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More Than A Millionaire
Sophie Weston
“I need a woman.”
“Really?” Abby said with a snap.
“You’ve seen the apartment.” Emilio spread his hands. “I need someone to furnish it.”
“So employ an interior decorator.”
“I did. That was him on the phone this evening. I fired him.”
“I heard. Maybe you ought to call him back and unfire him.”
He looked at her pleadingly. “You can stay as long as you like. You solve my problem, I solve yours.” He held out his hand across the table.
Abby took it reluctantly. She had a nasty feeling that a whole portfolio of new problems was about to open up in front of her….
Born in London, Sophie Weston is a traveler by nature who started writing when she was five. She wrote her first romance recovering from illness, thinking her traveling was over. She was wrong, but she enjoyed it so much that she has carried on. These days she lives in the heart of the city with two demanding cats and a cherry tree—and travels the world looking for settings for her stories.
Look out for
The Millionaire’s Daughter and The Bridesmaid’s Secret
by Sophie Weston
Don’t miss these thrilling stories about two very different sisters and the men they marry—on sale in January and February 2002!
Books by Sophie Weston
HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®
3630—THE SHEIKH’S BRIDE
3661—MIDNIGHT WEDDING
More Than a Millionaire
Sophie Weston
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u2ae677bb-5053-5f16-a766-f06525bbaf53)
CHAPTER TWO (#udc3d2c11-dea8-5876-8b6e-55c2d520534d)
CHAPTER THREE (#uf53da698-22af-5564-bce8-3deb1099da7f)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS a perfect Saturday afternoon at the Hacienda Montijo. Glamorous guests had enjoyed a long lazy lunch. Now they strolled through the famous gardens or drowsed over English tea on the lawn. Children romped in the swimming pool. The sun shone. Bees hummed.
The shy English visitor refused to be shifted from the terrace out into the sunshine, though.
‘Wouldn’t you like to go and mingle, Abby?’ said her hostess, without much hope.
‘No, I’ll just stay here and watch. If that’s all right,’ said the English girl politely.
Her hostess sighed and gave up. She was watching, too.
For below them, on the velvet-smooth tennis court, a battle to the death was in progress. A tall blond giant was sweating profusely as his opponent slammed him all around the court.
The dark tennis player was like quicksilver. He moved all the time, fast as a jaguar, graceful as a dancer. It seemed that wherever his opponent sent the ball, he was there first, totally in control.
‘Who is that?’ said the Montijo matriarch in displeasure. The blond giant was her favourite grandson.
She shifted in her cane chair and her daughter-in-law sighed inwardly. She signalled to her husband across the lawn. Why wasn’t he here when she needed him? He knew this was going to be difficult. He had no business leaving her to deal with it. Especially not as she was struggling to entertain the monosyllabic English girl at the same time.
She said brightly, ‘That’s Emilio Diz, Mama.’
The matriarch stiffened. ‘Diz?’
The English girl turned her head. She was a teenager; she should have been with the other teenagers, thought Annaluisa Montijo despairingly. But she was too tall and gangly to interest the boys and too suffocatingly shy to talk to the girls. So she ended up here in the middle of what was about to become a nasty family row.
‘Which one is Emilio Diz?’ she asked politely.
Both older women stared at her. Blond Bruno Montijo was the son and heir. The house was full of photographs of him, posed and unposed, muddy and magnificent on a polo pony, sleek and glamorous in black evening clothes at balls and receptions and premieres. His cups for fencing filled a cabinet in the library. He was rich, he was gorgeous and, inevitably, he was a national celebrity. Even if she did not recognise the world-class tennis player, the English girl should have recognised blond and gorgeous Bruno on his own home territory. It was almost an insult to the family not to. The matriarch drew an outraged breath.
Her daughter-in-law rushed into speech. ‘Of course, you haven’t met Bruno yet, Abby.’ She sent her mother-in-law a pleading look. ‘He’s my oldest son. The fair one.’
‘And the other really is Emilio Diz?’ said Abby, unaware of digging herself into a deeper hole.
The matriarch glared.
Her daughter-in-law intervened quickly. ‘Are you a fan, Abby?’ She tried hard to sound amused.
Where was Felipe? She caught sight of her husband and sent him another, more urgent, signal.
‘Of course she isn’t a fan,’ snapped the matriarch. ‘She didn’t know what the wretched man even looked like.’
‘No,’ admitted Abby, blushing.
Caught out again, she thought. This last week had been a nightmare. She seemed to have lurched from one social mistake to the next. She had never imagined people could make so many rules just to live day to day—or that she could find so many ways to break them.
She tried to explain that she wasn’t showing off about something she didn’t really understand. ‘I’ve heard my brothers talk about him. They thought he would be Wimbledon champion this year if he hadn’t retired from the circuit.’
But even that was wrong.
‘The circuit,’ sniffed the matriarch. ‘In my day lawn tennis was played by gentlemen. Not circus animals.’
Her daughter-in-law winced. Abby blushed harder and hung her head.
‘Oh, be fair, Mama,’ said the daughter-in-law, with compassion for this ugly duckling who always seemed to say the wrong thing, ‘Emilio Diz is a great tennis player and a national hero.’
‘Humph. Then why isn’t he still playing tennis? He’s only, what is it? Twenty-five? Twenty-six? Plenty of time to win something worthwhile. Why has he given up and gone into business?’ She spat the last words out as if they were obscene.
‘They say he’s very intelligent…’ protested the daughter-in-law faintly.
‘That’s why Felipe sold him the Palacio Azul, is it?’ said the matriarch with rancour.
The daughter-in-law knew when she was out of her depth. She looked round for help. It came puffing up the terrace steps.
‘For a very fair price, Mama,’ said Felipe Montijo, arriving slightly out of breath. ‘Unlike us, he has the resources to develop the place into a full sports complex…’
The matriarch swung her dark glasses round on him for an unnerving moment. ‘Develop? The house your grandfather built?’
‘It’s falling down, Mama. We can’t afford…’
‘And this man can?’
‘Oh, he can, all right,’ said Felipe with feeling. ‘He wasn’t just a tennis player, even when he was a professional. He made a killing on entertainment event software. Now he’s going into property in a big way.’
‘New money!’ Rosa Montijo was shocked and did not attempt to disguise it. ‘And you ask him to your home? Let him meet Rosanna?’
Felipe laughed. ‘He’s not interested in Rosanna, Mama. He’s twenty-five and he’s been on the international tennis circuit since he was eighteen, for heaven’s sake. He dates movie stars, not high school girls.’
‘In my day we would never have introduced the daughter of the house to a man like that.’
Her daughter-in-law intervened. ‘Felipe is doing business with him, Mama. Of course we ask him.’
The matriarch was disdainful. ‘His mother used to work for my hairdresser.’
Montijo husband and wife exchanged despairing looks.
Watching silently, Abby saw it with interest. It was the first time this pleasant husband and wife had shown any signs of communicating. They had been very hospitable but there was a coldness at the heart of this house. It worried her. She did not know how to deal with it. Probably that was what made her even more clumsy and tactless than all those rules she kept falling over.
Abby looked across the perfect lawn to the distant tennis court. A cluster of beautifully dressed people were grouped outside the netting, watching the match with palpable excitement. But it was not the fashionable crowd that brought Abby’s heavy brows together in a worried frown. It was not even the duel on court. It was that coldness.
Maybe that is what Daddy meant, when he said they were sophisticated, thought Abby. She sighed.
She knew she was not sophisticated. If she hadn’t already known it, the friends of her host’s daughter would have made her realise it. Their sexy clothes made her blink. And their knowing conversation silenced her. It was like watching one of the international soap operas that they all loved.
Abby never managed to see the glamorous soap operas, though most of them were aired in England. They were for-bidden at her boarding school. And at home she was too busy, mucking out the stables, tearing into the overgrown garden or doing what she could to patch up the worst decayed bits of the Palladian pile that was her home.
Her father would hug her and say she was a good girl but she knew that he was worried about her. Abby did not see why. She was perfectly happy. Well, maybe not perfectly. But as long as the west wing roof did not leak this winter, she had not got much to wish for, she thought.
Her noisy siblings treated her as if she was a fifth brother. The village generally behaved as if she was an apprentice workman, teaching her various tricks of carpentry and plumbing whenever the latest disaster struck the Hall. As for the county, now that she was sixteen, they either asked her to dinner as her widowed father’s partner for the evening or froze her out, as an impediment to his—in their view—long overdue remarriage.
It was the dinner parties that Abby hated. That was why her father had brought her on this business trip with him to Argentina.
She protested. Of course she protested. There was too much to do before Christmas. The pipes might freeze if she was not there to make sure that proper steps were taken when the temperature dropped. She would only be in the way.
‘But I really want you to meet the Montijos.’
Then they could come to Yorkshire in the summer when there was no possibility of freeze or flood.
‘Yes, and they will. But first I’d like you to stay with them. Señora Montijo is a very sophisticated woman. As well as very kind. See what you can learn from her, Smudge.’
‘Learn from her?’ said Abby, wary but disarmed by the nursery nickname.
‘Clothes and things,’ said her father vaguely.
There was nothing wrong with Abby’s clothes that a healthy increase in her allowance wouldn’t put right. But she was too fond of her father to say so. Four sons of super intelligence and expensive hobbies had depleted his resources almost as much as the roof. He worked hard and travelled the world. He made a good income. But the house and the family between them kept pace. There was never much left over for Abby.
Fortunately, so far she had been happy to live in jeans, topped off by shirts and sweaters that she found in the boys’ catalogues of sports and adventure wear. This was the first time she had realised that her father was not as happy with this wardrobe as she was.
‘You want me to be more feminine,’ she said, depressed. ‘Curls and stuff.’
Her father smiled affectionately and ruffled her soft dark hair, currently caught of her eyes in a raggedy pony-tail. ‘Please God, no.’
‘Well, then—’
‘You need a woman to show you how to deal with people, darling.’
‘Oh, come, Pops. We’ve done sex at school,’ said Abby dryly. ‘If we hadn’t, it would be a bit late now, don’t you think?’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘Not just sex.’
‘All right, what then?’
