More Than A Millionaire. Sophie Weston
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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