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She wrinkled her nose at him. ‘I might let you win.’
He lifted both hands in mock-capitulation. ‘Do me a favour, and go smell the roses.’
‘While you do…what?’
His slow grin held a teasing quality. ‘Kick back and anticipate this afternoon’s verbal interaction.’
Ariane rolled her eyes. ‘How come you get to have all the fun?’
He waited a beat, then offered quietly, ‘Watch out for yourself.’
A friend, as well as an associate, he saw too much. ‘Always.’
The automatic assurance didn’t fool either of them, and Ariane collected her cellphone before making her way to the rear of the house.
French doors led onto a large terrace, and she crossed it, then descended a set of stone steps to a paved courtyard.
The grounds were larger than she’d expected, with an expanse of immaculate lawn. Garden beds abounded with an array of flora in bloom, a riot of colour and green foliage, exquisite topiary. There was a gazebo, painted white with a peaked roof and decorative scrolls. A water fountain stood nearby, and she sighted a marble birdbath.
Shrubbery, garden seats—it was close to picture perfect, and she wondered if Manolo del Guardo surrounded himself with beautiful objects because he genuinely enjoyed them, or whether they were merely the possessions expected of a wealthy man. Suggested, supplied and maintained to create an image.
The house…mansion, she corrected mentally. Had he employed a team of interior decorators and given them carte blanche?
Her cellphone beeped and promptly went to mes sage-bank, providing a reminder she should check the morning’s incoming calls.
Three, she determined a few minutes later, two of which were from Roger. A sick feeling twisted her stomach at the brief, crude words.
Ignore him, she counselled silently, hating the wiliness of his psychosis. He rarely rang from the same number twice, switching SIM cards, using numerous pay-phones in a game devised to fool her so she’d engage each call or message. Even in the few seconds it took to hit the erase button, he managed to achieve his objective.
Roger was the reason she’d taken up martial arts. For the discipline and control…as a form of protection and a means of channelling her anger against his intrusive harassment.
Ariane pocketed the cellphone and deliberately focused her attention on her surroundings. It was a beautiful summer’s day, with only a few drifts of cloud in the sky. The warmth of the sun caressed her skin, and the air held the sweetness of flowers in bloom, their colours, some muted, many bright, a visual delight.
A short while later she returned indoors, freshened up, then she joined Tony in the dining room for lunch. Thin slices of veal, Parma ham, salads and fresh bread, followed by a delectable fruit salad.
There was time to retouch her make-up and smooth her hair before joining Tony in the designated interview room, where she went over her notes and the questions she wanted to pose during the afternoon taping.
Manolo del Guardo appeared shortly after two, in, unless she was mistaken, a change of shirt. White, top few buttons undone, with cuffs rolled back, the difference in style was minimal, and probably unnoticeable to the untrained eye.
She attempted to qualify it as an integral part of the job, and knew she lied. Everything about this man caught and held her interest.
The animalistic sense of power combined with a dramatic mesh of elemental ruthlessness and latent sensuality. Add leashed savagery, and it became a lethal mix.
Be professional, think interview quality, and ignore the exigent magnetism, Ariane advised silently. A derisive laugh rose and died in her throat. Sure, as if that was likely to happen.
‘This afternoon I’d like to concentrate on your entry into the business arena,’ she began. ‘A few early breaks, your motivation to succeed, risks.’ She met his gaze and held it. ‘Highlights charting your career.’
Manolo took in her slender frame, ash-blonde hair in its sleek style, hazel green-flecked eyes, the small but determined chin, her lush mouth.
Had anyone told her those eyes became dark green when she was angry? An emotion she hid well, and one he found intriguing.
She’d done her research, he conceded as he answered her questions and offered information already known to the media.
‘No dabbling in illegals in a quest to build your empire?’
For years he’d walked on the right side of the law, but there were some deals done in his early teens of which he was not particularly proud.
‘Perhaps you’d care to define “illegals”?’
His drawling tone was silk-smooth and dangerous beneath the dispassionate imperturbability.
‘Does it need defining?’
‘The implication covers a broad spectrum.’
‘Could one assume your evasion of the question supplies its own answer?’
‘Are you levelling an accusation?’
Oh, lord, he could have a team of top-flight lawyers breathing down her neck in an instant. ‘No.’ Her tone was steady, and she effected a polite smile. ‘Merely voicing admiration for the extent of your wealth in relation to the time in which you’ve achieved it.’
‘I’ll accept that as a compliment.’
He wanted to strangle her. She could sense it beneath the surface of his control.
A few more questions and she was done for the afternoon. She watched as Manolo del Guardo rose from his chair, inclined his head and walked from the room.
‘He let you get away unscathed.’
Tony’s comment should have brought her some satisfaction. Instead she could only wonder at the ease with which Manolo del Guardo had allowed her to dance so close to the line between the provocative and the sensational.
‘Yes.’ She gathered paperwork and slid it into her briefcase.
‘It’s a shame we can’t wrap it up tonight.’
Ariane slung the leather strap over one shoulder. ‘I understand our host has a pressing engagement for the evening.’
Tony placed the camera in its case and locked it. ‘We could go grab a pizza, take in a movie.’
‘Count me out.’ She moved towards the door. ‘I’m going to try out the lap pool, have dinner here, then catch an early night.’
‘Maybe that’s not such a bad idea. We were given permission to avail ourselves of the entertainment room. Maybe Santos will let us microwave popcorn?’
‘In your dreams.’ She offered him a musing grin. ‘Does this look like a home that has popcorn in the pantry?’
With that parting salvo she crossed the foyer and ascended the stairs, choosing to check her cellphone messages as she made her way to her room.
Roger…again. Twice, she determined, and stifled a pithy oath. Would the man ever cease with his harassment? Catching his first few words before she hit erase was almost as bad as listening to the entire message, for the damage was done. He’d succeeded in reaching her, and in his book that was enough.
Let it go. They were only words. Take a deep breath.
Ariane repeated the silent mantra as she slipped out of her clothes and donned the swimsuit she’d tossed into her bag on the off-chance she might use it. Then she pulled on jogging-bottoms and top, caught up a towel and made her way down to the lower level.
The gym was impressive, the equipment expensive, and she crossed to the indoor lap pool, slid into the water and began a punishing series of laps, back and forth until she could feel the pull of muscles.
It felt good to expend pent-up energy, and she emerged, crossed to the shower, then donned sweats and returned to her room to change for dinner.
After a pleasant meal, they took coffee into the entertainment room and watched a movie on DVD.
When it finished Ariane rose to her feet. ‘Goodnight.’
Tony slotted in another movie, then sank back into a comfortable chair. ‘See you at breakfast.’
CHAPTER THREE
ARIANE was unsure what woke her. Only that something had, and she lay still, listening to the silence, wondering if she’d slipped into consciousness from a dream.
Then she heard it, the distant cry of a fractious babe. Manolo del Guardo’s daughter. Awake and, from the sound of it, in pain.
What time was it? She checked her watch…almost midnight. Any second now Manolo or, if he hadn’t returned home, Santos would tend to Christina.
The cries continued, and Ariane didn’t pause for thought as she slid out of bed, snagged her robe and shrugged into it, then made her way along the gallery.
Electric wall sconces turned low provided a dim light, and she moved quickly past a few closed doors, then paused outside the room where the sound seemed the loudest. A slight qualm caused a momentary hesitation, then at a further wail she discarded it and opened the door.
Ariane barely registered the room with its soft lighting as she crossed to the cot. Her attention was focused on the distressed babe.
‘Poor little petite, hmm?’ She scooped the child up and held her against one shoulder, instinctively soothing the small back. ‘Let’s guess, shall we? You’re hungry? Wet? In pain?’ She touched her cheek to the small head. ‘Or all three?’
At almost six months of age, was she still having a late-night bottle? There had to be a feeding schedule around somewhere. But not in plain sight, she registered.
‘OK, little one, let’s do a nappy change and see if that helps any.’
Ariane heard a sound and turned towards the door to discover Santos framed in the aperture. ‘I heard her crying via the monitor, and came as quickly as I could.’
She laid the babe on the bed nestled against one wall and deftly effected a nappy change, speaking softly as she did so. ‘There we go, angel. Now, if only you could talk, we’d know if it’s a tooth ready to come through, or a tummy pain.’
‘I’ll take over.’
She spared Santos a measured look. ‘Because you feel you should, or you doubt my ability to cope?’
‘On the contrary. You seem to be doing just fine. Christina has stopped crying.’
A very satisfactory burp issued forth, and Ariane smiled. ‘Any more, sweetheart?’ Almost on command there was another. ‘Does she usually have a bottle? I couldn’t see a feeding schedule.’ She stroked a soothing finger over the babe’s cheek.
‘Probably because the last nanny didn’t keep one,’ Santos offered drily.
Obviously nannies, plural, were a sensitive subject.
‘I gave Christina a bottle at eight, and she has, I understand, been sleeping through until around five in the morning.’
But not tonight. Poor wee mite. No mother to cuddle her, a father who left her in the care of professionals and was too busy adding millions to his incredible fortune…
‘Problems, Santos?’
Think of the devil, and he appeared.
‘Christina is finding it difficult to settle.’
Manolo shrugged out of his dinner jacket and tossed it over a chair, then he loosened his tie and turned back the cuffs of his shirt.
Even to Ariane’s jaded eye he was too ruggedly attractive for his own good. The height, breadth of shoulder, his stance, and compelling facial features.
‘My apologies. I was unexpectedly delayed.’
Was it her imagination, or did she catch a telling glance pass between Manolo del Guardo and Santos?
‘Ariane heard Christina’s cry and reached her ahead of me.’ The explanation came from Santos, and Manolo inclined his head in her direction.
‘Thank you for your concern.’
But you can go now? The implication was apparent. It was totally weird, but she wanted to delay the inevitable a little longer. Holding the babe felt so…good. Almost in silent unison the babe nuzzled a little, and Ariane eased the knuckle of her little finger close to the babe’s mouth. Almost at once the babe began suckling as Ariane continued to stroke the tiny cheek.
Manolo’s gaze narrowed fractionally. ‘I’ll take Christina.’ He checked his watch. ‘I guess it won’t hurt to give her another bottle.’
‘She might settle back to sleep without one.’ She could hardly hold the babe any longer, and she gently eased her towards her father.
Christina’s protest was immediate, and voluble.
Ariane’s heart turned over at the sound, and she resisted the impulse to reach out and soothe the babe.
‘It would appear you have a certain empathy with the young.’
A compliment? Should she admit to having had some practice? ‘I reported the effects of war on children during the conflict in Kosovo.’
Very few were aware her experience was hands-on, that she’d spent time in severely understaffed hospital wards, helping out, or that she’d chosen to stay until trained staff arrived on the scene.
‘Where chaos reigned and depleted medical supplies were the norm.’ Manolo subjected her to a steady appraisal.
A calculated guess, based on media releases at the time?
‘You were given the opportunity to fly out with departing media staff, yet you refused,’ he continued. ‘Instead you ate rationed food, opted to sleep on a mattress on the floor of an infirmary and tended the sick twenty-four seven.’
He couldn’t know that, unless—
‘No one enters my home without undergoing a full investigation,’ he informed quietly.
No one?
