by Penny Jordan
She was trying very hard not to keep looking at the strip of pale flesh where her Cartier watch had been. She had loved it so much—not because of its monetary value but because of what it represented. The owner of the small shop she had found tucked down a narrow alley had expressed neither curiosity nor surprise when she had handed over her watch in return for a wad of euros and a pawn ticket. Once she got home she intended to speak with her bank and arrange to either take out a loan or realise some of her assets so that she could both buy it back and give herself a small cash reserve. She hated the idea of being in debt, but there was nothing else she could do.
As soon as she could snatch an hour she intended to replace the lost clothes as best she could. Which wasn’t going to be easy. True, she had seen a wide variety of trendy shops and boutiques on her way to and from the market, but the clothes at the cheaper end of the market were really only suitable for the very young, whilst those she would have considered suitable were way, way out of her price range.
Luckily, on her way back from the flower market she had spotted a stall selling casual holiday wear and had been able to buy a pair of three-quarter capri pants and a couple of tee shirts. Buying new underwear had proved a little more difficult, but eventually she had found the small shop she had been recommended to try, tucked down a side street off Rue Georges, and had been able to buy a pack of plain white briefs and a simple flesh-coloured bra.
Behind them the harbour was filled with the huge white luxury yachts of wealthy visitors, but the yacht belonging to Prêt a Party’s client surely had to be the most expensive and glamorous looking of all.
Carly had been given a tour of it earlier by Mariella D’Argent’s PA, Sarah, who had also generously offered Carly the use of her own small cabin to change in, and had then insisted on taking her travel-worn clothes to the yacht’s laundry, promising that Carly would have them back before evening.
‘It’s a pity we aren’t the same size, otherwise I could have loaned you something,’ she had commiserated when Carly had told her what had happened with her luggage. ‘Mariella is, though,’ she had added thoughtfully. ‘Okay, she may be a bit taller…’
‘And at least two sizes thinner,’ Carly had tacked on, laughing.
Mariella D’Argent, their client, had been one of the fashion world’s best known and best paid top models before her marriage to her financier husband, and even now, at close to forty, she was still an exceptionally stunning and beautiful woman. And an even more exceptionally spoiled one, Carly had decided, after listening politely to her fretful demands.
‘Mmm, and guess how she stays that way.’ Sarah had grimaced. ‘I swear to heaven one of these days she’s going to get it wrong—sniff Botox up the new nose her surgeon has had to construct for her and inject cocaine into her wrinkles. And then, of course, there’s always the danger that she might take his Viagra whilst he takes her Prozac—or at least there would be if they still shared a bed.’
Carly had tried not to laugh.
‘Anyway, what about one of those fab silky floaty cotton kaftans that are all the rage? A short one, worn over some slinky cream or white pants, and perhaps a stunning belt—that would look terrific. Or a sarong tied round them, perhaps? That’s a very cool look now,’ Sarah had suggested helpfully.
Carly had nodded her head and smiled, even whilst knowing that the type of oh, so casual but oh, so expensive items Sarah was referring to were completely outside her budget. She had seen the kaftans Sarah had described on her way down to the harbour this morning. Gorgeous, silky fine floaty wisps of cotton, with wonderful embroidery and a price tag of well over a whole month’s salary!
The party was due to start at ten o’clock in the evening, prior to which the D’Argents were holding a ‘small’ dinner party for fifty of their guests onshore.
‘So, what do you think of this?’
Dutifully Carly gave her attention to the clever arrangement of greenery and mirrors the florist had used to create a magical effect, making the small reception area appear far larger than it actually was.
‘Very impressive, Jeff,’ she told him truthfully.
Their own construction crew were speedily finishing erecting a framework for the tenting fabric, which was cream with a design on it in black to complement Mariella D’Argent’s theme for the evening: cream, black and grey.
Currently a redhead, she, of course, would look stunning in any combination of such colours!
Looking at the fabric, Carly thought briefly of persuading the man in charge of the construction crew to give her a piece. Wrapped around plain black trousers it would look stunning—but perhaps just a bit too obvious? On the other hand, wearing it, she should be able to melt into her surroundings!
A rueful, mischievous smile illuminated her face—and that was how Ricardo saw her as he drove into the harbour area.
He had thought at first when he got up that she was still sleeping, and it had been nearly midday when he had finally decided to go and check on her.
The discovery that she had left the villa without him knowing had caused him a quixotic mix of emotions, the most dangerous and unwanted of which had been a shaft of pure male possessiveness and jealousy.
Because she had aroused him? She was far from the first woman to have done that, and he certainly hadn’t felt possessive about any of the others!
Deep down inside himself Ricardo was aware of the insistent and powerful effect she had on his emotions. She made him feel incredibly, furiously, savagely angry, for one thing. For another, she was making him spend far too much time thinking about her.
He was still several yards away from her when Carly suddenly became aware of his presence, alerted to it by a sudden tingling physical awareness that had her turning round apprehensively.
Dressed in natural-coloured linen trousers and a white linen shirt, dark glasses shielding his eyes from the brilliant glare of the sun, he looked utterly at home against the moneyed backdrop of St. Tropez, and Carly was not surprised to see several women stop to look appreciatively at him as he strode towards her.
‘How did you get down here?’
The peremptory demand was curt and to the point.
‘I called a cab.’
He was frowning.
‘You could have asked me to drive you.’
She gave him a bitterly angry look and started to turn away from him without responding.
Immediately he placed a restraining hand on her arm.
‘I said—’
‘I heard what you said.’ Carly stopped him. ‘And for your information I would have walked here—barefoot, if necessary—rather than ask you for help.’
A cautionary inner voice tried to remind her that she had decided to behave towards him with cool professionalism.
‘The wounded pride effect won’t cut any ice with me, Carly,’ he told her. ‘I see you’ve managed to acquire a change of clothes,’ he added dryly.
No way was she going to tell him that the cost of the taxi plus these clothes had taken all but a few of her small store of euros, and that without the money she had got from pawning her watch right now she would have had less than the cost of a cup of coffee and a sandwich in her bag. She pulled away from him instead.
A small commotion on the yacht’s walkway had her turning round to watch Mariella D’Argent, flanked by sundry members of her personal staff, walking towards them.
The ex-model looked stunning. She was wearing close-fitting Capri pants low on the hips to reveal an enviably taut flat stomach and hipbones. A contrasting halter-necked top skimmed the perfect, if somewhat suspiciously unmoving shape of her breasts, which were obviously bare beneath it. A large straw hat and a pair of huge dark sunglasses shielded her face from the sunlight, and on her feet she was wearing a pair of impossibly flimsy high-heeled sandals.
She ignored Carly, smiling warmly at Ricardo instead and exclaiming excitedly, ‘Ricardo, darling—how wonderful. I didn’t know you were in St Tropez. You must join us t
onight. We’re having a small party to launch the new yacht.’
Carly watched as Ricardo smiled his acceptance without saying that he had already intended to be present.
‘And you must come to the dinner we’re having first—just a select few of us.’
Behind Mariella’s back Sarah caught Carly’s eye and pulled a face.
‘What are you doing now?’ Mariella was asking. ‘We’re all on our way to Nikki Beach. Why don’t you come with us?’
‘I don’t think so, Mariella,’ Carly heard Ricardo reply firmly. ‘I’m afraid I’ve outgrown the appeal of paying a hugely inflated sum of money to buy a bottle of champagne to spray all over some so-called model’s equally hugely inflated chest.’
Mariella gave a small trill of laughter—which was quite an impressive feat, since not a single muscle in her face moved as she did so, Carly reflected, then pulled herself up mentally for being a bitch.
‘That won’t please her,’ Sarah muttered to Carly as she came to stand next to her. ‘And she’s already in a strop because Hello! magazine has pulled out of giving the party a double-page spread. It’s doing one on some film star’s new nursery instead. Who’s the hunk, by the way?’ she whispered, looking at Ricardo.
‘A potential new client,’ Carly answered her. ‘He wants to see the way we work.’
‘Mmm, well, he’s certainly brightened Mariella’s day for her. What’s the betting she’s already planning how to lure him down to her stateroom and which Agent Provocateur underwear she’s going to be wearing when she does?’
‘I don’t think she’ll have to try very hard,’ Carly answered lightly. ‘They seem very much two of a kind.’
So why was she suffering such a wrenching pain at the thought of them together?
It was physical frustration, that was all, she reassured herself as she continued to ignore Ricardo, keeping her back turned towards him. Because after the pang of longing that had come through her when she had seen him striding towards her she didn’t trust herself to be able to look directly at him.
From the table where he was sitting at a café opposite the harbour, Ricardo had an uninterrupted view of the D’Argents’ yacht and the activity around it being orchestrated by Carly.
It was true that last night he had been too enraged and frustrated to think analytically about the way she was likely to react to his denunciation of her, and it was also true that, had he done so, it certainly wouldn’t have occurred to him that she would retreat behind a screen of icy politeness and professionalism. On the one hand meticulously making sure that he was provided with ample opportunity to witness every aspect of the preparations for the upcoming event and ask whatever questions he wished, and yet on the other managing to convey to him very clearly that she loathed and resented every second she had to spend in his company.
As a portrayal of an affronted woman whose morals were beyond reproach it was very impressive, he admitted. Unfortunately for her, though, he knew she was no such thing. So she was wasting her time.
It was irritating that Prêt a Party’s financial year-end meant that the only figures available for his inspection were virtually a year out of date. He had given instructions that he wanted more up to date financial information, but that, of course, would take time as it would have to be acquired discreetly. He certainly did not want anyone else alerted to the fact that he was considering it as an acquisition.
He picked up the local newspaper a previous occupant of the table had left and opened it. Italian was his first language, but he was fluent in several others, including French. He was idly flicking through the pages when a sentimentally captioned photograph on one of them caught his eye. Frowning, he studied it in disbelief.
An ‘angel of mercy’, the paper fancifully described a young woman holding out sandwiches to a group of beggar children. The photo accompanied a piece on the best ways to help street children, and the woman was quite definitely Carly, even if she had been photographed with her back to the camera. He also recognised the airport location, and the suitcase on the ground behind her—although not the outstretched male hand that was just in the shot, grasping it.
He closed the paper, his mouth grim.
Okay, so maybe—just maybe—her suitcase had genuinely been stolen. As for her act of charity…He hadn’t missed the way she had reached out to the smallest and weakest of the children, making sure that he received his fair share of the food she was handing out. As a boy he had had first-hand experience of what it was like to have to beg for food.
A large limousine drew up in front of Carly and several people got out and started to walk towards her. One of them she recognised as the current ‘in’ classical violinist who had been hired to play as the guests came on board.
Immediately she went to greet him and introduce herself to him and his entourage. The violinist, unlike the catering staff and the florist, had been invited to mingle with the guests later in the evening, and had been given a room in a St Tropez luxurious boutique hotel, paid for by the D’Argents.
Naturally he wanted to know where he would be playing, and dutifully Carly set about answering his manager’s questions.
Inside she was still feeling sick with shock and misery over Ricardo’s accusations, but she was here to do a job, not indulge her own feelings. And besides, she had a long history of having to hide what she was feeling and the pain and humiliation others had inflicted on her.
Her adoptive parents might turn to her for financial assistance, but it had been their own daughter to whom they had given their love, not Carly.
Ricardo got up and came towards Carly.
‘I’m going back to the villa shortly. Presumably you will wish to go back yourself at some stage, in order to get ready for this evening. Should you want a lift—’
‘I don’t,’ Carly told him curtly, without looking up from checking one of the invoices in front of her.
‘Cut out the hard-done-by act, Carly,’ Ricardo snapped, equally curtly. ‘I’m not taken in by it.’
‘I don’t wish to discuss it.’
‘You thought you’d fooled me and you don’t like the fact that I caught you out.’
‘No. What I don’t like is the fact that I was stupid enough to think there was anything remotely desirable about you.’
‘But you did desire me, didn’t you?’
‘You must excuse me, Mr Salvatore. I’ve got work to do.’
She didn’t turn to watch him as he walked away from her, but nevertheless she knew immediately when he had gone.
‘How’s it going?’
Carly gave Sarah, the PA, a slightly harassed smile.
‘Okay! So far there’s only been one major fall-out between the chefs.’
Sarah laughed. ‘You’re lucky,’ she announced, ‘You can add a zero to that so far as the D’Argent’s are concerned. Not that they fall out so much as she falls out with him! Did you manage to find something to wear for later?’
Carly shook her head. ‘I haven’t had time,’ she told her truthfully.
‘Would these be any use, then?’ Sarah asked her, pointing to the overstuffed bin liner she had just put down.
‘It’s some stuff Mariella told me to get rid of ages ago. Look at this—it would be perfect for you for tonight,’ she announced, whipping a mass of silk black fabric out of the top of the bin liner. ‘It’s a sort of top and palazzo pants thing, all in one.’
The fine silk floated mouthwateringly through Carly’s fingers. ‘Are you sure that Mariella won’t mind?’ she asked Sarah worriedly.
‘I doubt she’ll even notice. Not once she hits the champagne and cocaine,’ Sarah answered bluntly.
‘It’s very sheer…’ Carly hesitated.
‘You can wear a body underneath it—although Mariella didn’t. Oh, and you’ll need a pair of high heels—you should be able to pick something up at the market whilst they’re having dinner. And if you can’t get away you can use my cabin to shower and get changed in.’
&nb
sp; Carly gave her a grateful look of relief. ‘I was wondering how one earth I was going to manage to make time for that,’ she admitted. ‘I daren’t leave the chefs alone together for too long, and I’ve promised Jeff I’ll make sure no one touches his box trees!’
Sarah laughed and shook her head. ‘When is my prince going to come and take me away from all this?’ She sighed.
CHAPTER SIX
‘HERE they come…’
Carly gave Sarah a slightly distracted smile as they both watched the long line of limousines queuing up to disgorge the D’Argents’ guests.
Carly had changed into the black outfit Sarah had given her, and was self-consciously aware of how very suggestively revealing it was. Not even the flesh-coloured body she was wearing beneath it could totally offset the effect of the layers of sheer black fabric floating around her body, revealing with every movement the sensual gleam of her skin beneath the silk.
If she had had something else to wear she would have done so. Sarah had intended to be kind, Carly knew, but no way was this outfit, with its tight-fitting top and hip-hugging palazzo pants bottom, suitable as discreet ‘work wear’. But the other outfits had been just as bad.
Already as people approached the gangway they were looking at her—especially the men, some of whom were giving her openly lascivious glances.
Two over-chunky and businesslike dinner-suited bouncer types were checking the invitations before allowing guests to step forward into the open-fronted enclosure, where uniformed staff were waiting to offer welcome glasses of champagne cocktail. The glasses were arranged on white trays, whilst the cocktails were a steel-grey colour.
‘What on earth is in them?’ Carly had whispered to their own maître d’.
‘Champagne, liqueur and colouring,’ he had told her dryly. ‘Mariella D’Argent was insistent that they had to be grey!’
Prior to the D’Argents’ return Carly had made a swift inspection of the yacht’s receptions areas, to check that everything was as it should be. Privately she felt that the glass floor over thousands of small white lights was a bit OTT, but she had been assured that it was nothing compared with what some people asked for.