by Penny Jordan
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-colored 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 to wards them.
The ex-model looked stunning. She was wearing close-fitting Capri pants low on the hips to reveal an enviably taut lat 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 tonight. We're having a small party to launch the new yacht.'
Carly watched as Ricardo smiled his acceptance with out 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 cafe' opposite the harbor, 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 licking 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 photo graphed with her back to the camera. He also recognized 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 recognized 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 her self 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 to night,' 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.'
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 colored 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 al lowing guests to step forward into the open-fronted en closure, 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-gray color.
'What on earth is in them?' Carly had whispered to their own mai"tre d'.
'Champagne, liqueur and coloring,' he had told her dryly. 'Mariella D'Argent was insistent that they had to be gray!'
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.
The violinist had begun to play, the dinner guests had returned, and Mariella had gone to her suite to get changed into her specially commissioned outfit.
A posse of older men and their too-young arm candy were arriving, the girls all wearing similar teeny weenie, heavily embroidered clinging dresses and tottering on too-high heels. They were all obviously bleached blondes. Carly suppressed a small sigh.
More guests were arriving, and Carly recognized amongst them some very A-list celebrities—a famous actress, the daughter of a pop icon, a couple of ex-models—all of them accompanied by good-looking men.
But Ricardo hadn't arrived as yet. Not that she was looking for him!
'I'd better go in and be on hand, just in case Mariella wants me for anything,' Sarah whispered to her.
Nodding her head, Carly continued to keep a discreet watch on the arrivals.
'We're going to run short of cocktails any minute,' the mai'tre d' muttered warningly.
It took over an hour for all the guests to arrive, by which time Carly was downstairs in the main salon, keeping an eye on the proceedings there and trying to avoid getting too close to Mariella—just in case she should object to Carly wearing her discarded outfit!
Drugs were being passed round openly, and the sound of laughter was growing louder as they began to take effect.
Already some of the guests had started to behave recklessly. A well-known media mogul had grabbed a girl almost in front of Carly and now proceeded to caress her intimately whilst the girl herself encouraged him.
This was just not a lifestyle with which she felt comfortable, Carly reflected with revulsion. She couldn't understand how anyone could find any pleasure in something that ultimately was so very destructive. Drugs were anathema to her. Her eyes shadowed as she remembered how she had seen the misery that they could cause.
She felt a tug on her arm and turned to see one of the older men leering at her. She'd realized from over hearing them talking earlier that they were Russian.
'You come with me,' he demanded drunkenly.
'I'm sorry, I'm not a guest. I'm working,' Carly told him politely, trying to disengage herself.
'Good, then you work for me...in bed,' he responded coarsely. 'I pay you good, eh?'
Carly felt nauseated. Was that how all men saw women—as someone, something they could buy? A commodity they could use? Or did she attract that type because somehow instinctively they could sense what she had come from?
Trash! She winced as though she had been knifed, hearing again the contemptuous word that had been thrown at her so often during her childhood.
'You are trash, do you know that? Garbage. In fact, that's where they found you—lying in the rubbish, unwanted—and that's where you should have stayed.'
Abruptly she realized that she could feel the man's hot breath on her bare skin.
She turned to demand that he release her, and then tensed. Ricardo was standing on the other side of the salon, watching her.
He knew what she was, Ricardo reminded himself savagely, so why did the sight of Carly allowing another man to hold her arm so intimately ill him with jealousy instead of contempt? And why the hell was
he now pushing his way through the crowd milling through the salon, in the wake of the D'Argents, in order to get to her? After all, he had already seen the proprietorial way her male companion had reached for her. And what was driving him through the crowd certainly wasn't rooted in some kind of male solidarity, or an altruistic desire to warn her latest victim of just what she was, was it? He derided himself cynically. The truth was, he preferred not to analyze just what the sight of another man holding on to her was doing to him—or why.
Instead he channeled his anger into deciding that her escort's taste in clothes—for obviously he must have bought her the abomination she was wearing—was about as good as Carly's was in men. The pair of them deserved one another, and Carly deserved everything she would get from selling herself to a man who might just as well have had what he was tattooed across his forehead.
But Carly wasn't here to have a relationship with another man, and he intended to remind her in no uncertain terms that he was supposed to be her prime concern. How dared she reject him and then let that over weight, sweaty nobody put his greasy hands all over her? Where was her pride? Her self-respect? Didn't it ever occur to her that she was intelligent enough to earn her own living and support herself, instead of debasing herself by offering herself to any man who would give her the price of a few designer rags? 'You! Here!'
Carly stared at the man who had spoken to her so arrogantly as he approached, and then realized that he was with the man who was holding her.
'How much do you want?'
He was already opening his wallet and starting to remove money from it.
Another man had joined the other two, taller and leaner, and with an unmistakable air of authority about him. He spoke sharply to them, and to Carly's relief she was immediately released.
'I apologize for my countrymen—I hope you will not condemn all Russian men as unmannerly oafs because of them?'
He was charming, and very good-looking, Carly acknowledged.
'Of course not,' she assured him. 'You are here alone?'