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‘I suppose—social know-how.’
‘Social know-how?’ Abby was incredulous. She primmed up her mouth and minced across the room in a very fair imitation of a catwalk model. ‘How to get out of a sports car without showing too much leg? Come into the real world, Pops. Anyway, you don’t think there’s any such thing as too much leg,’ she added practically.
Abby thought he would laugh. He didn’t. He smiled, but absently. It was obvious that he was really worried.
‘Oh, Smudge. If only it was as simple as that.’
Abby began to feel alarmed. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I know you don’t. That’s part of the problem.’ He sighed. ‘You’re such an open person, Smudge. You’re honest and it never occurs to you that other people may not be.’
She shook her head, even more bewildered.
‘I’m no good at this,’ he said, angry with himself. ‘If your mother were alive she would explain. It’s about learning how to talk to people. How to listen. How to hear what they really mean. Not just what they say. That sort of social know-how.’
‘You make it sound like learning another language,’ she scoffed.
But inside she was alarmed. She had not seen her father so serious since Will had disappeared in the Himalayas for three weeks before he was found safe and well in totally the wrong valley. Surely her social inadequacies were not in the same class? She very nearly said so.
But her father was struggling to put his worries into words. ‘It is a bit. And like a language, you just have to practice. Only you don’t. You’re a sweetheart and you look after the boys and me like someone twice your age. But—you haven’t the slightest idea how to walk into a room and mingle.’ He gave a sharp sigh. ‘You’re so shy. I don’t know what to do about it. Annaluisa Montijo is the best solution I can think of.’
‘Oh.’
‘Your mother always said there were going to be too many men in your life. I’m beginning to realise what she meant,’ he said ruefully.
He smiled in that way he always did when he talked about his dead wife to his daughter. It was as if she was standing just behind Abby’s shoulder and he was laughing into her eyes. The intimacy was breathtaking. So was the sense of loss.
When he looked like that, Abby would do anything for him. Even go to a country where she knew no one, did not speak the language and had no idea what she would do all day while her father was at his meetings. Abby was not good with strangers.
And, though she did her best to disguise it whenever her father came out to the hacienda, this lot were way out of her ken. She had been more miserable—her first week at school, for example—but she had never felt so utterly surplus to requirements. She knew that her hostess wanted her to make friends with her daughter. But Rosanna Montijo and her smart friends, although they were only a year older than Abby, felt like another generation. She went to their dances and barbecues and counted the hours until she could persuade one of the chauffeurs to give her a lift home. She never managed to mingle.
The only place she felt really happy at Hacienda Montijo was the stables. That was odd because, of all her family, she was the one who was secretly nervous of horses. But here the gauchos had patience with her slow Spanish and the horses, perverse creatures as always, were pleased to see her.
This Saturday’s lunch party was an ordeal. She bore it by reminding herself that she was returning home for Christmas in three days’ time. All she had to do was avoid Rosanna and Rosanna’s friends today and she would be on the homeward stretch.
Accordingly, she pleaded aversion to the powerful sun and stayed firmly on the terrace. This threw her in to company with the older Montijos. It was not easy, with the women speaking courteous English for her benefit and clearly wishing she was anywhere else.
But it couldn’t be helped. In three days’ time she would be gone and could forget the whole beastly business: sophisticated seventeen-year-olds; international tennis stars that weren’t good enough for the Montijos; chilly family dinners; the lot. And she could go back to being grubby Abby Templeton Burke. After all, you didn’t need to be sophisticated to do basic repairs to the ancestral home.
‘Do you not play tennis, Abby?’ asked her hostess with a touch of desperation.
‘No.’
‘But you said your brothers like it?’
‘They’re good at it,’ said Abby with simple truth.
‘Oh. And you’re not?’ asked kind Felipe. ‘Well, it doesn’t really matter. I’m sure you’re good at lots of other things.’
‘Not games. My brother Will says I can’t catch a ball to save my life.’
The matriarch did not like being ignored.
‘That man is showing off,’ she announced, pointing her gold-topped stick at the tennis court.
‘It’s not showing off if you’re world-class and not pretending to be anything else,’ said Felipe, harassed.
‘Just look at him.’
On the court the tall rangy figure was now waiting for the blond boy to serve. Dancing from foot to foot, he exuded energy and effortless coordination.
‘Upstart,’ finished the older Señora Montijo with venom.
‘Mama, he’s a great guy,’ protested Felipe. ‘Came up from nothing. He’s educated himself. Now he’s putting half a dozen brothers and sisters through college as well, I’m told. And I’ve seen for myself that he’s got a great business brain.’
Rosa Montijo shuddered. ‘And how did he get the money to start this business? Can you tell me that?’
Her daughter-in-law took a hand. ‘You know perfectly well, Mama,’ she said indignantly. ‘He won it. All right, he hasn’t won any of the big titles. But he’s won plenty of prize money during his career.’ She cast a harassed glance at their visitor. ‘You mustn’t give Abby the impression that Emilio is some sort of criminal.’
Felipe said soothingly, ‘You didn’t mean that, did you, Mama? Seriously, Abby, you needn’t worry about meeting undesirable types here. One of the business magazines did an article on him a couple of months ago. He must be a millionaire by now. He never had to—’
‘Look,’ interrupted the matriarch. ‘Now! Tell me that isn’t showing off. Go on, look!’
They all looked.
Emilio Diz dealt briskly with a workmanlike serve. The blond put the full force of his arm into his return. Even from the terrace they could see the way the dark man’s expression changed. Suddenly he was glittering with triumph. Then he was running backwards, lithe and sure-footed. The ball soared over the net, high and hard. Emilio Diz jumped, reaching. His body arced like a dolphin. In flight it was clear that the tanned limbs were pure muscle.
‘Look at that,’ said Annaluisa, forgetting her hostess manners in simple awe.
Rosa Montijo sniffed. ‘Gypsy. He’s just trying to pretend he’s more than a millionaire. At Bruno’s expense.’
There was a crack like the report of a gun. A shout of triumph rose from the throats of two dozen watchers.
‘He doesn’t have to pretend, Mama,’ said Felipe dryly, joining in the applause.
The game was over. The two men were shaking hands over the net.
‘He could have given Bruno a chance,’ said the resentful grandmother. ‘He is your guest, after all.’
‘You don’t understand Emilio, Mama,’ said Felipe.
The dark tennis player strode off the court. He was swinging his racquet as if impatient to get at the next challenge.
The spectators gathered round Bruno, punching him on the back, shaking hands. But Abby, watching, saw that they were more careful of Emilio Diz. Or maybe they were just more respectful. They gave him a drink. They talked. But they didn’t touch him, those tactile, relaxed people who touched everyone.
A confident redhead approached and batted her eyelashes at him. He looked amused and didn’t walk away. But Abby had the impression that he would walk away the moment he wanted to, gorgeous redhead or no.
Felipe confirmed the feeling. He had taken off his sunglasses and was watching the dark star intently. ‘He doesn’t give anyone special treatment. Emilio plays to win,’ he said. He sounded just a little afraid.
The afternoon party turned into a barbecue, as they so often did.
‘Do you want to borrow a dress, Abby?’ said Rosanna Montijo, trying hard. ‘We’ll be dancing afterward.’
‘Do you think I need to?’ asked Abby, trying in her turn.
‘You’d probably feel more comfortable. Well, I would in your place. The run up to Christmas is not exactly formal but the parties are, you know, sort of special. And anyway, people expect to dress up for Montijo parties.’
Which Abby interpreted as, ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t turn up looking like a schoolgirl again and let us all down.’ She suppressed a sigh.
‘Then, thanks. Yes, please.’
Rosanna took her off to her room and Abby tried hard to enjoy the dressing-up session with Rosanna and her two best friends. They tried to include her in the conversation. But she did not know any of the boys they were talking about. And the tactics they discussed made her go hot with sympathetic imaginary embarrassment.
Then she heard a name she knew.
‘Is Emilio staying for the dance, Rosanita?’ said one of the friends, playing with her hair in front of Rosanna’s crowded dressing table.
Rosanna was inside her walk-in closet. She poked her head out of the door. ‘Yes.’ She added in naughty Spanish, ‘He struggled but Papa told him he had to stay and meet the right people.’
Abby translated the words in her head and nearly laughed aloud. She knew exactly how the tennis player felt. Maybe he was bad at mingling, too.
‘That means he’s the guest of honour, Abby,’ said the friend, translating kindly.
She did not need to translate. Abby had prepared for this trip by applying herself hard to Spanish. If she had to learn a new language, she thought, it might just as well be one where there were audio tapes available. But ever since she arrived, all the Montijos and their friends had brushed aside her halting attempts to speak their language. Abby did not know whether that was because they were too courteous or too impatient to let her fumble. But it had depleted her small store of confidence even further.
Rosanna emerged with a long burgundy dress. It was a sophisticated colour, too sophisticated for a sixteen-year-old, Abby thought at once. But they insisted that she try it on. So she did.
It swirled nicely round her legs when she moved. Only then they insisted on her borrowing some high, strappy shoes and she did not dare to move any more.
‘I’ll fall off,’ she said, hanging on to bedpost.
‘Not if you practise. You can’t wear kitten heels with a dress like that,’ said Rosanna fairly.
Abby tried to say that she did not want to wear the dress, either. There was a lot more wrong with it than the too subtle colour. It was more low cut than anything she had ever worn in her life. It made her feel uncomfortable. She said so. Rosanna gave her a shimmery scarf to wear with it but could barely hide her impatience.
‘Honestly, Abby, I don’t see the problem. It’s summer here, for heaven’s sake. Everyone wears low necklines in the summer. No one will even notice.’
‘I’ll notice,’ said Abby, dragging the designer fabric higher over her small breasts.
A bootlace strap slid off her shoulder. She hauled it back. The front of the dress slid back to its former anchorage. She grabbed it with both hands. In the long mirror she looked flushed and stubborn and acutely uncomfortable.
‘Well, you can’t wear a T-shirt and shorts to a party,’ snapped Rosanna, losing patience. ‘Not in Argentina. Your father,’ she added, clinching it, ‘would really mind.’
The others agreed. They turned a deaf ear to Abby’s reservations about the shoes, the straps, the sheer backlessness of the dress. They had done their best for her and now there were more interesting things to discuss.
‘My father says he’s going to go a long way,’ said the friend at the dressing table.
The one painting her nails shrugged. ‘Who cares? He’s gorgeous now.’
Abby was in no doubt who they were talking about.
‘My grandmother’s terrified he’ll seduce me.’ That was Rosanna in her underwear, inspecting her smooth legs.
The others hooted. ‘Fat chance.’
‘Wish he’d seduce me.’
‘He’s got his own fan club, you know. My sister told me that in Paris last year, the girls followed him everywhere. Once even got into his bedroom at the hotel.’
They all paused to consider the prospect, sighing enviously.
‘Well, tonight,’ said Rosanna with decision, ‘he’s going to seduce me or no one.’
They teased her.
‘In your dreams.’
‘How are you going to manage that?’
‘I shall tell Papa,’ announced Rosanna superbly. ‘He wants Emilio to meet the right people? Fine. I’ve known the right people since I was born. I shall take him round and introduce him to everyone here. And then,’ her eyes went brooding, ‘he can thank me properly.’
They all giggled.
Abby eased out of the door.
Nobody noticed.
So later, as twilight began to fall and more guests arrived, Abby went out into the famous gardens and tried hard to lose herself behind a tree. It was not difficult. Rosanna had too many friends to greet to spend time making sure that Abby circulated. The young people went to the paddock where the great barbecue was alight, while the older, glamorous crowd went up to the house.
The columned veranda glittered with diamonds and champagne and the tinkle of sophisticated laughter. No refuge with the older Montijos tonight then. Abby sighed and clutched the glamorous scarf round her as if it was a granny shawl. Oh, well, there had to be somewhere in the extensive grounds where she could take refuge. She slid away.
From his place on the terrace, Emilio Diz watched the girl with detached interest. She was not much more than a child. Not a Montijo, he thought. Not with clothes that fitted that badly. Her long arms and legs seemed out of her control, like a newly hatched crane fly. But she certainly knew what she wanted. She kept smiling and nodding to groups as she passed, but he could see that she did not let anyone delay her progress.
Where was she heading with such determination? He speculated idly. Maybe she was going skinny-dipping in the creek Felipe Montijo had told him about. But no, he shook his head at the thought. You didn’t go skinny-dipping on a warm summer night alone, not even if you were still at the crane fly stage.
Oh, God, he was so bored, he was making up stories about a teenager he did not even know. With an effort, he brought his attention back to the group of businessmen he had been invited to meet. They wanted to meet him and they wouldn’t for long. His celebrity was already on the wane. He had to capitalise on it before it died. He had a family to provide for, a growing family after Isabel’s bombshell.
At the thought of his sister’s news, his mouth tightened. Isabel was not much older that that little crane fly girl. Maybe if he had been home more when she was as young as that girl out there, she would not be in the terrible mess she was now.
Still, there was nothing he could do about that. All he could do was use his talents to provide for them the best way he could. Talents and contacts, he reminded himself, turning to look at his host’s hundred best friends. Designer dresses and diamonds, even at a barbecue. And they had all known each other all their lives.
Make the most of it, he told himself dryly. If you don’t bring this deal off, you won’t be asked again. These people wouldn’t have had you past the gate three years ago. And they won’t again if you don’t make it. Listen and learn!
CHAPTER TWO
ABBY had found the rose grotto at the Hacienda Montijo almost by accident. It had been planted by a Montijo groom for a romantic bride who was missing Europe badly. The design owed more to illustrated fairy books than any classical garden. The bride, taken aback, had not had the heart to tell him that the rose beds at Versailles were neither so crowded nor so cobwebby. Soon enough, she had a baby and stopped missing her old home altogether. But the rose grotto was established and Montijos held on to what they owned. Gardeners pruned and weeded and replanted, even though the family never came there.
To Abby it was heaven. Not as tangly and scented as the overgrown roses at home, of course. This garden was still properly cared for by professionals. But it was still recognisably natural. She sometimes thought that it was the only thing in this place that was, apart from the horses.
