Champagne Summer. India GreyЧитать онлайн книгу.
around, she realised that the cameras were now pointing at the coach, who was talking about form, injury and training. Thank goodness. She picked up the mini bottle of water from the table in front of her and took a long mouthful, grateful for a moment of reprieve. On the pad in front of her she’d unconsciously been sketching the outline of an elongated female figure, and looking at it now she felt a wave of anguish. All the critics were right, she thought miserably, adding a drapey flourish of fabric falling from one shoulder of the figure. She didn’t belong here. She should be back in the studio with all the team, working on next autumn’s collection.
The pen faltered in her hand as dread prickled the back of her neck. If the business was still going then. The RFU commission had helped appease the bank a bit, but …
She gave a small start, dimly aware of Alan’s gentle nudge. ‘Tamsin? This one’s for you.’
She blinked and looked ahead into the gloom beyond the dazzle of the camera lights. ‘Sorry? Could you repeat the question, please?’
‘Of course. I wondered—’ the voice was leisurely, unhurried. ‘—did you encounter any particular problems in the production of the strip?’
A hand seemed to close around her throat so that for a moment she could hardly breathe, much less answer. There was no mistaking that deep, mocking, husky voice with its hint of Spanish sensuality. ‘No,’ she said sharply, her eyes raking the darkness, trying to locate him.
‘None at all?’
He stepped forward, people standing around the edges of the room beyond the rows of chairs moving aside to let him through. His eyes, bruised and shadowed, burned into hers with laser-like intensity that belied the lazy challenge in his voice, and Tamsin noticed with a thud of sheer horror that in his hand he held the shirt.
The missing number-ten shirt.
The treacherous, sadistic, ruthless, vindictive bastard. For a moment she was speechless with loathing. He was trying to force her to admit, in front of people who were already cynical enough about her ability, that she had messed up.
As if he hadn’t humiliated her enough.
‘No,’ she repeated coolly, lifting her chin and meeting his gaze head-on. ‘I was lucky that the manufacturing team was excellent, and the whole production process was very straightforward. When working with very specialised fabrics like these, technical problems with dye or finishes are almost to be expected, but in this instance I managed to anticipate all potential issues and as a result there were no problems at all.’
There. She stared defiantly at him, daring him to say anything to the contrary. After all, if he did, that would betray the fact that he had inside information, which would be an extremely unwise move to make in front of a room full of journalists.
Tamsin’s heart was pounding. She watched him glance down at the shirt in his hand, and back up again. Back at her. His face was like stone.
‘I see. You had an excellent team. Does that mean that your involvement in this commission was merely nominal?’
‘No, it does not,’ she said in a low, fierce voice. Beside her, Tamsin heard her father make a sharp sound of impatience and disgust, and was aware of him leaning over to whisper something to the RFU official on his other side. She knew that at the smallest signal from her he would summon security to remove Alejandro D’Arienzo from the room, but the knowledge gave her no satisfaction. She didn’t want him to go anywhere before she’d made him see that she was more than just a dizzy, vacant heiress playing at having a grown-up job.
‘In that case,’ said Alejandro smoothly, ‘may I assume that you’re available for other commissions of a similar kind?’
‘What do you mean?’
The rest of the room was watching—waiting with the same morbid fascination that make people slow down when they passed a road accident, Tamsin thought bitterly. She felt like a cat who had been lured into the lion’s cage at the zoo and was about to be devoured in front of a crowd of avid onlookers.
‘Miss Calthorpe—sorry, Lady Calthorpe.’ Alejandro’s voice was husky, seductive, eminently reasonable. Only she could sense the barbs beneath the silk. ‘You’ve convinced us all that you won this contract fairly and have been single-handedly responsible for seeing it through every stage from design to completion. I’m sure I’m not alone in admiring the results of your work.’ There was a murmur of grudging assent from the rows of reporters. Tamsin felt irritation prickle up her spine as she noticed the rapt expressions on their faces as they looked up at Alejandro. ‘I’m one of the sponsors of Los Pumas—the Argentine rugby team,’ he was saying, ‘And I’d like to invite you to redesign their strip for their relaunch next season.’
A moment ago they’d been preparing to lynch her, but one word from their hero and they were rolling over like puppies. It was sickening.
‘I—sorry?’
Tamsin’s head snapped round to look in bewilderment at her father as her mouth opened in astonishment. She should have been paying closer attention. For a moment there she thought he’d just asked her to design the Pumas strip, but surely she’d misheard?
Henry Calthorpe cleared his throat importantly. His voice was utterly dismissive. ‘I’m afraid that would be impossible. Tamsin’s schedule is booked up for months in advance, although I’m sure if you put your request in writing …’
A low, derisive murmur went around the room as the reporters shifted in their seats and looked meaningfully at each other, sensing carnage. But Tamsin was oblivious to everything but Alejandro. His dark, handsome face wore the look of a pirate king who had just forced the damsel in distress to walk right to the end of the plank.
There was nowhere for her to go, and he knew it. It was a case of give in, or give up. If she refused him now, it would make everything she’d just said sound like a lie.
Tamsin didn’t give in easily, but she knew when she was outmanoeuvred. She forced herself to look straight at him, but it was more than she was capable of to manage a smile as well.
‘I’d be absolutely delighted, Mr D’Arienzo.’
So, Tamsin Calthorpe had talent, of that there was no doubt. Whether it extended into the field of design, or was simply confined to deception and dishonesty remained to be seen.
Alejandro pushed through the crowd of journalists, many of whom had now turned in his direction to pick up on the unexpectedly juicy twist the story had just taken. Ignoring them, he made straight for the door through which the RFU officials, with Tamsin amongst them, had just disappeared.
He saw her straight away, deep in conversation with her father at the far end of the room where croissants and coffee were set out on a table. If that severe black trouser-suit was supposed to make her look grown up and professional, she’d got it completely wrong, he thought sourly. She just seemed absurdly young; far too thin and somehow …
Ah. Of course.
Vulnerable.
Silly of him to be so slow on the uptake. That was exactly the effect she must have been going for.
As he crossed the room towards them, he watched her put a hand on her father’s arm, as if restraining him. Deliberately he avoided looking at Henry Calthorpe, instead focusing on his daughter. She was very pale—he’d thought before that was just the harsh TV lighting—but he could see now that she looked as if she were about to pass out. Could it be that he’d finally managed to shake the oh-so-secure world of Lady Tamsin?
Leaving Henry’s side, she came over to him. She was trembling, he noticed with a twisting sensation deep in his gut.
‘I hope you’re satisfied.’
‘Extremely,’ he said in an offhand tone. ‘I’ve just secured the services of an extremely talented designer who’s apparently booked up for the foreseeable future. Now all I need is a cup of coffee and my day would be made.’
Her