One Night in Buenos Aires: The Vásquez Mistress. Sarah MorganЧитать онлайн книгу.
to stop her.
But he didn’t.
He let his hand drop from Fuego’s bridle and stepped away. ‘Ride carefully,’ he said softly and she gave a puzzled smile because she’d been so, so sure that he was going to stop her or at least suggest that they meet again.
And she’d wanted him to.
She’d really wanted him to.
The Vásquez Polo Cup was an important annual part of the Argentine polo circuit and it was the most glittering, glamorous affair Faith had ever attended.
She was only there in her official capacity as a vet of course, but she couldn’t help glancing towards the spectators who were gathering in the stands. ‘How come the women are all so stunning?’ she wondered out loud. ‘And how do they achieve such straight hair? In this heat my hair just curls.’
‘You are looking at the elite of Buenos Aires,’ Eduardo replied, breaking off to shout instructions to one of the grooms before turning his attention back to Faith. ‘They would have spent the whole of the day preparing in the hope that they catch the boss’s eye.’
‘The boss?’ Faith glanced around her. ‘Raul Vásquez? He’s playing today isn’t he? Is he here?’
‘Not yet.’
‘But the game is due to start in five minutes.’ She couldn’t take her eyes off the women in the stands, her attention caught by the glint of diamonds against designer silk. They were like a flock of exotic birds. ‘They’re very dressed up considering they’re spending their afternoon around horses.’
‘This is polo,’ Eduardo drawled. ‘The most glamorous game in the world. Everyone dresses up.’
The men thundered onto the field on lithe, agile horses and Faith tried not to be overwhelmed by the sheer glamour of the spectacle.
She’d just stooped to examine a horse’s fetlock when she heard the noise of a helicopter in the air.
‘Here he comes,’ Eduardo murmured, glancing upwards and narrowing his eyes against the glare of the sun. ‘Match starts in two minutes. He’s cutting it fine as usual.’
Faith was too busy with the pony to pay any attention to the helicopter landing. ‘He isn’t fit.’
Eduardo frowned. ‘He’s the fittest man I’ve ever met.’
‘Not the boss, this pony!’ Faith stared at him in exasperation. ‘Does everyone here only think about Raul Vásquez?’
There was a sudden roar from the crowd and Faith realised that the game had started. She glanced over her shoulder, watching as horses and riders thundered down the pitch.
Before arriving in Argentina she’d never been to a polo match and the speed and danger of the game still left her breathless.
She turned to one of the grooms. ‘Which one is Raul Vásquez?’
‘The one taking all the risks,’ he muttered and Faith’s eyes narrowed as she turned her attention to the game.
From this distance it was impossible to distinguish anyone’s features under the protective helmet, but one man stood out from all the others. Lithe and muscular, he controlled his horse with one hand while he leaned out of the saddle to hook the ball, apparently indifferent to the danger inherent in such a manoeuvre.
Watching in disbelief, Faith braced herself for him to crash to the ground with disastrous consequences. He had to fall, surely? But with a mixture of sheer muscle-strength and athleticism, he stayed with the horse, swung his mallet with lethal accuracy and hit the ball through the posts.
The crowd erupted in ecstasy and Faith suddenly realised that she’d been holding her breath.
‘The tension of this game is unbelievable,’ she muttered and the groom grinned at her.
‘It is very aggressive, yes. But the horses love it.’
Turning her attention back to her job, Faith worked her way down the pony lines, checking each animal and talking to the grooms, and at half time one of the grooms tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Time to stomp the divets. It’s tradition. Everyone joins in.’
Spectators and players strolled onto the pitch and started treading in the lumps of turf that had been dislodged by the horses’ hooves. It was a social occasion, with much laughter and conversation, a chance for the audience to mingle with the players.
Faith stretched out her foot to push down a lump of grass but a large black boot was there before her and she glanced up into the laughing eyes of the man she’d been watching on the polo field.
Raul Vásquez.
The man from the river.
For a moment she just stared. Then she swallowed and her tongue seemed to tie itself into knots. ‘I didn’t know. You didn’t introduce yourself.’
‘I didn’t want to,’ he drawled softly and hot colour flooded her cheeks because he was just so, so attractive and although they were surrounded by beautiful, glamorous women, he was looking at her.
‘You should have told me who you were!’
‘Why? You might have behaved differently and I wouldn’t have wanted that.’ His smile was sexy, distracting and impossibly intimate.
‘How did I behave?’
He stamped down another piece of turf and his leg brushed against hers in a deliberate movement. ‘You were delightfully natural.’
She glanced around her at the poise and confidence of the women around her. ‘You mean I don’t spend all day being pampered. Why are you talking to me?’
‘Because you fascinate me.’
‘You prefer your women with no make-up and covered in dust?’
He laughed. ‘I’m interested in the person, not the package.’
‘Oh please!’ She stared up at his impossibly handsome face. ‘Are you seriously telling me that you would look twice at a woman who wasn’t stunning?’
‘No, I’m not telling you that.’ His eyes didn’t leave hers and she felt as if the air had been knocked out of her lungs.
‘You’re saying that—you’re implying that—’
‘Yes.’ His tone was amused. ‘I am. And you’re not usually short of a sharp reply. What’s the matter? Hasn’t anyone paid you a compliment before?’
The chemistry between them crackled and sizzled like a high-voltage cable and she was conscious of what seemed like hundreds of eyes looking at her. ‘Everyone is staring.’
‘And that matters because …?’
‘Well, you might be used to being the centre of attention, but I’m not.’ Not knowing what to say and frustrated with herself for being so gauche, she glared at him. ‘It doesn’t matter who you are, I still think you’re macho and sexist.’
He threw his head back and laughed. ‘You’re absolutely right, cariño. I am macho and sexist. And I want to spend some time with you. Come to the Beach House.’
The Beach House was his private residence, a beautiful architect-designed villa that faced the Atlantic coast and opened onto a perfect stretch of sand. And it was strictly out of bounds to the staff.
What exactly was he suggesting?
But one glance at his wicked dark eyes told her exactly what he was suggesting and the colour rushed into her cheeks like fire.
Unsettled by how much she wanted to say yes, Faith stepped away, conscious that all the women on the pitch were watching her enviously. How on earth was she supposed to say no to a man like him? Worried that part of her didn’t even want to say no, she spoke quickly