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He nodded, indicating the little lounge area where four leather armchairs were grouped around a coffee table. He lowered himself down, comfortable, confident and totally composed, while she perched carefully, straight-backed, knees locked, smile fixed.
‘OK. Basics first. You’re a dancer with this ballet company, but you’ve “volunteered” to take on this PR role just for tonight.’
‘Something like that,’ she said, ignoring the air quotes he made with his hands.
‘So what’s Ruby’s story? Why you?’ he said, narrowing his eyes and steepling his fingers.
‘You want to know about me? There’s not much to tell. I’ve been with the BB since I was eleven,’ she said, realising that she was now being interviewed for a job she didn’t even want. ‘I’m not dancing tonight, so I think I was the obvious choice.’
‘The BB is the British Ballet?’
She smiled at his stupid question.
‘Yes. The company’s fifty years old. I’ve been in the school, the corps, then a soloist and hopefully one day a principal. So I know everything there is to know.’
‘What about the other side of things? There will be political points being scored here tonight. You know everything there is to know about that too, I take it?’
As she stared at him she suddenly remembered the notes. Had she brought them? Pages and pages of silly handwritten notes about all the other stuff she was meant to tell him. She’d been writing them out in the kitchen, she’d numbered them, she’d stacked them... And then what had she done with them?
‘You’re prepared, right? One thing you should know about me is I’m not a big fan of winging it.’
Neither am I, she wanted to answer back. Which was why she had spent so long making notes about things she didn’t find remotely interesting. But being rude to the sponsor was not an option—not with all that revenue riding on it. Her own scholarship had been funded through the generosity of patrons like Coral Rossini, the Company Director had been quick to remind her.
‘I’m sure you won’t be disappointed. Mrs Rossini was confident I was right for the job.’
‘Yes. I’m sure she was,’ he said, in a tone that buzzed in her subconscious like an annoying fly.
But where were the notes? In her bag? Or could she have stuffed them in her pockets? Left them on the Tube?
He tipped his head back, scrutinised her with a raised brow, looking down the length of his annoyingly handsome nose, and she wondered if he could read her mind.
‘How long have you known my mother, incidentally? She seems to have taken quite a shine to you.’
‘She has?’
She’d definitely had the notes just before she got in the car...
‘Yes. And you wouldn’t be the first person to want to be friends with my incredibly kind, incredibly generous mother.’
What was he talking about? Did he think that she wanted to be his mother’s friend? Did he think she actually wanted to be here, doing this?
‘I’m not here to make friends with anyone. I’m here because I was told to be.’
And then she stopped, suddenly aware of the dark look that had begun to spread across his face. She’d gone too far.
‘You were told to be?’ he asked as his brows rose quizzically above those sharp sherry-coloured eyes.
‘Someone had to do it.’
He sat back now, framed in the cream leather seat, elbows resting on the arms of the chair and fingers steepled in front of his chest. They were shaded with fine dark hair, and above the pinstriped cuff of his shirt the metallic gleam of a luxury watch twinkled and shone.
She kept her eyes there, concentrating on the strong bones of his wrists, refusing to look into his face as the jet powered on through the sky.
‘And you drew the short straw?’ he said, lifting his water.
She caught sight of the solid chunks of burnished silver cufflinks. She’d never even known anyone who wore cufflinks before, barely knew anyone who bothered to wear a shirt and tie, and she wondered for a moment how he got them off at night.
‘You’d rather be anywhere other than here?’
His voice curled out softly, quietly, just above the thrum of the engines, and with the unmistakable tone of mockery. Was he teasing her? She flashed a glance up. He was. The tiniest of smiles lurked at the corner of his mouth. Did that mean he didn’t think she was trying to stick her claws into his mother?
Maybe.
She shifted in the chair, used her core muscles to keep from slipping further down into the bucket seat. He sat completely still, and with all that body sitting across from her it was impossible to concentrate.
‘I’d rather be performing,’ she said. ‘Nothing matters more to me than that.’
‘That I understand,’ he said quietly. His face fell for a moment as some other world held him captive. He opened and flexed his hand, turned it around and she saw knuckles distended, broken. ‘I understand that very well.’
She looked down at her own hands, bunched up on her lap in the scarlet satin, and waited for him to speak. He didn’t. He crossed his leg and her gaze travelled there. And all the way along it. All the way along hard, strong muscle. She knew firm muscle when she saw it, and he was even better built than a dancer—bulkier, stronger, undeniably masculine. She could make out powerful thighs under all that navy silk gabardine, and the full force of the shoulders stretched out under his shirt. He could lift her above his head, and spin her around, lay her down and then...
He laid his hands on the armrests and she glanced up, startled out of her daydream.
‘Sorry. I—Let’s get back on track.’ She cleared her throat. OK, time to remember her notes. ‘The performance tonight. You want me to give you the details now?’
‘Please do.’ He nodded.
She frowned. She could repeat every dance step, but that wasn’t what he needed to know. Details. Names. Dates. All in the notes, in a pile, on her kitchen table—which was at least five hundred miles away.
‘Two Loves is based on a poem.’
‘A poem...? Anything more specific than that?’
Yes, there were specifics. Loads of specifics. She’d written them down, memorised them, but fishing them out of her brain now was a different thing. As if she needed any more reminding that the one single thing she could do in life was dance. She was completely hopeless at almost everything else.
‘It’s...really old,’ she said, grasping for any single fact.
His eyebrow was still raised. ‘How old? Last month? Last year? Last century?’
‘Ancient old,’ she said, an image of the poet that the choreographer had shown them coming to mind. ‘Like two thousand years. And Persian,’ she said happily. ‘It’s all coming back. He’s a Persian poet called Rumi, famous for his love poems.’
‘Ah yes. Rumi. “Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along...” And all that rubbish.’
‘Yes, well. Some of that—“rubbish”—has made this ballet tonight,’ she said, pleased that she’d remembered something, even if he sounded less than impressed.
‘OK. Though, since its unlikely I’m going to be shaking hands with the poet Rumi tonight, do you have any facts about anyone alive? There’s normally a whole list of people I need to thank.’
‘Yes,’ she said, staring into his unimpressed face. ‘That’s all in my notes.’
‘Right,’ he said, standing up and staring at his watch. ‘We land in thirty minutes. You get your notes and I’ll grab a shower and get into my tux.’ He looked at her and nodded. ‘I think we’re both agreed that the sooner we get this over with the better.’
CHAPTER THREE (#u20e16661-5c0a-5ffc-8bc1-fb5d01570d65)
MATTEO ROSSINI WAS sacking off boxing and the casino to go to the ballet? Was he for real?
He could hear the boys howling down the phone as they all raised their glasses in a fake toast. At least someone found it funny, he thought as he hauled his third-best tux out of the wardrobe and laid it out on the bed.
He’d been looking forward to this night for ages. A chance to really blow off steam after the disastrous media circus he’d lived through with Faye. And learning of the juicy prospect of tucking Arturo Finance into the back pocket of the bank was going to be the icing on the cake.
He felt he was almost on the home straight already.
But all that would have to wait while he went to the ballet.
He dragged the towel across his damp shoulders and chuckled, realising he wasn’t nearly as down about it as he’d been half an hour ago. And it didn’t have anything to do with a new desire to watch people flounce about the stage. All the charm of the evening was wrapped up in one beautiful little package called Ruby.
She might well have designs on his mother, but he wasn’t getting that feeling from her—he wasn’t picking up that sycophantic thing that most people had about them when they met him for the first time.
She was refreshing, and he was in the mood to be refreshed, and since there was no choice in the matter for the next couple of hours he might as well enjoy what he could.
He stepped into his trousers just as there was a knock on the door. He listened. It came again. Two tiny little raps—one-two. Quiet, but determined. Business not pleasure, he thought, registering with interest a slight sense of disappointment.
He fastened his flies and lifted his shirt, then opened the door and there she was. All eyes, lips and lily-white slender limbs.
‘Hello, there,’ he said, stretching his arms inside his shirt. ‘Everything OK?’
By the look on her face everything was not OK. Her eyes had widened to coal-black circles and her mouth was in a shocked red ‘O’ as she gawped at his chest. He stifled a smile as he turned to spare her blushes and started to button his shirt.
‘I’m so sorry to bother you,’ she said, tucking her eyes down, ‘but I was meant to give you this to wear.’ She held out a little parcel, kept her head turned away. ‘From your mum.’
He continued to fasten his buttons and stared at the little parcel.
‘Want to open it for me?’ he said, now walking to the table for his cufflinks.
Her eyes flicked up, then down, but not before she took a good long look. He couldn’t help but smile broadly. Game on.
She pulled open the package and held out a red bow tie and pocket square.
‘Is everything OK?’
‘What?’ she said. ‘Yes, of course everything is OK. I was just wondering why you bother with those things.’
He paused, his collar up, considering her carefully. That was not what he’d expected to hear.
‘Pardon?’
‘Cufflinks. What are they even for? Why not just use buttons? I don’t get it.’
‘Has anyone ever told you you’re quite forward?’ he said, clicking the cufflinks together.
‘I say what’s on my mind. I’m not trying to cause offence, but I’ve never seen anyone use them.’
He finished and tugged at his cuffs, checking that his sleeves were perfectly straight, watching her watching him carefully. He was warming to her more by the minute.
‘They make my cuffs sit nicely. I like the look. A beautiful shirt deserves beautiful cuffs. And, since you’re looking unconvinced by that answer, I’ll also add that these were a gift from an ex-girlfriend. After we split up.’
He turned them in the light and smiled.
‘I’m not all Mr Bad Guy, despite what you might have read in the press.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Right...’ with a tone that was flat and disbelieving.
He raised an eyebrow and tied the bowtie in place.
Well, what did he expect? he thought, turning away to get his jacket while his mind ran to the stupid pictures his friends had texted him and those quotes about being emotionally stunted.
He hadn’t bothered to read them properly. Anyone who knew him well knew the truth. And anyone who knew him well knew that all his stunted emotions sat with Sophie. The only thing he was sure of in his life was that there would never be another Sophie...
They had been the Golden Couple all through university—she with her long blonde hair and he a rising star of the rugby scene. He’d never been happier. The whole world had been spread out before him. His degree in sports science, his imminent career as a rugby player, playing for his country... Would it be Italy or England? When would he ask Sophie to marry him? Where would they live?
Those were the kinds of decisions he’d faced. Until the night he’d got the news that his father had died. Like a great oak being ripped up from the roots, his strength, his confidence had been sapped. He’d felt the world crumble under his feet, felt himself spinning in space. He’d thought his father sure and solid and strong. He’d had all the answers. He’d been wise and clever and honourable and he’d loved his mother—and Claudio had been his best friend.
They had been almost inseparable—closer than brothers. The only thing that had ever came between his parents had been Claudio’s suffocating presence in their lives—until something had happened and everything had changed.
Matteo had once suspected that Claudio had made a move on his mother and his father had found out. It had to be something like that for the schism between them to have been so deep. How wrong he had been.
His father’s fight to save the family bank had been epic. He had worked tirelessly for weeks, but so much of it had gone. People with lots of money wanted lots more. Loyalty was too expensive. Especially when Claudio had offered a fast dividend and people had been too greedy to care how it was made.
But it had been his father’s death more than the losses to the company that had devastated Matteo’s life. His mother had been inconsolable—the thought of her anguish still made him wince with pain. He had gone to her side, nursed her and taken charge as he knew his father would have wanted. A stream of people from the banking world had arrived—all firm handshakes, sober suits and quiet conversations.
All of that he had lived through, knowing that it couldn’t get any worse. Knowing that Sophie was there for him.
And the knowledge of her warm, loving body had driven him one night to take a flight north to university, then a two-hour taxi ride from the airport to the cold, stormy coast of St Andrew’s, where he’d known she would be just about to wake up. Maybe he’d slip into bed beside her, feel the love in her arms and bury himself and his pain...
How many times must he relive those moments? The crunch of the gravel, the lightening shadows of the morning and the frosted cloud of his breath. The cold, metallic slide of his key in the lock, lamps still burning in the hallway, the TV on, glasses on the table.
Like an automaton he had turned to the sound of the shower.
And then had come the sight he wished he could burn from his eyes.
His beautiful Sophie, naked and wet, her legs wrapped around another man. And the other man had been the national rugby coach, come all the way to Scotland to ask him to play for his country.
Was he emotionally stunted? All day long. And for the rest of his life.
‘Most people don’t believe what they read. I never do, if it’s any consolation.’
His eyes tracked round, following the voice that had split through the sick daydream. Angel-faced Ruby, with those huge brown eyes and wide red lips was looking up at him with something that might be described as concern. How sweet. But if it was concern, it was wasted.
‘Please don’t worry about me,’ he said, fastening the last button on his jacket. ‘I’m a big boy. I can take what they dish up and swallow it whole.’
