Billionaires: The Playboy. Carol Marinelli
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‘I can imagine.’
‘Oh, believe me, you can’t.’ Ellison shook his head. ‘Especially when the owner of the team refuses to play the corporate game and chat up sponsors. As I said to Abby last week, she’s going to have to find the cash. I’m not bailing her out.’
‘Has she asked?’
‘Not yet!’ Ellison’s smug smile returned. ‘But the rest of her mother’s trust fund is tied up till she’s thirty or married. There’s no chance of that girl marrying, which means she’s got no income for another three years!’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Matteo asked.
‘Because, as you must have heard, I’m on the comeback trail. In July I’m going to be holding my first political fundraiser since my wife’s death. I’ve told Abby that if she comes, and looks the part, and by that I mean she loses the jeans and oil rags, then I’ll give her a cash injection to tide her over.’
‘Has she said that she’s coming?’
‘Not yet,’ Ellison said. ‘But I need her to be there. Image is everything in politics and I don’t want there to be even a whiff of discord. Annabel, my eldest daughter, will do the right thing but I want Abby to be here too. I want my daughter, at my function, wearing her mother’s necklace. I want her looking like a woman for once...’
She looked all woman to Matteo.
‘Can you manage that?’ Ellison asked.
‘Sorry?’ Matteo frowned.
‘You said that you like a challenge. You like women—see if you can sweet-talk her and get Abby to show up here, looking the part. If she does, at the end of the night, the necklace is yours.’
‘How am I supposed to persuade her if you can’t...?’ Matteo started but then, guessing Ellison’s intent, he shook his head. ‘No way.’
Ellison just laughed. ‘I’m not asking you to seduce her. I don’t think you’d get very far. Rumour has it my daughter isn’t particularly interested in men.’
No, Matteo really, really didn’t like this man.
‘She hasn’t dated anyone since Hunter and it hasn’t gone unnoticed,’ Ellison said, frowning at the photo. ‘I want that rumour quashed. I want Abby here, dressed like a woman and with a handsome chap by her side.’ Ellison returned his gaze to Matteo and continued. ‘You could be a potential sponsor, considering investing in her team.’
‘It’s April,’ Matteo pointed out. ‘Your fundraiser isn’t until July. How long am I supposed to be considering investing for?’
‘I’d be giving you the necklace for nothing, perhaps the money you’ve earmarked for it could go towards convincing my daughter that you want to sponsor the team.’
‘And if she doesn’t come to your fundraiser?’
‘You don’t get your necklace.’
Matteo could cheerfully have knocked Ellison’s lights out but instead he watched as Ellison went over to the safe and took out a gleaming polished wooden box and handed it to him.
Oh, my God, Matteo thought as he undid the intricate latch and saw the necklace firsthand.
Not even the photos did it justice.
How the hell had his grandfather come by this? Matteo wondered, and he could see now why he would want it back.
Jewellery had never really impressed Matteo.
This piece couldn’t fail to.
‘I doubt it’s possible to get Abby here,’ Ellison said.
Matteo looked over to Ellison and then back to the necklace and he took Ellison’s words as a dare—which was something he never said no to.
And his grandfather wanted the necklace so badly.
No, he could never be the man his grandfather wanted him to be but this he could do.
‘Can you give me your daughter’s contact details?’ Matteo asked.
His mind was made up—he would get this Lost Mistress back to where it belonged.
ELLISON HAD BEEN right about one thing—his daughter Abby really was terrible at the corporate stuff.
It had taken two weeks for her to reply to Matteo’s email and at best her response had been lukewarm.
Of course Matteo had looked into the Boucher team more closely by then.
He was a risk-taker by nature, but they were, even by his standards, more of a gamble than one should take.
It was their second year in competition and their best was a fifth place last year. Frequently, they placed last or second last. Now they were competitors in the Henley Cup—a prestigious international event, held over three races.
They weren’t considered a mention.
Matteo finally decided to call Abby but effusive wasn’t a word that had sprung to mind when she told him that no, they couldn’t meet, given that she was on her way to Dubai.
‘So am I,’ he, on impulse, had replied.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’ve got a couple of racehorses that I want to look at and my sister Allegra is holding a charity event in May... Hold on.’ Matteo checked his calendar. ‘Yes, that’s on Saturday the seventh. How about lunch on the Friday?’
‘I won’t be able to get away for lunch.’
‘Dinner, then?’ Matteo persisted and she returned his offer with a long stretch of silence. ‘Breakfast?’
‘Just stop by the track.’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll look forward...’
She had already rung off.
* * *
The heat was fierce in Dubai.
And as for the humidity!
Suffice to say, with the hangover Matteo had, he would far rather be in the airconditioned comfort of his hotel than in the goldfish bowl of a racetrack. The sun seemed to be coming at him from all angles as he made his way to the Boucher sheds.
Matteo had been in Dubai for three days and what an amazing three days they had been. The first had consisted of a wild welcome on board his friend Sheikh Kedah’s yacht.
Kedah seemed hell-bent on returning the wild week Matteo had given him on a recent trip to New York City. The second day had been spent galloping at breakneck speed with his friend along a beach. Matteo had taken a tumble and dislocated his shoulder. The sheikh had called for his private physician to put it back. With Matteo’s arm strapped and a little out of action they had hit the racetracks and placed a few bets on a camel race. The potential two years’ jail time for illegal betting had only served to give Matteo an extra high!
It had been a giddy introduction to Dubai but now he had crashed back to earth—the smell of oil was nauseating and the sound from the track had his molars aching. He’d lost the sling that the physician had provided and so his shoulder was killing him.
And Abby Ellison was nowhere to be seen.
It was after four and he wondered if she might have finished for the day. A group of guys were watching as Pedro, the Boucher driver, put the car through its paces. He knew it was Pedro because Matteo recognised the deep green of the Boucher car.
Matteo had done some further research on the team, of course.
They had entered in the prestigious Henley Cup. A series of three races—Dubai,