by Abby Green
Rico leant forward, suddenly threatening. ‘Yes, about those reasons…You’ve not been entirely forthcoming in that area. You’re determined to believe the worst of me—that’s been clear since the moment we met again—and you’ve obviously thought the worst since you knew who I was. That’s why you never contacted me, isn’t it? While I find it hard to believe, I’m willing to bet that you slept with me that night because you truly did think I was just some anonymous person, and not one of the wealthiest men in the world.’ He said this with no arrogance, just stated the fact.
Gypsy’s skin tightened across her bones and she confirmed his suspicion, saying faintly, ‘I didn’t know anything about you till I saw you on the news that morning…’
Her brain whirred sickeningly. He was issuing a direct challenge and skirting far too close to the truth. He couldn’t know about her father; he couldn’t know the dramatic step she’d taken after he had died. If he shared the antipathy her father had felt for him, he’d use that for sure. And he couldn’t know about her mother’s mental instability. He wouldn’t understand—few people would—and he would use all that information to make her appear an unfit mother.
She was aware on some level that this fear was coming from a visceral place, not necessarily rational, but she couldn’t control it. She didn’t see herself ever being able to trust Rico. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d trusted anyone.
How could she, when her formative experiences had been learnt so painfully at the hands of someone who hadn’t even been as powerful?
She reiterated. ‘As I told you before, I had no desire to be dragged through the courts, and your departure that morning had left me in no doubt as to how reluctant you were to see me again.’
He seemed to consider saying something for a long time, and eventually he said roughly, ‘I told you the day I came to your flat that I regretted leaving you the way I did.’
Gypsy swallowed. She’d dismissed his words as an easy platitude at the time, but now they skated over her skin and made little tremors race up and down.
His mouth tightened into a thin line. ‘I rang the hotel…most likely just after you would have seen me on the news…but you’d already left…’
Gypsy stopped breathing. She had the vaguest recollection of a phone ringing as she’d walked away from the room, but she had assumed it was coming from somewhere else. That had been him? To say what? That he wanted to see her again? But even as she thought that, and her heart clenched treacherously, she realised that she’d known who he was by then…so she would still have run, disgusted at having let herself be seduced so easily by someone like him. She’d still been raw after her father’s death—especially as she’d just found out the extent of his cruelty to her mother.
Gypsy tore her eyes from his and looked down, feeling very wobbly inside. ‘You say that you rang. Whether you did or not is a moot point now.’
‘Clearly.’
Rico’s voice was harsh enough to have Gypsy’s eyes meet his, and something in those grey depths made her breath hitch.
And then, moving abruptly, Rico put down his napkin and stood up. ‘I have to go into my office here today. The event we’re going to tonight is black tie—it’s for a charity I’m patron of. Be ready to go out at seven p.m.’
Gypsy watched as Rico strode powerfully from the room, and when he’d gone the absence of his intense energy made her sag like a lead balloon. She’d been to dozens of society charity events, as her father had been patron of many—but only to enhance his ego, avail himself of tax benefits, and occasionally to dip into the funds for himself.
He’d never got caught. He’d been too good at creating smoke and mirrors so people didn’t ask questions or looked the other way. But Gypsy had known, though she’d always been too terrified of the potential punishment if she did something as audacious as call the police. But nevertheless her father had managed to punish her for her knowledge.
Once again she was being hurtled back in time. With effort she forced her mind away. She’d never wanted to be party to something like this again, and here she was, right in the middle of it. She let familiar cynicism wash over her as she thought of the prospect of the evening to come, but knew it was a weak attempt to avoid the thought of going out on Rico’s arm in public.
She couldn’t even drum up the disgust she’d expected to feel at the thought of seeing Rico posture and preen purely to raise his profile. She had an uncomfortable presentiment that he would confound her expectations again.
That evening Gypsy sat beside Rico at the head table, in a thronged and glittering ballroom in one of Buenos Aires’ best hotels. She was incensed that her distaste for this milieu was being constantly diminished because she was so distracted by how gorgeous Rico looked in a classic black-tie tuxedo.
Isobel was minding Lola, and had kindly helped Gypsy to get ready earlier. She’d endeared herself to Gypsy even more when she’d confided with feeling that she and Rafael had a pact that they’d only go to charity events if and when it was absolutely necessary, and only if Rafael could promise that he would try to extort as much money as possible out of the assembled Buenos Aires elite. After they’d given over their own generous donation, of course.
Gypsy had been happy with her appearance once Isobel had left. Her hair was straightened and twisted into a classic chignon, and her plain dark green silk dress, sleeveless and with a cowl neckline, fell to the floor. She looked the part—the part she’d been trained well to play by her own father when it had suited him to act out the role of devoted parent, which had only ever lasted as long as they’d been on public display.
When Rico had come into the bedroom earlier and asked, with a horrified glance at her head, ‘What have you done to your hair?’ Gypsy had felt like a gauche teenager again—acutely self-conscious and aware that she just didn’t have the right look for this world.
Defensively she’d touched her hair and said, ‘Isobel straightened it for me. It’s tidier like this…I thought for the dinner—’
But he’d just said curtly, ‘Come on, we’ll be late,’ and strode out of the room, making Gypsy want to slam and lock the door behind him.
Now she looked resolutely away from Rico, and tried not to let the fact that his powerful thigh was brushing against hers intermittently bother her. But she couldn’t pretend to herself that she wasn’t affected, and squirmed inwardly at the thought of Rico knowing.
Suddenly a hush descended on the room as a compère got up and signalled to the crowd. She heard Rico sigh deeply beside her and snuck a look. His face was expressionless, but his jaw was tight, and she knew in that instant that he too hated this. Reeling at that information, she watched dumbly as he got up with fluid athletic grace after being introduced, and walked to the podium with thunderous adoring applause resounding around the room.
Up until that point Gypsy hadn’t taken much notice of what the charity in question was, but now she recognised it as one of her father’s own pet projects. One that he’d taken funds from. Her face burned with mortification at the realisation, and also at the weak fear that had led her to keep quiet about it when she’d been younger.
Rico was talking now, and Gypsy became quickly mesmerised by the simple articulacy of his words and his obvious genuine passion for the cause. A few people shifted uncomfortably around her; clearly they’d just expected him to get up and smile and say nothing of any consequence. But Rico was not going anywhere yet.
He knew his subject well. He was listing facts and figures that made her feel dizzy, and he was not afraid of mentioning the unpalatable stuff that people at an event like this preferred not to hear. To her knowledge he hadn’t even brought a piece of paper, but with simple eloquence he put it to the crowd to put their money where their mouths were and started an impromptu bidding session—the prize being a new car of the winner’s choice, from him. She could see exactly what he’d done; he’d embarrassed them into action, and now they couldn’t bid fast enough.
The
woman to Gypsy’s left, who had been introduced as the co-ordinator of the charity, shook her head and smiled conspiratorially. ‘I don’t know where we’d be without him. He consistently shakes people out of their complacency and inertia. If only everyone could be as dedicated. There are far too many poseurs and charlatans standing in as concerned philanthropists.’
Gypsy swallowed painfully.
Finally he was finished—once an obscene amount of money had been bid. Everyone started to stand up and move about. Rico was coming back down to the table and, to Gypsy’s surprise, with singular intent he grabbed her arm and said succinctly, ‘OK I’ve had enough. Let’s get out of here.’
Gypsy trailed after him, seeing the way people approached him but then stood back as if intimidated by his grimness. She almost felt sorry for them. ‘Don’t you want to stay? Talk to people?’
He glanced back at her. ‘Not unless they want to pay for my time and donate more money. Do you want to stay?’
Gypsy all but shuddered and shook her head eagerly. ‘No.’
A questioning gleam lit his eyes for a second, but then it was gone, and he led the way until they were back in the car and driving away. Rico was already opening his bow-tie with a grimace, and the top button of his shirt. Gypsy was transfixed by his hand, those long fingers…
Suddenly his hand stopped moving, and with a panicky feeling in her gut Gypsy met speculative grey ones. He quirked a small smile. ‘If you keep looking at me like that I’m going to do something about it. I meant what I said in London. I want you, and I intend to have you, Gypsy. On my bed, underneath me…’
Her face flaming now, Gypsy hissed, ‘Stop that right now.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s going to happen, Gypsy. We might not trust each other, or even like each other very much, but that’s beside the point. I won’t force you, though. You’ll admit you want me too before we sleep together. I’m prepared to wait…for now. But I’ll warn you I’m not a patient man.’
Gypsy tried to look away but couldn’t. She felt hot inside at his obvious intent, and extremely susceptible having witnessed Rico at that charity event—having seen his clear distaste for the whole scene and his obvious determination to beat the cynics at their own game.
Right now she felt very confused, because the man she’d just seen working a jaded crowd to his advantage was someone she very possibly wanted to like her. Feeling very shaky inside, she mustered up a futile and rebellious, ‘Don’t hold your breath…’
Chapter Nine
THREE days later they were sitting on Rico’s plane again, winging their way back to Europe—to Greece. Rico was immersed in work at the back of the plane, and Gypsy had Lola curled sleepily on her lap, exhausted after exciting days getting to know her new cousins. She was already worshipping the ground that Beatriz walked on, and doting on Luis as if he were her own brother.
Gypsy had met Rico’s mother—a small dark woman with the saddest eyes she’d ever seen. It had been clear that no familial love existed between the brothers and her, despite Isobel’s valiant efforts to include her in everything. She hadn’t even looked all that surprised or overjoyed at being presented with a brand-new granddaughter.
But, more than that, Gypsy couldn’t get over how, in the space of the last three days, her impression of Rico had changed so much.
After witnessing his distaste at another society charity function the night after the first outing, she’d ascertained that, while he wanted to contribute something, he had as much cynicism for the monied elite as she did. Even more disconcerting had been his reaction to seeing her hair straightened again. He’d growled at her in the car. ‘I don’t want to see your hair like that again. In future leave it alone.’
His words had had a seismic effect on her after years of having it drummed into her by her father that she looked like an unkempt mess, not fit for polite society. Feeling more and more uncomfortable at clinging on to her prejudices, the following day Gypsy had asked Isobel if she could use the computer in the house study, and she had done what she should have done as soon as she’d found out she was pregnant. She’d run a Google search for Rico.
She’d read as much as she could, with a sinking heart and a sick feeling her belly. Far from her father’s assessment of Rico—which she realised now must have come out of petty jealousy—Rico Christofides was universally lauded as one of the cleanest entrepreneurs in the world. He played harshly and ruthlessly, yes, but always fairly.
Her father’s name was even mentioned in a couple of articles, citing instances when he’d tried—stupidly, by all accounts—to take over some of Rico’s interests. Rico had merely swatted him back like an inconsequential fly. No wonder her father had hated him so much; he hadn’t been able to beat him. And he’d been humiliated in the process.
Gypsy had even seen that while they’d been in London Rico had been involved in extremely delicate negotiations to save an electronics plant on the verge of collapse in northern England. If it had gone under it would have pushed an already economically challenged area over the edge. But Rico had managed to pull it back from the brink, and not only that but also to create more jobs in the process…
She’d felt even sicker, because those were the negotiations she’d taunted him about that day in the penthouse, when they’d been stuck inside thanks to the paparazzi.
She heard movement beside her, and looked over to see Rico take a seat on the other side of the cabin. Treacherous flames of desire and illicit excitement feathered through Gypsy’s veins. He put his head back now and closed his eyes. Gypsy felt a lurch in her chest at seeing faint dark circles under his eyes. And when she recalled how gently he’d held Luis the day before at the christening she felt something even scarier.
Suddenly his head snapped back down. Those eyes opened and looked straight at her. Heat flooded her face when she recalled how she’d woken only that morning to find Rico on one arm, staring at her with a wicked gleam in his eye, his broad and powerful chest bare.
She’d watched, instantly awake and breathless, as he’d taken the pillow from the centre of the bed and thrown it to the other side of the room. Suddenly filled with nebulous emotions, acutely aware of how much she’d misjudged him, she’d entreated huskily, ‘No, Rico,’ terrified he’d see her vulnerability.
But he’d just come closer and closed the gap between them. His skin had been hot and silky as he’d trapped her under one arm, bicep bulging. ‘Yes, Rico. I find that my patience is running very thin.’
Every nerve-point in Gypsy’s body had come alive, treacherously telling of her inability to deny this desire. His head had lowered and his mouth had slanted over hers, stifling anything else she might say. After a futile moment of trying not to react to his kiss, to his proximity, Gypsy’s mouth had opened and Rico had plundered ruthlessly, tongue stabbing deep, making Gypsy’s back arch.
Her hands had instinctively clung to his arms, fingers digging into hard muscle. Before she’d known how he did it, the buttons of her pyjama top were undone and he was spreading the sides apart to bare her breasts to his gaze. The hardening rosy tips had tingled as he’d brushed a hand over one, and then the other.
Gypsy’s breath had come fast and shallow, and when he’d lowered his head and mouth to suck one tip deep she’d all but bucked off the bed, so sensitised it had hurt.
Just as his hand had been travelling down to the waistband of her pants, a mewl had come from Lola in the other room.
They’d both stopped, waiting, and it had come again—stronger. Louder. She’d woken up. With a veritable turmoil of tangled emotions and frustrated desires in her belly Gypsy had pushed Rico away and got up, hastily buttoning her top again. Reluctantly she’d looked back to the bed, to see Rico lying there, arms behind his head, the sheet just managing to hide the extent of his arousal, chest broad and awe inspiring, gleaming dark olive with a smattering of masculine hair.
He’d smiled wickedly and drawled, ‘Next time we won’t have a convenient interruption. I can promi
se you that…’
Gypsy had fled.
Now, as Rico’s far too assessing eyes looked at her, she burned all over. She wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, but she thought she’d caught him looking at her periodically over the last couple of days with a speculative gleam. He just arched a brow now, and asked laconically, ‘So, did you find anything interesting on the internet?’
All the heat that had just warmed Gypsy’s cheeks leached out. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know exactly what I mean,’ he said easily. ‘Isobel told me you’d been on the internet, and it’s an easy thing to check the history. I think you possibly found out everything but my shoe size.’
No wonder he’d been looking at her; he knew she’d been snooping. The heat flooded back—and she hadn’t even found out anything about his personal life, his real father in Greece, or what had happened to him between the ages of sixteen and twenty, when he’d burst on the scene having become a dotcom millionaire overnight.
Gypsy’s arms tightened across the sleeping Lola, causing her to shift slightly. Stiffly she said, ‘I felt that perhaps I owed you the benefit of the doubt. I realised that I really didn’t have much basis for my…’ She faltered tellingly.
‘Prejudice I think is the word you’re looking for.’ And then he shocked her by saying, ‘Perhaps we’re both guilty of the same thing. After all…you’ve given me very little to go on…’
Gypsy quivered inwardly at the thought of one of his many minions checking her out. ‘There’s nothing much to tell.’
Rico turned to face her more. ‘And yet I find that’s really not the case at all. You’re quite the enigma. You patently didn’t come after me for the easiest gold-digging opportunity in history, but the ease with which you can navigate a high-end charity event tells me you know that world. And yet you were living in a hovel when I found you.’