More Than A Millionaire (Contemporary Romance)

by Sophie Weston

  ‘Have I suddenly grown two heads?’ she asked Molly di Perretti.

  Molly shook her head. ‘On the contrary. You tamed the beast.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Remember Sam saying that Traynors were going to sack us? Well, the big cheese changed his mind. Everyone seems to think that was down to you.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Abby.

  ‘And not because of the blue blood, either. Diz is known for his hostility to the ruling classes.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Abby again in quite a different voice. Her heart sank.

  ‘So turquoise hair maybe. Blue blood no.’ Molly quirked an eyebrow. ‘Has he called you yet?’

  ‘No,’ said Abby honestly.

  ‘He will.’

  It seemed the whole office was waiting for him to do just that. They asked her when they met her by the water fountain. They sent her messages on the internal e-mail. They quizzed Fran on the switchboard.

  When Emilio Diz did not call, the staff of C&C were first confused, then indignant. To comfort Abby for her supposed disappointment they bombarded her with reasons that she was better off without him.

  ‘They called him the Romeo of the circuit,’ said Sam, passing by her desk with a consoling pat. ‘There was a scandal in Paris with a couple of young fans.’

  The ancient press cutting arrived in her mailbox later that day.

  Abby read it with distaste and then wiped it. It would have been a lot more satisfying to tear it into pieces but she hit the Delete button with enough force to send the End key next to it ricocheting off the keyboard.

  ‘Keep your hair on,’ said Molly. She chased the errant key under a nearby desk and emerged triumphant. ‘There are plenty more fish in the sea. Anyway, clever men are hell.’

  A whole portfolio of press cuttings attesting to Emilio’s brilliant business brain was the next message to arrive in Abby’s e-mail.

  She read those with less distaste but more alarm. They talked about a lot more than his brilliance. They were full of his ruthlessness, as well.

  And she remembered Felipe Montijo saying, ‘Emilio plays to win.’

  Yet this was the man who was a father substitute to his family. The man who had offered Abby sanctuary when she desperately needed it. The man who had put his arm round her and given her a handkerchief when she cried. It didn’t add up.

  Emilio himself was silent. There was a message from his office on the answering machine in the flat. Emilio it seemed had gone to Zurich first, then on to Frankfurt. After that he was probably going to his sports complex in Spain. He would be in touch when his plans were clear.

  But if Emilio was uncommunicative, Abby’s family were in touch on an hourly basis, it seemed. Will in northern India had tried to call Abby. Justine had taken the opportunity to tell him his sister had moved out. She had no idea where but it was about time the girl stood on her own two feet. Will cut her off and rang Abby at work.

  ‘What has that poisonous witch done to you?’ said Will, who had overlapped with Justine for three volcanic days before he went back to his job of leading adventure holidays.

  Abby told him what had happened.

  ‘And Dad doesn’t know?’

  ‘What can I tell him?’

  ‘How about the truth?’ suggested Will. ‘You didn’t try to put the boot in. She did. If Dad decides she’s surplus to requirement, she only has herself to blame.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘You reap what you sow. That goes for Justine, too.’

  He was not a great forgiver, thought Abby.

  She said with finality, ‘I’m not interfering in their marriage.’

  ‘So what are you going to do? Sleep on other people’s floors and tell lies about it?’

  Abby laughed. ‘Oh, come on, Will. It’s not the end of the world. Lots of people share flats.’

  ‘Fine. Who are you sharing with?’

  ‘It’s—um—quite temporary,’ said Abby hastily. ‘Haven’t made up my mind what to do long term yet.’

  ‘See, you are telling lies. Even to yourself. What do the boys say? Or haven’t you told them, either?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Abby.

  ‘Huh,’ said Will. ‘Then I will.’

  Which, of course, meant that Rob and Nick rang from Australia, full of generous indignation and offers of the plane fare to join them on their round-the-world sail. Abby declined. Sandy, test flying the new generation of helicopters in the Mojave Desert, was not slow to follow.

  ‘She can’t turn you out,’ said Sandy, always the most level-headed of her brothers, in spite of his job. ‘It’s not her house. Go and see the lawyers.’

  The only one who did not call was their father. Abby was relieved. She had told her brothers that she was going to keep silent and let her father work his own stuff out with Justine. But if her father actually called, she was not sure that she could withstand the temptation to tell him the whole truth.

  So she kept herself busy. She also went out a lot. The flat was too big and too empty, in spite of its fine new complement of furniture. Her ears were constantly on the stretch for Emilio’s key in the door or his voice from the other room.

  Abby knew it was crazy. You could not miss someone after so short a space of time. But she did and there was nothing she could do about it. So she accepted every invitation or offer of extra work that came her way.

  ‘That hair has turned you into a party girl at last,’ teased Molly, air-brushing glitter powder down her cleavage with a lavish hand.

  It was Saturday night and they were in Molly’s bedroom. They were going to the wrap party of the newest Brit flick. The production company was Molly’s client but Abby had worked on the account, too. They had both received invitations shaped like witches’ hats. It was a mayhem and magic movie.

  Abby, going with the theme, was wearing slim ankle-length black, with sumptuous mediaeval sleeves that she had sat up until two that morning to make. Well, it was better than tossing and turning in that too large bed, wondering where Emilio was. She had lined the sleeves with turquoise to match her hair. Her mouth and her fingernails were a voluptuously threatening purple. She was now applying black eyeliner.

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ said Molly generously. ‘You’re a really talented dressmaker when you put your mind to it, aren’t you?’

  Abby grinned. ‘Needs must. It was that or the Oxfam shop when I was growing up.’

  Molly was shocked. ‘But I thought—’

  Abby put the eyeliner away. She debated between a silver moon and a star beauty spot.

  ‘You thought earls had the stuff by the barrel load,’ she agreed absently.

  ‘They don’t?’

  ‘It comes in. And it goes out. Through the roof usually. My father actually earns quite a lot, I suppose. But the house just eats it. Any designer dresses I had were designed by me.’

  ‘Well, you’re as good as Ravi any day.’

  ‘At least I can get in and out of this without the help of a personal trainer,’ said Abby darkly, remembering the shoelace-backed effort had put her in Emilio’s hands.

  She gave a little shiver of reaction.

  Not a good idea. She was going to a party, for heaven’s sake. She should be looking forward to the people she would meet there. Not thinking about a man she couldn’t have.

  She picked up the crescent moon and held it against the corner of her mouth. ‘What do you think? Or the star?’

  ‘Go for both,’ advised Molly. ‘That is not a dress which deserves moderation.’

  In addition to the sleeves, it was slit to the thigh. You did not see until Abby started to move. It revealed the entire length of one sheer black leg.

  ‘Wow,’ Molly said, when she first saw it.

  Now Abby pointed her toe sideways. She watched the way the material fell away and pulled a face.

  ‘It wasn’t meant to be quite so provocative. But when I made it up, I couldn’t move except in a sort of a geisha shuffle. So I kept on unpicking until I could
take a reasonable stride. And this is the result.’

  ‘Some result,’ said Molly enthusiastically. ‘I’d say fate is pointing you in the direction of some serious bad behaviour.’

  Abby looked alarmed.

  ‘Go with the flow,’ Molly advised. ‘You’re due some fun. You’ve worked like a dog all week. Live a little.’

  So as soon as they got to the party, Molly cornered the heaviest-lidded, most laid-back cameraman and said, ‘That is your publicist Lady Abigail Templeton Burke. She’s been working hard for you. Take her onto the dance floor and say thank you nicely.’

  He did.

  The music was heavy with rhythm and much too loud to talk. So Abby bopped cheerfully on the dance floor with a series of men whose names she never caught. The producer took her off for a plate of spicy nibbles and a photo opportunity with the film’s star. A young journalist she knew brought her a drink and asked her some questions she could not hear. She smiled and nodded endorsement of whatever he was saying and let him take her picture.

  ‘Thank God for you,’ he said with feeling. ‘No one else here knows I’m alive.’

  Abby remembered that feeling of invisibility. ‘Come and dance with me,’ she offered.

  He seized her gratefully. ‘Rescue service provided by the Fab Ab. Thanks, babe.’

  ‘Just don’t expect me to wear a barrel of brandy round my neck,’ said Abby, laughing.

  He was not a good dancer but he was not a groper, either. When Abby detached herself, he let her go with a smile.

  She went to the ladies’ room and repaired her make-up. Then she danced some more. Drank a little. Received several compliments on her dress.

  When the party had thinned out to the hard core, Molly said, ‘We’re going on with Billy. Coming?’

  Abby thought of the empty flat and said yes, before she had even asked who Billy was or where they were going on to.

  It was someone’s house in a part of London she did not know. She sat on the knee of someone else she didn’t know in the car going there. A lot of the laughter was drunken. A lot of the conversation was infantile. By the time she got there Abby knew it was a mistake.

  She said so to Molly.

  ‘Oh, come. Lighten up. I thought you were breaking out of that good girl image. Don’t be scared.’

  ‘I’m not scared. I just haven’t drunk enough to play the five-year-old,’ said Abby tartly.

  ‘Then have some more champagne.’

  But even the empty flat was preferable to being groped by middle-aged men who wanted to believe they were still eighteen.

  ‘I’m going,’ said Abby. She dialled up her favourite cab company on her mobile phone.

  The journalist who had taken her picture came down the stairs. His eyes lit up when he saw her.

  ‘Hey, babe. Come and party.’

  She shook her head, talking to the cab company. Then she disconnected and gave him a conspiratorial grin. ‘Find your rescue somewhere else this time.’

  ‘Abby’s going,’ said Molly with an expression of disgust.

  ‘Really? So should I, I guess. Can I share your cab?’

  ‘OK,’ said Abby.

  She thought he was probably new in the job. She had met him this week for the first time. Then bumped into him twice more. He was always looking round as if he did not quite know what to do next. She understood that feeling.

  He held the door open for her and gave the cab driver instructions. Then he got in beside her.

  ‘Wow. Riding through the town with the Fab Ab,’ he said.

  She looked at him in disbelief. Surely no one could be that naive. She tipped her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes.

  He did not take the hint. ‘You look tired. Heavy week?’

  ‘I’ve been out and about,’ she agreed.

  ‘Feeling neglected?’

  She opened her eyes and looked at him warily. Had he heard about Justine throwing her out?

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Well, boyfriend away—all alone in your new home—can’t be easy.’

  Abby sat bolt upright. ‘What are you talking about?’

  He gave her a smile which she suddenly saw was not naive at all. ‘Well, you wouldn’t have been at that party on your own if the boyfriend was in town, would you? Or not unless you’d had a row.’ He did not exactly lick his pencil and make notes but the feeling was there. ‘Have you fallen out with Emilio already?’

  ‘No,’

  ‘He has that reputation, of course. Minimal sticking power. He never sticks with the ladies for long. But it’s supposed to be great while it lasts. How is it so far?’

  Abby did not answer. She went on not answering throughout the rest of the nightmare drive through the empty streets. It can only have been twenty minutes or so but it felt like a lifetime.

  It was only when the minicab drew up outside her building that she realised the journalist had never asked for her address. So he must already have known it. Her blood ran cold at the thought.

  She slid out without saying goodnight. It cost her a lot not to pelt for safety the moment she was out of the car. But Abby had her pride. Turquoise head high, she stalked into the entrance hall. She did not look back.

  But once inside, she gave way to the shaking inside.

  What have I done? she thought. What on earth have I done?

  Federico’s problem was more complicated than Emilio expected. Even after a couple of days, he was not really sure that he knew what the difficulty was. All Federico would say was that he needed to take stock.

  ‘What do you mean, take stock?’

  ‘Think about where I’m going. And whether I want to go there.’

  ‘Oh, that old thing,’ said Emilio ironically. ‘Don’t take too long. You may find you’ve already gone further than you thought.’

  He did not say that he was taking stock himself, after that nasty little scene with Abby. Where have I got to? he thought. He had been furious—and, if he were honest, furiously hurt—when she threw her accusations at him.

  Most he could throw off. A lot he could ascribe to years of press scandal and, even more, to the sheltered life she had undoubtedly led. But—

  She had said, ‘If you want to keep one jump ahead of real relationships, it’s up to you.’

  It had shocked him at the time. But then he had been angry with her, angry that she could think such things of him. But now, cooler, days later, it still nagged away at him. He had no idea why.

  ‘…one jump ahead of real relationships…’

  It was nonsense. Of course it was nonsense.

  And he was certainly not going to discuss it with Federico, who was showing signs of getting altogether too open to nonsense.

  So Emilio gave his brother some curt advice to sharpen up his ideas and went to check on some of his other European investments.

  He ended in Madrid at his European headquarters. He nearly went to London. But the Spanish company needed his attention in the way Traynor didn’t at the moment. And anyway he wanted to go to the Palacio Azul. He had not been there for months and he wanted to make sure it was ready.

  He did not ask himself ready for what.

  He did not speak to Abby while he was travelling. It was not as if they were lovers, after all, he told himself. He did not have to show her that he was not a cold-hearted playboy. She either believed him or she didn’t. He had nothing to prove.

  He did, in fact, telephone the apartment several times but the answering machine was always on. He rang off, not leaving a message. If he were honest, he did not know what message to leave.

  The evening at the movie theatre had shaken him. He had not felt so aware of a woman in years. But it was much more than sexual awareness. When she burned herself he wanted to heal her. When she was tired he wanted to take her burdens and carry them for her. And he had found himself starting to tell her about Bebel, as he had never told anyone, man or woman. Until last week he would have called it disloyal and he was n
ever disloyal to his family. But telling Abby his family’s secrets did not feel like disloyalty. It felt natural.

  I’m getting in very deep, thought Emilio. How much deeper can I go without telling her that we’ve met before? Hell, that we’ve kissed before. And that I’ve never forgotten.

  He avoided London while he tried to get his head around it.

  He went to the Palacio Azul and prowled restlessly round the house. Later he sat on the terrace in the thin February sunshine and looked across the valley at the Andalucian mountains. His glass of wine dangled forgotten in his hand. The hillside in front of the house was studded with olive and almond trees, eucalyptus and old fruit trees that would be in flower in just a few weeks. There was a chill in the air, especially in the morning, but there was still the scent of dust and herbs and living wood that he always associated with his secret hillside.

  He looked down at his wine. He wanted Abby here. He wanted her to argue with. He wanted to share the spring with her.

  He knew that the girl who had lectured him about roses would love all the exuberant blossom. With its carpet of poppies and cowslips and blue borage turning the orchards into something out of a mediaeval Book of Hours. He wanted to walk her among the white blossom of the cherry trees. He wanted to take her to the magical white villages that the region was famous for.

  Maybe here he would be able to tell her about that night nine years ago. Maybe here he could tell her that he had never forgotten it. And that he had known who she was the moment he saw her

  Maybe here, she would forgive him. Forgive him for rejecting her then. And for holding out on her now. She was a passionate fighter but she had a heart. And there was always that sizzling attraction.

  Maybe she would listen to her instincts if he brought her to his enchanted mountaintop.

  Maybe.

  CHAPTER NINE

  EMILIO flew back from Granada to Madrid on Monday. All through the journey he kept breaking into a smile.

  The flight attendant was impressed. Not many celebrities were as accommodating as Emilio Diz. He was even charming when the landing was delayed.