure that you won’t. It’s a risk I’m willing to take. It’s a day of my life—if you refuse, so be it.’
‘So no catch? Nothing nefarious? Everything above board?’
‘No, no and yes.’
Rafael allowed his most reassuring smile to come to the fore but to no avail. Instead of bringing reassurance, his legendary charm seemed to have made her even jumpier.
‘It just seems a little OTT.’
Not given the enormity of his plan.
‘That’s not your worry. Loosen up. Life is full of opportunities. Take this one.’
‘I’m not keen on opportunity.’
The hint of bitterness in her voice didn’t elude him, and a small stab of unexpected sympathy jabbed him even as he filed the information away.
‘You don’t have to take the opportunity,’ he pointed out. ‘You only need to consider it. What have you got to lose? Worst-case scenario: I tell you the job, you say no, and you’ve benefited from a trip to Spain and lunch with me.’
‘Yay...’
Despite the sarcastic inflexion he was sure there was a smidgeon of a smile in
her voice.
‘Come on. Enjoy the day. When’s the last time you took a day off?’
A long time if the slightly peaky look of her skin and the smudges under her eyes were clues.
‘The temperature in La Rioja is twenty-two degrees. Plus it is an incredibly soothing place to be. Snow-capped mountains, leafy vineyards, vast blue skies, medieval villages...’
Enough, already.
An exhalation puffed from her lips and she relaxed back in the seat. ‘OK. I’m sold. But just so we’re clear upfront, this won’t make me swoon at your feet. Or make me want to work for you.’
‘Understood.’ He winked at her as he started Lucille. ‘I love a challenge.’
And this one was a doozy.
Copyright © 2016 by Nina Milne
ISBN-13: 9781488003066
One Week with the French Tycoon
Copyright © 2016 by Christy McKellen
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