Champagne Summer. India GreyЧитать онлайн книгу.
have, and it does. For the rugby shirts, at least.’ He laughed softly and she froze, her hand halfway to the door as a bolt of horrified remembrance shot through her. ‘I have one, remember?’
Her fingers curled into a fist and she let it fall to her side, the nails digging painfully into her palm. She could have sunk down onto the thick, wine-red carpet and wept. Instead she steeled herself to turn back and face him.
‘Of course,’ she said, unable to keep the edge of bitterness from her voice. ‘How could I forget?’
He came slowly towards her, his head slightly to one side, an expression of quiet triumph on his face. ‘I really don’t know, since you seemed pretty keen to get it back earlier,’ he said quietly. ‘Obviously it can’t be that important, after all. To you, anyway.’
Tamsin swallowed. He had come to a halt right in front of her, and it was hard to marshal the thoughts swirling in her head when it suddenly seemed to be filled with him. She closed her eyes, trying to squeeze him out, but the darkness only made her more aware of his closeness, the warm, dry scent of his skin. She opened them again, looking deliberately away from him, beyond him, anywhere but at him.
‘It is important, I’m afraid. I need it back.’
‘You need it?’ he said softly. ‘If you’re the designer, you must have lots of them. Surely you can spare that one?’
‘It’s not that simple. I …’
The mirror above the fireplace reflected the broad sweep of his shoulders, the silk of his hair, dark against the collar of his white shirt. She stared at the image, mesmerised by its powerful beauty as the words dried up in her mouth.
‘No. I thought not,’ he cut in, a harsh edge of bitterness undercutting the softness of his tone, like a knife blade wrapped in velvet. ‘It’s not about the shirt, is it? It’s about the principle—just as it always was. It’s about your father not wanting the English rose on an Argentine chest, isn’t it?’
Argentine chest. Alejandro’s chest.
‘No,’ she whispered.
Gently, caressingly, he reached out and slid his warm hand along her jaw, cupping her face, stroking his thumb over her cheek. A violent shudder of reluctant desire rippled through her. She felt herself melt against him for a second before his fingers closed around her chin, forcing her head back so she was looking straight into his hypnotic eyes.
‘I hope you’re a better designer than you are a liar.’
‘I’m not lying,’ she hissed, jerking her head free. Her hand automatically went to the place where his had just been, rubbing the skin as if he had burned her. ‘This has nothing to do with my father. There was a—a problem with the production of the shirts. I only found out yesterday when I suddenly thought to test one, and found out the red dye on the roses wasn’t colourfast. I had to contact the manufacturers and get them to open up the factory and start from scratch on a new batch of shirts, but there was only time to make one for each player. That’s why I need yours back, otherwise on the photo-shoot at Twickenham tomorrow Ben Saunders will be half-naked, as well as hungover,’ she finished savagely, feeling her blood pressure soar as he gave a short, cruel laugh. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘I thought you were supposed to be good: “I had to compete for this commission and I got it entirely on merit”,’ he mocked. ‘So who exactly were you competing against, Tamsin? Primary school children?’
‘Oh, I can compete with the best, make no mistake about that,’ she said with quiet ferocity, which melted seamlessly into biting sarcasm as she added, ‘Now, it’s been just fabulous to see you again, Alejandro, but I really ought to be getting back to the party. So if you could just give me back the shirt?’
She was walking towards the door as she spoke, but suddenly he was in front of her, blocking her path. Looking up, Tamsin saw with a shudder that all trace of amusement had vanished from his face. His eyes were as cold and hard as Spanish gold.
‘Sorry. The spoiled-diva routine won’t work with me.’
Misery and resentment flared up inside her, and for a moment she could do nothing but look at him. ‘What do you want me to do? Beg?’
Kicking the door shut, he took a step towards her and she shrank backwards, pressing herself against the billiard table. ‘It’s quite a nice idea,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘But I think not, on this occasion.’ He leaned forward, as if he were about to touch her. She flinched away with a low hiss of animosity, but he was only reaching for something behind her.
‘So, you reckon you can compete with the best, do you?’ he said softly. ‘Let’s see if you were telling the truth about that, at least.’
He handed her the billiard cue he had picked up from the table. Hesitantly, Tamsin took it, looking up at him in mute uncertainty.
‘I don’t understand. What are you saying?’
‘You want your shirt back? You have to win it.’
CHAPTER FOUR
FOR just the briefest second he saw panic flare in her eyes, and felt an answering surge of grim satisfaction.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she snapped, looking at the cue as if it was a loaded gun. ‘Play now? With you?’ She gave a harsh, scornful laugh. ‘Forget it.’
Chips of ice crystallised in Alejandro’s heart. He was offering her a chance to prove herself. She couldn’t hope to win, of course; he was far too skilled a player for that. But he would have given her credit—and the shirt back—just for trying.
And giving Tamsin Calthorpe credit for anything went very much against the grain.
‘Afraid of losing?’ he said scathingly. ‘I don’t blame you. I don’t suppose you’re used to it, and, believe me, I won’t make allowances for who you are—or who your father is.’
Brimstone sparked in the depths of her green eyes. ‘It’s not the thought of losing that bothers me,’ she hissed. ‘It’s the prospect of spending the next hour in your company.’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he said, his voice a languid drawl. ‘It won’t take that long for me to thrash you.’
He was only inches away from her. Close enough to hear her little shivering gasp, close enough to see the instant darkening of her eyes as his words hit her and the flashing anger was swallowed by spreading pools of desire at their centre.
‘Thrash me?’ She gave a hoarse laugh. ‘I don’t think so.’
His eyebrows rose. ‘You’re walking away?’
‘Oh no,’ she breathed. Reaching out, she curled her fingers around the cue he held and for a moment came so close to him that he could feel the warm whisper of her breath on his neck. ‘I’m not going anywhere. Not until I have my shirt back.’
Languidly she turned and walked away from him to the other end of the table. Alejandro frowned, feeling his chest, and his trousers tighten as he watched the sinuous movement of her bare back. He hadn’t expected this.
‘So, what are we playing?’ she said, whipping round to face him again. ‘Bar-room pool?’
The low light from the billiard lamp fell onto her short platinum-blonde hair, making her look like a rebellious angel. She was looking at him steadily, insolently, her head lowered slightly and her slanting green eyes unblinking.
‘If that’s what you want.’
She shrugged. ‘I’m easy. I just thought it might be what you’re used to.’
For a fleeting second Alejandro felt almost lightheaded with hatred at her casual, calculated viciousness. To her, he was still the boy from nowhere, the imposter in the charmed circle of privileged English youth that made up the team, and her social circle.