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With a whimper of horror, she tried again, taking advantage of her relative slightness to duck beneath the arm of a muscular ground official in a fluorescent jacket. Someone behind grabbed her coat and tried to pull her back, but panic gave her strength, and with a desperate lunge Tamsin broke free.
The England number two in front of her turned round and, recognising her, moved aside to let her through. At the same moment Alejandro finished talking to a journalist and stepped forwards.
There was hardly time to register what was happening, much less to stop it. Already unsteady on last night’s killer heels, Tamsin felt herself hurtling forwards into open space, where she’d expected to encounter a solid and immovable row of muscular bodies, but just as she was falling strong arms seized her and she was lifted off her feet.
‘Tamsin! Steady, darlin’.’ It was Matt Fitzpatrick, the England number five. He grinned at her good-naturedly, revealing a missing front tooth. ‘Don’t tell me—when you saw my glorious try in the first half you finally realised you couldn’t live without me?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m…I need…’ Her voice came out as a breathless croak, and she looked wildly around, just in time to see Alejandro disappearing into the tunnel. ‘Him,’ she said in a hoarse whisper.
Matt shrugged his shoulders and gave a theatrical sigh of regret. ‘I see. Can’t argue with that, I suppose.’ And with that he hoisted her into his muscular arms and pushed easily through the crowd before she could protest. ‘D’Arienzo!’
Horror flooded her and she let out a squeal, which bounced off the walls of the tunnel. ‘Matt, no!’ she shrieked, wriggling frantically in his giant’s arms, aware that her coat had fallen off her shoulders and the skirt of her tight black-satin cocktail dress was riding up to mid-thigh, showing the lacy tops of her stockings. But it was too late. As if in slow motion, she watched Alejandro stop.
Turn.
Look at her.
And then look away, without the slightest flicker of interest or recognition.
‘Yes?’
He was talking to Matt, his eyebrows raised slightly.
‘Someone wants you,’ grinned Matt, setting her down on her feet. Tamsin ducked her head. Her blood felt like it had been diluted with five parts of vodka as misery churned inside her, mixing uneasily with wild relief. He didn’t recognise her. Of course he didn’t—her hair had been darker then, and longer. She’d been younger.
And she’d meant absolutely nothing to him.
It was fine. It was good. The humiliation of facing him again if he’d remembered that night would have been terminally appalling. Some in-built instinct for self-preservation told her not to look up, not to meet the eyes of the man who had blown her world to smithereens and walked away without a scratch, to keep her head down.
Oh, God. Her self-preservation instinct hadn’t reckoned on the effect of looking at the length of his bare, muscular thighs.
‘Really?’ he said in a quiet, steel-edged voice. ‘And what could Lady Tamsin Calthorpe possibly want with me?’
Adrenalin scorched through her like wildfire, and she felt her head jerk backwards. Towering above her, he was smiling slightly, but the expression in his eyes was as cold and bleak as the North Sea.
She raised her chin and forced herself to meet his gaze. So he did remember. And he had the nerve to look at her as if she was the one who had done something wrong. Like what, forexample—not being attractive enough? Pressing her lips together, she pushed back the questions she had asked herself a million times since that awful night at Harcourt and simply said, ‘Not you. The shirt. Could you take it off, please?’
Looking up into his face was like torment. She should have been used to it—she’d seen it in her dreams often enough in the last six years—but even the most vivid of them hadn’t done justice to the brutal beauty of him as he stood only a foot away. Bruised and bloodied, he was every inch the conquering Barbarian.
‘Oh, dear,’ he drawled. ‘What’s it been—five years? And clearly nothing’s changed.’
Oh, Lord; his voice. The melodic Spanish lilt that he’d all but lost growing up in England was stronger again now. Unfortunately.
Tamsin swallowed. ‘Six,’ she snapped, and instantly wanted to bite out her tongue for giving him the satisfaction of knowing that she cared enough to remember. ‘Anyway, I don’t know what you mean. From where I’m standing, plenty has changed.’
Like I’m not naïve enough any more to think that the face ofan angel and the body of a living god make a shallow, callousbastard into a hero. She didn’t say the words, but just thinking them, and remembering what he’d done, made the strength seep back into her trembling body.
‘Really?’ He nodded slowly, reaching out a strong, tanned hand and smoothing it over the wing of pale-gold hair that fell over one eye. ‘Well, there’s this, of course, but I’m not talking about superficial things. It’s what’s underneath that I’m more interested in.’ Guilty, humiliating heat flared in the pit of her stomach as his gaze flickered over her, taking in the black-satin cocktail dress beneath the huge overcoat, and the muddied skyscraper shoes that clearly said she hadn’t been home last night. ‘I’m sure that line about taking the shirt off usually enjoys a very high success rate, especially since your daddy is now so high up in the RFU, but that cuts absolutely no ice with me these days. I’m out of all that—’ He broke off, and laughed. ‘Though, of course, I don’t have to tell you that, do I?’
She would not melt. She would not succumb to his voice or his touch, or his questions, or anything. Looking over his right shoulder at the red cross of St George painted on the wall of the tunnel, she affected a tone of deep boredom.
‘Whatever. I just want the shirt back, please.’
Wordlessly, as if he were weighing up what to do next, Alejandro took a step towards her, closing the gap between them. The other players were filing past them and the tunnel echoed with their shouts and the clatter of their studs on the floor, but the noise seemed to be coming from miles away. Tamsin felt her flimsy façade slipping. The physical reality of his closeness was acting on her senses like a drug, giving her a painfully heightened awareness of his broad, sculpted chest beneath the tightly fitting shirt, the scent of damp grass and mud that clung to him, and its undertone of raw masculinity.
‘I’m sure you do,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I’m sure the last thing your father wants is to see me back in an England shirt. After all, he tried hard enough to get me out of one six years ago.’
‘Yes, well, you have to agree that the Barbarians strip is much more appropriate, Alejandro. Given that you behave like one.’
A lazy smile pulled the corners of his sexy, swollen mouth. With a nonchalant lift of his shoulders, he turned and began to walk away from her, his massive shoulders filling the narrow space. He called the shots here, and he knew it.
‘Wait!’
Fury welled inside her and she ran after him, suddenly finding that without the distraction of his closeness she could think clearly again, and fuelled by a renewed sense of urgency to reclaim the shirt. Slipping past him, she placed herself defiantly in the doorway of the visitors’ changing room, blocking his way.
‘The shirt, Alejandro.’
She saw the dangerous gleam in the depths of his tiger’s eyes, and for a split second wondered if he was going to push her out of the way. Given the relative size of them, he’d hardly have to try, but something in him seemed to prevent him. If she didn’t know any better she’d think it was some sense of inherent chivalry, but that would be ridiculous, because she knew better than anyone that there wasn’t an atom of decency in the whole of Alejandro D’Arienzo’s magnificent body.
He stood back, raising both his hands as if in surrender, but his face bore a look of subdued triumph.
‘OK—go on, then. Take it.’
She cast a furtive look around. The tunnel was emptier now, but there were still officials, a few cameramen and journalists hovering outside the press room. ‘Me? Take it off you? Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t.
Alejandro gave a small shrug and dropped his hands. ‘I think we both know that you can, because you’ve done it before. But if you don’t want to…’ He came towards her and she found herself automatically stepping aside. ‘Obviously it’s not that important.’
‘It is.’
She spoke through gritted teeth, trying to keep back the scream of frustration and fury that was gathering in her chest. Alejandro’s hand was on the door and she reached out and grabbed his arm.
It was as if she’d touched a bolt of lightning. White-hot tongues of electricity sizzled up her arm and exploded inside her, simply from the contact of his body beneath the shirt. How come in six years this had never happened with anyone else, even when she’d wanted it to?
He stopped, then slowly turned round so he was standing with his back against the door. ‘OK, then. If it matters so much, you’d better take it.’
He was challenging her, she realised, and Tamsin Calthorpe was a girl who could never resist a challenge. Her eyes were pinned to his as she moved towards him, her heart pounding pain¬ fully in her chest. Just do it, she thought wildly. You’re a big girlnow, not that gauche and gullible teenager. Show him that hecan’t intimidate you…
She made a short exhalation of exasperation and disgust. Quickly, so he couldn’t see how much her hands were shaking, she took hold of the hem of the shirt and tugged it roughly upwards, while he stood unhelpfully motionless, his gaze fixed mockingly on her face.
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ she hissed.
‘Being undressed so tenderly by a beautiful woman?’ he drawled with heavy irony. ‘Who wouldn’t?’
Viciously she yanked his arms up, standing on her tiptoes to pull the shirt over them, her breath coming in uneven gasps with the effort of manhandling his immensely powerful body, and of hiding the screaming, treacherous desire that it aroused in her. But as she reached up he made a sudden, sharp move backwards so that the door swung open and she fell against his chest with a cry of anguish and surprise.
A raucous cheer and a volley of wolf-whistles rang around the Barbarians’ dressing room. Tamsin froze in horror, her hands still entangled in the rugby shirt which was now midway over Alejandro’s chest, realising exactly how it must look.
Exactly how Alejandro had intended it to look.
‘Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying it too,’ he murmured. The amusement in his voice was unmistakable.
As she disengaged herself and stepped back, Tamsin felt an eerie calm descend on her. It was as if, in those few seconds, she was selecting an emotion from a range displayed before her: the murderous rage was tempting, or the cathartic, hysterical indignation… But, no. It might be difficult to carry off, but she was going to go for something a little more sophisticated.
She felt her mouth curve into a languid, slightly patronising smile as she took the bottom of the shirt gingerly between her finger and thumb, and pulled it disdainfully down, covering up the sinuous convex sweep of Alejandro’s stomach.
‘Cover yourself up, D’Arienzo,’ she said scathingly. ‘When I said “nice strip” I was referring to the shirt.’
The changing room erupted in whoops and whistles of appreciation as Tamsin turned on her heel and, casting a last, pitying glance at Alejandro, swept out. Her rush of triumph and elation lasted just long enough for the door to slam behind her, and then she collapsed, shaking, against the wall.
Suddenly the shirt seemed like the least of her problems.
Ignoring the boisterous cheers of his team-mates, Alejandro pulled off the shirt and tossed it contemptuously down on the bench before grabbing a towel and heading grimly towards the bathroom beyond the changing area. He felt none of the physical exhaustion that usually descended on him in the immediate aftermath of a game. Thanks to that close encounter with the High Priestess of Seduction and Betrayal, his mind was racing, his body still pulsing with adrenalin.
Adrenalin and other more inconvenient hormones.
The bathroom was a spartan white-tiled room with six huge claw-footed baths arranged facing each other in two rows, each filled with iced water. Research showed that an ice bath immediately after a game minimised the impact of injury, and shocked the body into a quicker recovery, but this didn’t make the practice any more popular with players. In the nearest tub the blond Australian giant, Dean Randall, sat still in full kit, grim-faced and shivering with cold. He glanced up as Alejandro came in.
‘Welcome to the Twickenham spa, mate,’ he joked weakly through chattering teeth. ‘I’d have kept that shirt on if I were you. It doesn’t make much difference, but, by God, anything’s better than nothing.’
Alejandro didn’t flinch as he stepped into the bath.
‘I think I’ll take my chances with the cold rather than wear an England shirt for any longer than necessary,’ he said brutally, closing his eyes briefly as the icy water tore into him like the teeth of some savage animal. For a second his body screamed with ex¬quisite agony before numbness took hold, mercifully obliterating the insistent pulse of desire that had been reverberating through him since Tamsin had tried to strip the shirt from him.
Randall forced a laugh. ‘No plans to come back, then?’
‘No.’ Alejandro’s gritted teeth had nothing to do with the freezing water. ‘It would take a whole lot more than a fancy new strip to make me come back and play for England.’
Like an apology from Henry Calthorpe. And his daughter.
Randall nodded. ‘You came to settle old scores?’
‘Nothing so dramatic,’ said Alejandro tersely. ‘It’s business. I’m one of the sponsors of the Argentine rugby team.’
‘Los Pumas?’ Randall gave a low, shaky whistle of respect and Alejandro smiled bleakly. ‘I’m here because, with another World Cup looming, it’s time everyone was reminded that Argentina are major contenders.’
‘I wish I could argue with that, mate.’ At the physio’s nod the huge Australian stood up and vaulted over the side of the bath, wrapping his arms around his body and jumping from foot to foot to bring the circulation back to his frozen legs. ‘You certainly showed them today, at any rate. They’d have walked all over us if it hadn’t been for you. I owe you a drink at the party tonight. You’ll be there?’
Alejandro nodded. Just thinking about the last England team party he’d attended made the agony of the iced water fade into insignificance. He frowned, resting his elbows on the sides of the bath, and bringing his clenched fists up to his temples as unwelcome memories of that night came flooding back: the damp, earthy smell of the conservatory at Harcourt and the warm scent of her hair, the velvety feel of her skin beneath his shaking fingers as he’d undone the laced bodice of her dress.
‘OK, Alejandro, time’s up,’ said the physio.
Alejandro didn’t move. A muscle hammered in his cheek as he remembered pulling away from her, struggling to fight back the rampaging lust she had unleashed in him long enough to find someone to lend him a condom. Telling her he wouldn’t be long, he had rushed out into the corridor…and straight into Henry Calthorpe.
The expression of murderous rage on his face had told Alejandro instantly who the girl in the conservatory was. And exactly what it would mean to his career. In one swift, devastatingly masochistic stroke, Alejandro had handed Henry Calthorpe the justification he’d been looking for. An excuse so perfect…
‘You some kind of masochist, D’Arienzo? I said, time’s up.’
An excuse so perfect it was impossible to believe it hadhappened by chance. Alejandro stood up, letting the iced water cascade down his numb body for a second before stepping out of the bath. That explained the directness of her approach. He’d thought there was something honest about her, something refreshingly open, but in fact it had been exactly the opposite.
She had deliberately set him up.
Back in the dressing room, he picked up the discarded England shirt and looked at it as he brutally rubbed the feeling back into his frozen limbs. The new design was visually arresting and technologically ground-breaking, and, in spite of himself, he was grudgingly impressed. Impressed and intrigued. Applying similar design principles and fabric technology to his polo-team kit would make playing in the heat of the Argentinean summer he had just left behind so much more bearable. Thoughtfully he picked it up and was just about to put it into his kit-bag when his eye was caught by the number on the back.
Number ten.
It all came crashing back. For a moment he’d allowed himself to forget that this was so much more than just a cleverly designed piece of sports kit. This shirt, the England number ten, was what he had spent so many miserable, lonely years striving for. When it had felt like there was nothing else to live for, this had been his goal, his destiny, his holy grail, and through his own hard work, his own blood and sweat, he’d achieved it.
Only to have had it snatched away from him, thanks to Tamsin Calthorpe.
In one swift, savage movement he threw the shirt into his bag and swore viciously. So she wanted this back, did she? Well, it would be interesting to see how far she would go to get it this time, because Alejandro didn’t intend to relinquish it easily.
Tamsin Calthorpe had been directly and knowingly responsible for him being stripped of his England shirt six years ago. She owed him this.
And a lot more besides.
CHAPTER TWO
‘HUMILIATING doesn’t even begin to describe it,’ Tamsin moaned, clutching the phone and sinking down into the steaming bath-water. ‘I mean, it would have been bad enough if he hadn’t remembered me, but it was a million times worse when he did…’
Sticking a foot out of the water, she used it to turn on the hot tap with a dexterity born of long practice and added, ‘Obviously I can’t go to the party now.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Serena mildly. ‘You’ve got to. You can’t let him get to you like that.’
‘I’ve got a splitting headache, anyway,’ Tamsin said sulkily. ‘It’s probably the start of a really bad migraine.’
‘You don’t get migraines.’
‘Yes, well, there’s always a first time. Look, Serena, it’s all very well to say I shouldn’t let him get to me, but it’s a bit late for that, wouldn’t you agree? It’s not just about what happened today; it’s about the fact that Alejandro D’Arienzo got to me six years ago and completely—’
‘Exactly. Six years.’ Her sister’s calm logic was beginning to wind Tamsin up. ‘You were a teenager, for goodness’ sake—we all make mistakes and do things we regret when we’re young.’
‘You didn’t,’ Tamsin snapped, making islands of bubbles on the surface of the water. ‘You played it so cool that Simon was virtually on his knees with a ring before you’d kissed him. I, on the other hand, was so deranged with infatuation for Alejandro that I dressed like I was charging for it and didn’t even take the time to tell him my name before I threw myself at him.’
‘So? It’s in the past. Like I said, we make mistakes, and we move on.’
‘I know, but…’ Tamsin knew Serena was right. In theory. ‘Moving on’ sounded so simple and logical. So why had she never been able to do it? Even Serena had no idea of the extent to which what had happened that night had affected her in the years that followed. And was still affecting her now. ‘I can’t.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m going to have to stop you right there. I thought tonight was about your work not our sex life.’ Ouch. ‘I thought that you were going to the party to unveil the England team suits?’ Serena gave a breezy laugh. ‘Gosh, just think: all those people who said you were flaky and you only got the commission because of Dad will love it if you don’t turn up because of some bloke!’
Tamsin stood up in a rush of water.
‘What? Who said that?’
‘Oh, well, no one in particular,’ soothed Serena. ‘Not in so many words, anyway, although Simon said that article in last week’s Sports Journal sort of implied—’
‘God, I hate that!’ Snatching a towel, Tamsin stepped out of the bath and stormed into the bedroom, stepping over the chaos of discarded clothes and piles of magazines, and leaving a trail of wet footprints on her polished wooden floorboards. ‘How dare they say that? Don’t they do their research? Don’t they know I have a first-class degree in textiles, and that I was up against some of the stiffest competition in the business to get this commission? Don’t they know that Coronet won “best new label” at last year’s British Fashion Awards?’
‘I’m not sure, but I do,’ said Serena placidly. ‘It’s the press pack at the party that you need to be haranguing, not me. Although, of course, if you’re not there I don’t suppose you can. You’ll just have to let the clothes speak for themselves. The suits are exquisite, and from what I gathered from Simon the new shirts were very—’
