More Than A Millionaire (Contemporary Romance)

by Sophie Weston

  Be honest, her sensible side urged her. You’re not a bit worried about what he would do if he found you in bed. You’re worried about what you would do. You’ve only got to look at him and you remember the way he made you feel, even though he didn’t know it. Even though he turned you down, just like any grown man ought to turn down a teenage groupie.

  But I’ve grown out of my teenage groupie stage.

  Yes, but he’s still heartthrob material.

  ‘Still gorgeous after all these years,’ said Abby aloud. ‘Just my luck.’

  Yup, agreed her more sensible self, not very encouragingly. You only have to look at the man to go weak at the knees. You’re going to have to watch that.

  She turned the shower down to cool and stepped grimly under it.

  Which was why she did not hear Emilio’s key, or the door open, or him call her name.

  She did smell coffee but she thought it was another illusion. It reminded her though that she could do with a cup if there were any stores in Emilio’s inter-galactic kitchen. Wrapped in a bath towel, with her turquoise hair under a towel, she padded out to have look.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Emilio, from behind his Financial Times. He was propped up at the breakfast bar, looking totally at home. And as if he had been there for hours.

  Abby’s hands flew to the towelling knot between her breasts. The bath towel was thick and fluffy and covered her from the armpit to well below the knee. But she suddenly felt naked.

  ‘You’re early.’ It sounded like an accusation.

  ‘Indeed I am.’

  He lowered the pink pages and gave her a neutral smile. It fizzed along her nerve endings as if he had touched her. On the marble tiled floor her toes curled in pure reflex.

  Make that impure reflex, thought Abby, hot. Her hold tightened on the knot in her bath towel.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you till later. I’ll get dressed.’

  ‘Take your time. I have work I can catch up on.’

  Abby took in the hotel’s elegant green canvas cool bag on the work top, the cup of coffee in front of Emilio.

  ‘You came prepared, I see.’

  ‘I’m always prepared. I was going to give you until eight, then do the Sleeping Beauty routine,’ he told her blandly.

  Their eyes met.

  Abby had a vision—as detailed as those disturbing dreams—of Emilio coming into that huge bedroom, bending over the huge bed, kissing her awake as she lay among the tumbled pillows…

  She gulped. Glared. And fled.

  Left alone, Emilio smiled for the first time since he had left the flat last night. Well, at least the awareness wasn’t one-sided this morning, he thought. That was a step in the right direction.

  He did not stop to examine which direction that was.

  Abby had a horrible struggle with her fashionable gear. Yesterday she had had help to put on Ravi’s new creation. Now she found exactly how difficult it was to lace up the dashing little top.

  At last, she gave in and admitted defeat. It was not what she wanted. She would have given anything in the world not to have to ask Emilio for help. But there was nothing for it.

  Holding the scrap of silk to her breasts like a Celtic shield, she padded back to the kitchen.

  ‘I’ve got a bit of a problem,’ she said, too loudly, too aggressively.

  In the middle of sipping his coffee, Emilio looked up. His eyes widened.

  ‘I’ve tried and tried and it’s just getting worse,’ said Abby hurriedly. ‘It’s like trying to lace your trainers in the mirror and behind your back all at the same time. My dexterity is not up to it.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Emilio, after an infinitesimal pause. ‘Let me have a look.’

  Abby went close and presented her back to him. She felt his fingers, light as moth wings, at her spine, her waist, her shoulder blade.

  She talked all the time, to take her mind off that disturbing friction.

  ‘Why do they make things like this? I don’t see the point. You need a lady’s maid to put it on. I didn’t realise when I bought it because Ravi put it on and any fool can get it off.’

  ‘I think you may just have answered your own question,’ said Emilio dryly, his fingers busy.

  Abby prudently decided not to pursue that one. She twisted round, trying to look over her shoulder. ‘Is it hopeless?’

  ‘You’ve got it in a bit of a tangle,’ he told her. ‘Not beyond my skill. Just stand still.’

  But that was more difficult than Abby would have believed possible.

  ‘There’s no way to do it,’ she said. ‘I tried and tried. If you lace it tight, you can’t get it over your shoulders. If you lace it loose, it gets all tied up round itself. Either way, there’s no way to pull the laces tight after you’ve got it on.’

  She sounded like an idiot, chattering feverishly. But anything was better than listening to his steady breathing, feeling his breath in her hair as he concentrated on the cat’s cradle she was wearing. The trouble was, she wanted him to concentrate on her, not her brain teaser garments. And she didn’t want his breathing to be steady, either.

  He said, ‘Who’s Ravi?’

  ‘What?’ Abby was piqued. She didn’t want him making idle conversation, either. ‘Oh, he’s the designer. I shall tell him, he needs to forget silk drawstring. He’s got to think about stretch fabrics if he’s going to lace things up like—’

  And then Emilio’s fingers brushed her nape and she stopped dead. She felt as if she had walked into a wall of ice. Then fire. Then ice again.

  ‘There,’ said Emilio in a satisfied voice.

  He stepped back.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Abby. It sounded strangled.

  He went to the Hyde’s picnic bag and started to unpack it. He gave her one of his unreadable smiles. To Abby, still quivering, it felt as if someone had opened the door of a furnace.

  She flinched, and half turned away. It was as if some instinct was telling her to protect herself from the blast, she thought. She leaned against the breakfast bar rather suddenly.

  ‘I’m sorry we have to eat on the hoof,’ said Emilio, apparently sublimely unaware. ‘See if you can get a table and chairs to go in here by this evening. They don’t have to be beautiful. We can always get rid of them later. Just somewhere to sit and eat in comfort.’

  He gave her a neat dish of melon and papaya and a small silver spoon.

  ‘Right,’ said Abby, tasting the fruit. The spoon had a crest on it. She inspected it idly. It was the hotel’s. Clearly the picnic had come complete with all accessories. She thought suddenly: you have to be seriously rich to get a hotel to organise something like this at a moment’s notice.

  Remembering how rich he was, somehow underlined the difference between them. It was like a shower of cold water. But after the first shock, it helped. Normality was a close shore. She could get back there.

  She pulled herself together with an effort. ‘And you’ll need some basic cutlery, as well.’

  He nodded. ‘Do you want to make a list?’

  ‘I’d better,’ she agreed.

  The deep internal quivering was calming down. Thank God for practical problems, thought Abby.

  He gave her coffee. Then turned to his briefcase and pulled out a slim folder.

  ‘I’ve been through this once with the interior designer. This is the brief I gave him. Have a look at it and see what you think you can manage.’

  Abby cast an eye down the closely typed sheets. When she looked up, all trace of quivering was gone. She was sensible, practical Abby again.

  ‘You know, I think it would be a mistake to rush into buying all this. You can hire furniture. I’d suggest you do that for a few weeks while you think about how you want the place to look.’

  He shrugged, massively uninterested. ‘Whatever. Can you do that for me?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said with total conviction.

  Because she could. Practical things she could handle. She had always been practical.
It was only wicked stepmothers and men who wanted her to play Sleeping Beauty that gave her problems.

  ‘Fine. Go ahead. Get whatever you think best. Now, money—’ He extracted a sliver of plastic from his wallet and handed it across to her. It was followed by a business card. ‘Use that. If you have any difficulty get them to call me. I’ll get an account set up for you to draw on but it will take a couple of days.

  ‘Keys.’ He gave her a set on a beautiful silver key ring. ‘There’s no burglar alarm so you don’t have to worry about sprinting to beat the beep.’

  Abby took the keys. ‘OK. Look, I’ve got stuff to do today. I can’t just take time off at a moment’s notice. I’m not sure how much I can get organised by tonight.’

  ‘Sure. Just do what you can.’

  Emilio was already closing his briefcase. That’s me dealt with, thought Abby. On to the next thing now Abby’s got her tasks for the day! It was a feeling she was familiar with.

  She said quietly, ‘I live to serve.’ The mockery had an edge.

  He was shrugging himself into his well-cut jacket but he paused at that. His eyes raked her, frowning.

  ‘Not me,’ he said abruptly. He took hold of her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. ‘We cooperate,’ he said softly. ‘You don’t serve me. As long as it suits us both, we cooperate. The moment one of us feel exploited, it’s over. Clear?’

  ‘Clear,’ said Abby, oddly shaken.

  He let go her chin.

  ‘Good.’ The change in his mood was like lightning. ‘Then I’ll see you tonight.’

  ‘That sounds so domestic,’ she said involuntarily.

  ‘So it does.’ The dark eyes were dancing suddenly. ‘Have a good day. Dear.’

  Before she knew what he was doing, he bent and kissed her lips. It was light, familiar, mischievous. And heart-stopping.

  Abby made a small, shocked sound and leaned heavily on the breakfast bar to keep her legs from folding under her.

  Emilio looked quite simply delighted.

  ‘This,’ he said, ‘was meant to be. Genius. Pure genius.’

  And went.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  TO HER own astonishment, Abby got to work early. Dazed but early.

  ‘Hi,’ said Molly, a morning person, looking up from her computer screen.

  ‘Hard night?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You look a bit ragged.’

  ‘D-do I?’

  ‘Not only ragged but wearing yesterday’s gear. Very suspicious. Who’s the lucky man?’

  Abby managed not to blush by dint of looking Molly straight in the eye.

  ‘Do you think I’m really the sort of girl who spends the night with a guy she picks up?’

  ‘Hey, who said he had to be a pick-up? For all I know, you were out on the town with the love of your life.’

  This time Abby did not manage to fight down the betraying colour. ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘And then it just all got too much for you,’ said Molly dreamily. ‘Carried away by passion.’

  Abby took refuge in heavy sarcasm. ‘Oh, yes, that sounds like me, doesn’t it? Passion! Huh! Got a name for this mythical love of my life?’

  Molly flung up her hands in a gesture of surrender.

  ‘I’m just pointing out that you’re still wearing your fashion show outfit,’ she said, amused. ‘I’m not the morality police. Who, where and why you did it, is your business.’

  ‘I didn’t—’ began Abby furiously. She broke off. ‘You’re winding me up again, right?’

  ‘You’re learning,’ said Molly with regret. She pushed her chair back and tipped her booted heels onto the desk. ‘I hear you had a really good row with the new client yesterday. Give you a sleepless night?’

  Abby was annoyed. ‘That didn’t take you long. Did they call you at home to tell you about it?’

  ‘The e-mail is humming,’ said Molly unrepentant. She waved a hand at the screen. ‘First thing I saw when I opened it this morning. Two first-hand reports and God knows how many have-you-heards.’

  It startled Abby.

  ‘It wasn’t that big a row.’

  Molly laughed. ‘Any row is big for you, babe. I’ve never met a woman with less temperament in my life.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Abby with feeling.

  ‘No, it’s true. This place lurches from crisis to crisis. You just take it all in your stride. Nothing gets to you.’

  She should have seen her this morning, Abby thought. That kiss had got to her, all right. It could not have been more casual. But it had rocked her to her toes.

  Molly was more perceptive than she liked to pretend. She saw Abby’s reaction.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she said, abandoning the teasing manner.

  Abby hesitated. For a moment the urge to confide was almost overwhelming.

  But then Molly said, ‘I see you’re in the papers again this morning,’ and Abby thought better of it.

  Until she told her family, it was better that nobody knew that Justine had thrown her out of the house. And as for Emilio—well, what was there to confide? He had given her a roof over her head and offered her a deal that would keep it there until she could get herself sorted out. The man was a knight in shining armour but that was where the romance ended. He saw her as a charity case, who needed rescuing. Anything else was all in her imagination.

  So she pulled herself together and said, ‘What are the papers saying this time?’

  Molly waved at the screen. Abby peered over her shoulder.

  C&C put together a daily digest of all the media attention any of their clients received. Abby wasn’t a client but C&C had just started tracking all mentions of the agency or its personnel, as well. One person came in early every morning to go through the papers and the monitoring services’ lists of the previous day’s radio and television broadcasts. By the time most people arrived for work, the list was up on the office mail.

  This week it was Molly’s turn.

  She said now, ‘You get three mentions. The usual suspects,’ she added, referring to the popular tabloids.

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You were clearly in a supporting role. Diane Ladrot gets the headlines.’

  Abby gave a sigh of undisguised relief. ‘That’s all right then.’

  ‘Mind you,’ said Molly naughtily, ‘I’m not sure they’d seen the hair before they submitted their copy. What happened to it?’

  Abby went to her own desk and started to organise herself. ‘Diane Ladrot had a spare hairdresser lying about.’

  ‘Cool.’

  Abby switched on her computer. She did not look at Molly.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Molly did not hesitate. ‘It’s certainly interesting.’

  ‘You hate it.’

  ‘No, I don’t. I don’t. I think it’s great. Just a bit of a departure.’ She looked at her friend curiously. ‘Are you going to turn into a raver, Abby?’

  Abby switched on her computer and banged the keyboard with unnecessary vigour.

  ‘Not very likely, is it?’

  Molly considered that seriously. ‘Oh, I don’t know. You’ve been a good girl a long time. Could be time for a change.’

  Abby was so startled, she stopped attacking the keyboard. ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you’ve got the figure. Your title has got you the press coverage,’ she said practically. ‘And now you’ve got the hair,’ she added with a little choke of laughter. ‘All you need is a glamorous man.’

  There was a nasty silence.

  Then, ‘Oh, is that all?’ said Abby in a hollow voice.

  Absorbed in her theoretical press campaign for Abby’s supposed new persona, Molly didn’t notice.

  ‘A good public row wouldn’t do any harm, either.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Maybe you should get in touch with that little twerp, Deor Spiro, again. Throw a glass of wine over him at a nightclub and you’re home free. The capital’s newest It girl.’
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br />   ‘I can’t wait.’

  Molly laughed. ‘Don’t sound so depressed. It’s all publicity. That’s what everyone here is aiming for.’

  ‘I thought we were aiming for good publicity.’

  Molly widened her eyes, all innocence. ‘Nothing wrong with being an It girl. Very glamorous.’

  Abby was dry. ‘Good publicity never misrepresents the underlying product,’ she quoted.

  ‘You could be glamorous if you wanted to. Glamour is all in the mind.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Well, if you didn’t want to be glamorous, you should have passed on the peacock’s tail hair,’ said Molly without sympathy. ‘That’s going to put you well and truly in the spotlight. What have you got on today?’

  ‘No functions. I’m in the office all day, thank God.’ Abby looked at her client list. ‘One children’s book, one bottled water company, one organic campaigner. All regional or local.’

  Molly chuckled. ‘Look out Radio Scunthorpe. The Fab Ab is coming your way.’

  Abby picked up a fistful of paper clips and threw them at her.

  Emilio was setting up an office in Traynor’s, to the unexpressed dismay of the management team.

  ‘I’ll make my headquarters here until I get myself sorted out in London,’ Emilio told them blandly. ‘I can keep an eye on developments. You can consult me when you need. Two birds with one stone.’

  ‘Convenient,’ said the managing director. He succeeded in not gnashing his teeth but it was a struggle.

  Emilio bit back a smile. ‘And I’d like to borrow a PA.’

  But after that he relented. He refused to evict any of the directors from their offices. He camped out in a small meeting room, in which he installed the young trainee he had selected to act as PA because he spoke some Spanish.

  ‘My address book,’ he said, giving Gary a diskette. ‘My schedule is on there, too. Will you call my office in Madrid and BA to make sure that they’re all working from the same diary? And check that there aren’t any urgent messages while you’re about it.’

  There was one, of course. In Emilio’s experience there usually was when he was out of touch with his family for more than a week. This time it was Isabel from the beach house, worrying about the garbage not being collected back in BA, and Federico in Zurich with a crisis of confidence over his career.