The Spaniard's Baby Bargain. Helen Bianchin
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wasn’t an issue, for she travelled light, necessities scaled down to the minimum, and as to freshening up…a quick glance in the en suite mirror revealed her hair was tidy, the soft colour on her lips intact.
The muted burr of her cellphone triggered the usual stab of irritation. Right on time, she perceived grimly, as the call went to message-bank.
Common sense warned she should ignore it. Advice given by her lawyer, endorsed by the legal court, and enforced by the restraining order in place against a man who’d succeeded in making her life a living hell through his delusional psychotic behaviour.
A man who’d kept such traits well-hidden during their brief courtship, she reflected, remembering vividly when they had begun to emerge on their honeymoon.
His desire for children had matched her own. What she hadn’t expected was the level of his disappointment when she didn’t immediately fall pregnant. He had belittled her ability as a lover, damned her with harsh accusations as to her possible sterility…a fact soon endorsed by the medical professionals.
Roger’s physical rage at the diagnosis was the last straw, and Ariane had packed her belongings, moved into an apartment, and begun divorce proceedings.
Instead of removing her from the line of fire, it had pitched her right into it as her life became a nightmare, with confrontations, abusive calls…
Calls which had continued with sickening regularity over time, despite a divorce decree, which merely heightened Roger’s refusal to move on.
Fat chance, she reflected grimly.
Admittedly the confrontations had subsided, but the text messages were a constant, despite her changing her cellphone number numerous times, opting for private listing, yet still he managed to bypass her security measures.
On this occasion the text message was brief, in the shorthand favoured by seasoned SMS users, but nevertheless it sent a chill shiver down her spine.
He knew where she was, who she was with, and the duration of her stay. How? Almost as soon as she asked herself the question, the answer followed…it wouldn’t be too difficult if he employed devious means and managed to bypass the television company’s security.
Something Roger could manage with one hand tied behind his back.
‘Ready?’
The sound of Tony’s voice intruded, and she offered him a slight smile, then collected a slim briefcase. ‘Yes.’
The job at hand demanded her concentration, and she preceded the cameraman into the hallway, choosing a leisurely pace to the head of the staircase before descending to the ground floor.
‘To the right,’ Tony indicated, and she sent him a nod in acknowledgement.
‘Got it.’
Focus, she demanded silently as she switched mind-set and summoned a polite, businesslike smile.
Manolo del Guardo.
She’d seen photographs of the man in newspapers and the social pages of glossy magazines. Read his official biographical details, and scraped the surface of the unofficial.
Yet nothing prepared her for the man’s physical presence.
Or for her own reaction to him.
Tall, with the build of a warrior…albeit a well-dressed one in dark trousers and an equally dark shirt. Hand-tooled shoes, unless she was mistaken, an expensive watch visible beneath rolled-back cuffs.
Dark, well-groomed hair, dark, almost black eyes, and broad sculpted facial features that owed much to his Spanish heritage.
And something else she couldn’t define. A man who’d seen much, weathered more, and developed an impenetrable barrier against any intrusion in his personal life?
Whatever, he resembled a predator indolently at ease. A dangerous one, she perceived, and she fought off the chill shiver threatening to slip down her spine as he moved towards her.
‘Ariane Celeste.’ It seemed important to get the first word in ahead of him. She summoned a brisk smile as she indicated the cameraman at her side. ‘Tony di Marco.’
She extended her hand, and resisted the temptation to hold her breath as he took it firmly within his own, held, then released it before extending the courtesy to the cameraman.
The sizzling heat fizzing through her veins came as a surprise. Accompanied by sensation spiralling from deep within, the combination wasn’t something she coveted, and she deliberately banked it down, capped it, and adopted her usual businesslike façade.
‘I’d like to thank you for inviting us into your home.’
One eyebrow slanted in musing query. ‘The proposal was your own.’ The words held an intonation that was pure New York.
Statistics revealed he’d been born to a single mother in the Bronx who raised him until his mid-teens, when cancer claimed her, leaving him to survive alone.
His success story was legend. His philanthropist interests well-tabled. In his late thirties, he owned homes in various capital cities around the world. Including Sydney, which for the past five years he’d chosen as his base.
‘One you agreed to,’ Ariane responded with polite civility, and glimpsed his faint smile.
‘There were conditions, if you recall?’
‘Of course. I intend to abide by them.’
Manolo del Guardo inclined his head, then he swept an arm towards a clutch of buttoned leather chairs. ‘Please, take a seat. Can I offer you something to drink? Alcohol, coffee, tea?’
Coffee, definitely. The aroma of an expensive fresh brew teased her senses. ‘Coffee, black,’ she requested. ‘One sugar.’
‘Ditto,’ Tony added.
Manolo del Guardo’s dark gaze speared her own, and her chin tilted fractionally. ‘I’ll reserve the alcohol for tomorrow evening,’ she ventured sweetly. ‘I may need it by then.’
Was that a glimmer of a smile, or did the edge of his mouth merely effect a faint twitch?
‘You anticipate I’ll be a difficult subject?’
Oh, he was smooth. Too smooth. And three steps ahead of her.
‘It’s my job to provide an interesting, informative and thought-provoking documentary detailing your rise through the ranks to highlight the man you’ve become today.’
‘Thirty minutes in the life of…’ he indicated. ‘Edited from twenty-four hours of film?’
He did cynical amusement well. But then, so did she. ‘I would hope to wrap it up in twelve.’
Manolo del Guardo poured the coffee, added sugar, and handed them out, then he took a chair opposite.
‘Perhaps, Ariane, you will provide me with an overview of the questions you intend to ask?’
The sound of her name on his lips caused goose-pimples in the most unlikely places. For heaven’s sake, she mentally chastised in self-disgust. Get a grip.
With deliberate control she extracted two printed copies from her briefcase, handed him one, attached her copy to a clipboard, then sat with pen poised.
‘A verbal overview, Ariane.’
There they were again…more goose-pimples. How would he react if she dismissed convention and called him Manolo?
Damn him. If he was needling her… ‘You prefer the informality of a first-name basis?’ She could play, too.
‘As we’re going to be in each other’s company fairly constantly over the next two days, relaxed informality will ease any subsequent tension, don’t you think?’
Yeah, right. No one relaxed in the presence of a predator,