by Maggie Cox
‘I was what they call a scratch golfer … good enough to turn professional. I did indeed have a very successful career in the game for a few years, and won several trophies. But then I started to see that the men and women who owned the prestigious courses we played on made even more money than the professional players. That was when I decided on a change of career, and became the businessman and property developer that I am today.’
‘And there are no regrets about leaving your golfing career behind? I mean, do you equally enjoy what you do now?’
He smiled. ‘I do. Especially when it brings me into unexpected contact with a smart, stubborn, pretty woman like you, Grace … a woman who will risk everything—even being detained by my security guards—to help further a cause she believes in.’
She was still reeling from his admiring words when Marco strode round the table and urged her to her feet.
‘Mmm, you smell nice,’ she told him, even as her heart leapt at his nearness.
‘You always say what you’re thinking, don’t you?’ he remarked, looking amused.
‘Do you think that’s a bad trait?’
‘I’m not saying that at all. But I can see how it could get you into trouble.’
Grace frowned. ‘I know … But I never say anything horrible or harsh to offend anyone.’
‘I believe you. You are far too well-meaning and kind for that.’ He tweaked her earlobe, then brushed her lips with a brief kiss. ‘But what if I were to adopt the same approach? What if I told you exactly what I was thinking right now, hmm?’
Her legs turned as weak as a kitten’s at the lascivious look in his eyes. As much as it thrilled her to have him want her so, Grace definitely sensed a need to put a little breathing space before the answering leap of desire that he inevitably ignited. Right now events seemed to be gathering speed with dizzying effect, and it would surely be wise to take some time out to reflect upon where they might be leading her. She had a powerful notion that they were going to lead to the breaking of her heart.
The thought of not seeing Marco again when the time came for them to part was frighteningly distressing—but he was a rich and influential man who had brief flings like this with women all the time. Now Grace’s stomach really did plummet. She hated the idea of him making love to any other woman but her. When she’d seen the stylish and picture-perfect Francesca Bellini it had been hard not to feel a little insecure. She might have fooled herself that she would take a ‘wait and see’ approach to the possibility that Marco might have made her pregnant, but in truth her feelings were not remotely so laissez-faire.
What would she do if she was carrying his baby? An answering frisson of excitement arrowed through her but, telling herself to get a grip, she quickly poured cold water on the feeling. Yes, she loved children, but she hadn’t planned on becoming a mother herself until she was in a stable and loving relationship. Besides … men like Marco Aguilar didn’t fall in love with girls like Grace, so the sooner she disabused herself of that ridiculous little notion, the better.
Anyway … her thoughts ran on … there was still so much she wanted to accomplish in her work with the charity. She definitely wanted to return to the African village to visit the wonderful children she’d befriended and see the new orphanage finally standing proud … maybe even a school too? The next time she visited she might even extend her stay and help teach some basic reading and writing skills herself.
Touching her palm to the side of Marco’s clean-shaven face, she made her smile as nonchalant as she could. ‘I trust what you’re thinking is We really should go shopping now, or else Grace will look slightly the worse for wear in the crumpled dress she’s wearing for the second day running?’ she quipped.
Gathering her hand, Marco pressed his lips warmly into the centre of her palm. ‘I confess my thoughts are more along the lines of I really want to strip off that pretty dress of hers and take her back to bed. Are you surprised?’
‘Flattered, maybe … but not surprised, no.’ With an apologetic shrug, she quickly stepped out of the circle of his arms. ‘But I really would like to get some fresh clothes on soon. We don’t have to go shopping. In fact it would be much easier if Miguel just drops me back at the villa and I choose something from my own wardrobe.’
‘Uh-uh. You don’t get out of it that easily. I want to show you Vilamoura Marina. There are plenty of very nice clothes shops there for you to browse in, as well as a good selection of restaurants and bars we can choose from when we’re ready to have lunch. So come … we’ll go and find Miguel and enjoy a leisurely drive there.’
Marco had never known a woman so reluctant to shop. Grace had already told him that shopping was never going to be on her list of priorities, but he’d hoped that when she learned money was no object and he would gladly buy her anything she wanted she would change her mind. That wasn’t the case. She made some polite comments here and there regarding the clothes or jewellery that he steered her towards, in the hope of getting an interested response, but on the whole seemed singularly unimpressed. His frustration grew—would she allow him to buy her anything at all?
Then, half an hour into their tour of the stunning marina, with its plethora of expensive yachts lining the harbour and exclusive boutiques, he noticed that they’d acquired the inevitable entourage—consisting of inquisitive sightseers plus a good few of the locals who had recognised him. His sense of protectiveness towards Grace strengthened even more. When she too realised they were being followed he sensed her uneasiness, and Marco knew her mind was far away from the meant-to-be enjoyable task of choosing a new dress.
Feeling increasingly irritated, he firmly held onto his companion’s small hand as they stopped in front of one of the most reputable and expensive boutiques on the marina. Glancing round to face the small knot of locals and holidaymakers that trailed them, he sighed and said, ‘Come on, guys. I’m trying to enjoy a rare day off, here. Don’t you enjoy doing the same with your families and friends? Leave us in peace and go about your business. I promise you there are far more interesting sights to see on the marina than me trying to impress my beautiful companion.’
An agreeable cheer went up, followed by a couple of risqué comments made by two young men at the back.
‘Is she your new girlfriend, Marco? We all thought your preference was for brunettes.’ This even bolder remark emanated from a lanky Australian in Hawaiian-style shorts and a baggy yellow T-shirt, who had positioned himself at the front of the onlookers. As he spoke, he was busily snapping shot after shot of Marco and Grace with a professional-looking camera.
Recognising the man as a regular member of the paparazzi that showed up at various functions and events he attended, Marco drew in a deep breath. ‘I think you’ve taken enough pictures, and I’d like you to stop. As far as my preference about anything goes, the truth is that you don’t know me well enough to have an opinion.’
He’d stupidly kidded himself that he could get away with just strolling round the marina with Grace and nothing untoward would bother them. He’d even given his bodyguard José strict instructions to wait by the car and not follow them. Today he’d just wanted to be like any other man holidaying with his wife or girlfriend. It seemed the perhaps foolish hope he’d secretly nurtured was to be denied.
Glancing at Grace, he pulled her firmly into his side.
‘We don’t have to do this today,’ she murmured, her cornflower-blue eyes utterly bewitching as she glanced up at him from beneath sweeping fair lashes. ‘We can shop another day.’
‘No!’ he snapped. ‘That is not what I want. What I want is to buy you a dress, and I want to do it today. Come with me.’
He herded her ahead of him through the shop’s glitzy glass and gold entrance and when the pencil-slim brunette with silver flashes in her hair standing behind the marble kidney-shaped counter, came over straight away to attend them Marco didn’t waste time with preliminaries. The woman had immediately recognised him, he saw, and that was all to the good.
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‘Close the shop,’ he briskly instructed her in Portuguese, nodding towards the small knot of onlookers with their cameras that stood outside—still determinedly taking pictures despite his plea. ‘As you can see, senhora, I have an unwanted entourage. Don’t worry—if you close the shop I will compensate you for any loss of custom.’
‘It will be my pleasure to do as you ask, Senhor Aguilar.’ Briefly turning away, the woman called out for assistance.
Within seconds, a thickset young man with cropped brown hair, dressed in a security guard’s uniform appeared. Judging by the nicks and scars on both his face and his hands, it looked as if his chosen sport was bareknuckle fighting, Marco observed wryly. Following a very brief exchange with the woman—presumably his boss—he immediately stepped outside and shut the heavy glass door behind him. Marco felt a little more able to relax when he saw the man firmly plant his feet and fold his arms across his ample chest—his intimidating stance alone transmitted a warning to anyone that dared to try and get passed him.
‘When you are ready to leave we have an exit at the back.’ The woman whose silver-grey badge on her lapel proclaimed her name as Natalie gave him an unreserved broad smile.
‘That’s good to know. Thank you.’ He turned his glance back to Grace. Some of the rosiness in her cheeks had definitely faded, he saw. He had a feeling that she was really hating what he’d hoped would turn out to be a nice experience. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, and it was hard to keep the strain from his voice.
‘I’m fine. I’m more concerned about you. You must really get fed up with all this intrusive attention.’
‘Some days it definitely bothers me more than others, but I refuse to let anyone spoil our time together. We’ve come to one of the most exclusive boutiques on the marina, so we ought to buy you a dress, no? I am sure that Natalie here will give you all the assistance you need to help you choose.’
Grace spun round on her heel to observe warily the very select display of women’s clothing that hung on wafer-thin mannequins. ‘There probably isn’t anything here above a size zero. Don’t you think that’s an insane concept? Are all the women in the world trying to disappear?’
‘Go and have a proper look,’ Marco urged, his hand lightly touching her back.
Silently he agreed with her. The attentive and perfectly made-up Natalie transmitted a sympathetic look to him that immediately rubbed him up the wrong way. Having already seen her arrow a glance straight in on Grace’s slightly rumpled red and white dress, and fail to hide her distaste, he abhorred the idea that the woman believed for even a second that she was somehow better than his lovely, unaffected companion.
‘Why don’t you show her what you have?’ he said tersely. ‘Presumably that’s what you are being paid for, Natalie?’
‘Of course, Senhor Aguilar … May I ask what the young lady’s name is?’
‘I’m sure you can manage just fine without it.’
‘Of course.’ The uneasy smile she gave him was visibly nervous.
‘And when my friend finds something that she likes, I would like to see her wearing it.’
‘Yes, senhor.’
Natalie dipped her head in a short, respectful bow, and when she moved across the room to join Grace he registered with relief that her tone was far more helpful. His tension easing a little, Marco strolled across the marble floor to one of several white couches dotted round. Dropping down into one, he reached for the neatly folded newspaper that lay on the table in front of him.
Feeling uncomfortably pressured to choose a dress that she hadn’t even wanted in the first place, but at the same time wanting to please Marco and not add to the palpable tension she sensed in him, Grace took the strapless smocked dress she’d finally selected, which they thankfully had in her size, and went into the scented and luxurious changing room to try it on. When Natalie offered to come in and help her she straight away called out that she could manage just fine by herself. She’d bet her last penny that the older woman was busy wondering what a man like Marco must see in a very average sort of girl like her.
Especially when he preferred brunettes …
Unhappily she recalled the Australian photographer’s tactless jibe, and consequently derived no pleasure in trying on the pretty and feminine maxi-dress whose attached labels were festooned with a French designer’s name all over them. She was more than discomfited to discover there was no price-tag in evidence. And even though the changing room was more than adequately air-conditioned, Grace was suddenly too hot, not to mention feeling a little claustrophobic after being stalked by that intrusive little crowd waiting for them outside.
How did Marco bear it? From what she knew of him he didn’t seem like a man who craved the constant attention of admirers or the press. He was essentially a very private man. She had a real yearning to be alone with him again, to ascertain if he really was doing all right, and to tell him that she would much prefer to spend the rest of her time with him talking and relaxing rather than going out, with him misguidedly feeling as if he needed to buy her things to keep her happy. Hadn’t he learned enough of her nature to know that that would never be the case where she was concerned?
Her fingers fumbling with the lavender-coloured ribbon on the ruched bodice of the dress, she almost jumped out of her skin when her mobile phone’s salsa beat ringtone broke into her reverie. Dropping down to the carpeted floor to delve inside her straw bag, she located the phone, fully expecting the call to be from her parents. She hadn’t spoken to them in over three days now, and no doubt they were getting anxious about her.
But the number that was flashing didn’t belong to her mum or dad. It belonged to Sarah, the manager of the children’s charity in London. Grace frowned, her heart bumping in alarm.
By the time the conversation came to an end she was sitting on the floor, leaning against the changing room wall, with her knees drawn up to her chest and scalding tears of grief and aching regret streaking down her face. Someone knocked on the door. When she didn’t respond, it was immediately pushed open. It was Marco.
‘The manager told me that she heard you crying. What has happened? Are you hurt?’ Suddenly his handsome face was right in front of hers as he dropped down to the same level as Grace, his fingers concernedly squeezing her shoulder.
‘I’ve had some bad news.’ She sniffed, hastily wiping her eyes. At the same time she registered that she was probably creasing a very expensive designer dress that Marco would have to pay for. The panicked thought added to the drowning sensation of sorrow and distress that was already washing over her, breaking her heart.
‘Somebody rang you from home?’ Lifting her hand, Marco examined the slim silver mobile she was still gripping. ‘Tell me what’s wrong, I beg you. I cannot bear seeing you so upset and not knowing the reason.’
Grace lifted her sorrowful gaze to meet his, striving with all her might to gain better control over her emotions and utterly failing. ‘Remember the baby I told you about back in Africa?’
‘Azizi you said his name was?’
She was startled that he should recall that.
‘Yes. I remember. You told me that it meant beloved or precious one.’ The hooded dark eyes in front of her had deepened to almost black.
‘Well … my manager just phoned to tell me that he—that he died. A couple of days ago he developed a fever, and although one of the charity workers managed to get him to a hospital in the city he had a bad fit during the night and—and he didn’t make it. He was just a few weeks old …’ Pausing to wipe away another tear, Grace had tremendous difficulty in swallowing across the aching lump inside her throat. ‘It doesn’t seem fair does it? I mean … to have had such a tragic start in life and then to die just as tragically before you’d even had the chance to live. You said that Azizi would be fortunate if he lived up to his name … now he won’t …’
‘Não chorar, a meu amor, que o bebê e seguro com Deus agora.’ The words were out before Marco had realised he would say the
m out loud. It literally made his heart ache to see Grace like this and the need to console her took precedence over everything else … even the risk of his words being overheard by the woman who ran the boutique and reported back to the press for a no doubt ludicrous sum …
The shimmering blue eyes in front of him widened as his hand tenderly stroked back her hair, then cupped her cheek. ‘What does that mean?’ she asked, her voice lowered to a mesmerised whisper.
‘I said, do not cry any more. The baby is safe with God now.’ He didn’t even know if he believed in God. Perhaps his early programming of being raised as a Catholic in the orphanage had made him err towards believing rather than not—even though some people might regard his own start in life as tragic and not understand it. He omitted to tell Grace that he’d actually said, ‘Do not cry any more, my love’. Never in his life had Marco addressed a woman in such a tender way. It jolted him to realise what a different man he was around her.
‘That’s beautiful. Thank you.’
‘I will do everything I can to help you come to terms with this loss, Grace … I promise. Would you prefer to go home and have lunch rather than eat here at the marina?’
She looked relieved. ‘Can we? I’m really sorry … I didn’t mean to spoil your plans for the day.’
His throat a little tight, Marco forced a smile. ‘You have spoiled nothing, my angel.’
Helping her to her feet, he felt his senses suddenly besieged by her—by the exquisite softness of the hands he held onto—almost as if she were a lifeline, helping him out of the sea of loneliness and pain that had dogged his footsteps ever since he was a child. No matter how much worldly success he’d achieved. Knowing he was staring, he was staggered by the natural beauty and grace that seemed to define her so effortlessly … Grace was the perfect name for her. How had her parents known that their daughter would grow up to embody it?
‘Marco? Don’t you like the dress?’
He gazed at her, unable to look away. The beautiful garment she wore with its riot of spring colours was lovely. But more than the dress itself, it was the bewitching girl who wore it that elevated it to something special. Caught up in the spell of her, the ability to respond with mere words deserted him.