More Than A Millionaire. Sophie Weston
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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.
He muttered something which her Spanish was not advanced enough to interpret.
And then she realised that the cool breeze was cooler than it should have been. She looked down.
Emilio was fighting his baser self with every weapon he knew. In the starlight her skin looked silvery. The small breasts were exquisite, so gently rounded, so softly firm. She looked like a cool water nymph. But she was warm and her flesh smelled of roses. His head swam.
‘This is not fair,’ he said under his breath, half laughing, half in despair.
He wanted her so badly it hurt.
Abby did not see it. In fact Abby was not seeing anything very clearly through her fog of shame and rejection.
She grabbed at the dress. At the same time, she took an unwary step. There was nothing she could do. She was already off balance. Those killer shoes only completed her downfall.
She tried to recover, to step back from him. But it was too late. Her ankle went over. She lurched, arms flailing.
And fell into his arms.
For an electrifying moment, she was crushed against him. She felt the heat of his body against her shivering; the smooth slide of the shirt against her aroused skin.
And then—
And then—
Somehow he found the strength.
‘Careful,’ Emilio said.
He steadied her with easy competence. His hands were utterly kind. Utterly impersonal. He did not know how he managed. His heart felt as if it was in a vice and his whole body was on a knife edge. But he did it.
For Abby, it was the final humiliation.
She kicked the hateful sandals viciously. The impetus sent the second one spiralling up high, high, so high that for a crazy moment it was outlined against the starry sky.
And he laughed. He laughed.
‘Great shot,’ Emilio said, with amused admiration. Sophisticated admiration.
It was more than she could bear.
Abby fled.
CHAPTER THREE
THERE were three girls in the trendy ladies’ room of Culp and Christopher Public Relations. The tall brunette was painting on eyeliner carefully, pulling a horrible face as she did so. The tall blonde was observing the operation critically.
‘Don’t squint, Abby. You’ll lose the line.’
And the tall bottled redhead was sitting with her booted feet on a marble tabletop, reading aloud from a pile of newspapers.
‘Listen to this,’ she said. “‘The Fab Ab turned me down. Boy band heartthrob Deor Spiro, 22, said, ‘I just wasn’t good enough for her. I will never love again’. See pages 4, 5, 9, 10 and 11. Our Tracy says, ‘The girl has everything. Why should she tie herself down?’ What do you think? Ring the number below and tell us.”” She lowered the paper. ‘Wow, Abby. Your own poll, no less. How did you do it?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Abby. The words were muffled because her tongue was stuck firmly between her teeth as she concentrated. She was still not very good at eyeliner. She finished the job, lifted the tiny brush carefully and stopped grimacing. Recapping the gold tube, she said over her shoulder. ‘It was all done by heartthrob Deor Spiro, 22. And his publicist.’ She added dispassionately, ‘Little toad.’
‘He may be a little toad,’ said Molly di Perretti, pushing aside that newspaper and reaching for the next, ‘but what did you do to him?’
‘Squashed him flat, I bet,’ said Sam Smith. She flicked back her blond hair and met Abby’s eyes in the mirror. ‘Am I right or am I right?’
Abby shuffled her fashionable shoes uncomfortably. ‘Well, he wouldn’t take no for an answer. It was like talking to someone who didn’t speak my language.’
‘He’s a man,’ said Molly, cynical to her black-and-silver fingernails. ‘They don’t engage brain when they’re in coming-on-to-you mode.’
‘Careful,’ warned Sam. ‘Abby’s got all those lovely brothers. She thinks men are great.’
Molly did not blink. ‘I think men are great. I just don’t expect to talk to them.’
‘Well, I do,’ said Abby with spirit.
‘That must have shaken heartthrob Deor Spiro, 22,’ Molly murmured irrepressibly.
Abby gave her sudden wide grin. ‘It did. I don’t think he’d been turned down before.’
‘Oh, he’d been turned down, all right’ said Sam. ‘Many times over the last fifteen years.’ She was ten years older than the other two and spoke with authority of a successful career in the public relations.
Abby did the arithmetic. ‘You mean he’s not twenty-two.’
‘Nearer thirty-five if you ask me. But it’s wonderful what tan stick and a puppyish manner will do for a man.’
‘To say nothing of blond highlights and a photographer who’s an airbrush artist,’ said Molly, surveying a portrait in the next paper critically. ‘Hey, this is a good one, Abby. “The It Girl With Taste.” Love that.’
Abby put her head on one side, surveying her image in the mirror.
‘Taste?’