Champagne Summer. India Grey

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      Back in his room he checked his watch and picked up the phone. It was just after five p.m. in Argentina, and the grooms would be turning the ponies out for the night. Two promising mares—a chestnut, and a pretty palomino that he’d bought last month in America for the new polo season—had been delivered yesterday and he was impatient to hear how they were settling in.

      Giselle, his PA back at San Silvana, reassured him that the horses were doing fine. They’d recovered well from the journey, and the vet was happy that they would both be rested and ready to use on his return.

      Alejandro felt better once he’d spoken to her. Nothing to do with the husky warmth in her voice, but simply because it was good to be reminded that San Silvana, with its rolling lawns, its stables, poolhouse and acres of lush paddock filled with ponies, was still there. Was real. Was his.

      Coming back to England had dredged up insecurities he had long forgotten, he thought wryly, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror as he went to the door. He’d come a long way, but beneath the bespoke dinner suit, the Savile Row shirt and silk bow-tie, there apparently still lurked the displaced boy who didn’t belong.

      Out on the galleried landing the sounds of the party drifted up to him. Glancing down on his way to the stairs, he could see the England players, standing shoulder to shoulder in identical dark suits as they lined up for a photograph. They had their backs to him, and were standing in two rows while a photographer wearing tight leather-trousers and an expression of extreme harassment tried to get them all to stop messing around and keep still.

      ‘Fifty quid to swap places with Matt Fitzpatrick!’ someone called from the back row, and there was a huge guffaw of laughter, followed by someone else shouting, ‘A hundred!’

      ‘Sensible offers only, please, gentlemen,’ grinned Fitzpatrick.

      For a second Alejandro didn’t understand the joke, but then he moved further along the shadowed gallery and looked down, feeling his sore shoulders stiffen and ice-cold disgust flood him.

      Tamsin Calthorpe, her cheeks glowing and her honeyed hair shining like the sun beneath the photographer’s lights, was stretched out horizontally in the arms of the front row of players, facing out towards the camera. Matt Fitzpatrick, exuding Neanderthal pride, supported her body, one huge hand cupped around her left breast.

      The photographer’s flash exploded as he took a volley of shots. Her bare legs and feet, held in the meaty hands of one of the England forwards, looked as delicate as the stem of some exotic flower, and next to the coarse, battered faces of the players Tamsin’s skin gleamed like pale-gold satin.

      ‘How come you get the best position anyway, Fitzpatrick?’ shouted one of the younger players at the back.

      Tamsin laughed, and to Alejandro the sound was like fingernails on a blackboard. ‘He’s more experienced than you, Jones. And his handling skills are better.’ As Jones blushed to the roots of his hair, the team erupted into more rowdy laughter and cheers.

      So that was what she’d been asking her father for: permission to appear in the team photo. He remembered her soft, pleading tone as she’d put her hand on his arm and said ‘only a couple of photographs’.

      Had she no pride at all? Alejandro’s face felt stiff with contempt as he leaned against one of the gallery’s carved wooden posts and watched. What was she, some kind of unofficial team mascot? It was perfectly clear that she knew all the players pretty well.

       How many had she slept with?

      The thought slipped into his head without warning, but he had to brace himself against the lash of unexpected bitterness that accompanied it.

      There was much clapping and shouting below as two of the players, under direction from the photographer, lifted her onto their shoulders. Laughing, Tamsin tipped back her head and looked up.

      He watched the smile die on her glossy lips as her eyes met his.

      In that moment Alejandro realised who it was she reminded him of: the blondes who’d populated the rugby parties he used to attend. The girl he’d thought was so different had grown up into one of those women he’d so despised at the party at Harcourt. A polished, hard-society blonde whose satiny skin concealed a ruthless streak a mile wide. A professional flirt, a consummate party girl, a shallow, manipulative man-user whose every flattering word was meaningless and every smile was a lie.

      And, judging from the look on her face now, she was all too aware she’d been found out.

      No.

      No, no no.

      It couldn’t be possible. Even her luck wasn’t that bad. As the two props set her back on her feet, Tamsin shook her fringe from her eyes and looked back up into the minstrels’ gallery where a figure in the shadows had caught her eye. A figure she’d thought for one nasty moment was …

      Oh, God. It was. Him.

      He was leaning insolently against a carved wooden post, looking down. Though his face was in shadow, every line of his elegant, powerful body seemed to communicate contemptuous amusement, and she could feel his eyes searing her with their intensity and their disdain.

      The photographer clapped his hands and trilled, ‘OK, people—are we ready? Now, if the two guys on either side of Miss Calthorpe could look down at her, please?’

      Why? Why couldn’t he just go?

      Dimly Tamsin was aware of laughing banter breaking out around her again, and of Matt pulling her towards him and making some joking comment to the player on her other side. But, as she looked up into Matt’s appreciative blue eyes, it was Alejandro’s cold, contemptuous stare that she saw.

      The photographer’s flash exploded in her face as fury erupted inside her.

      That was what he’d done to her that night.

      ‘That’s fabulous,’ gushed the photographer. ‘Really fabulous. Gorgeous, sexy pout, Miss Calthorpe. Now, shoulders straighter, Matt … Lovely.’

       He’d broken something inside her, so that no matter how much men like Matt flattered her and flirted with her …

      ‘Tamsin, you’re looking delicious. Just put your hand on Matt’s chest … yes, like that …’

      … she could never quite make herself believe that they meant it.

      ‘Now, let’s make sure we get the nice rose-patterned lining of the jacket in the shot. Just slip your hand underneath his jacket, and sort of half-push it off his shoulder. Yeah, like that. That’s gorgeous.’

       Maybe it was time she proved to Alejandro Arrogant D’Arienzo, and herself, that not all men found her such a turn-off?

      The shutter rattled like machine-gun fire. High on adrenalin, fuelled by fury, Tamsin let instinct take over. For six years she had surrounded herself with a forest of thorns, keeping men at bay with her endless succession of barbed comments and razor-sharp retorts, all because he had robbed her of the belief that she was desirable. But she would show him that she was attractive, she was sexy … Her spine arched reflexively as she slid her hand over Matt’s shoulder, but it wasn’t Matt she was СКАЧАТЬ