Пиппа Роско – A Ring To Take His Revenge (страница 7)

‘So, you’re into horseflesh? I love to have a flutter on the ponies occasionally. You’re going to be in Buenos Aires for the first leg of the Hanley Cup next week?’

His noncommittal ‘mmm’ wasn’t enough to put her off. But it did remind him of the need to check in with John—the trainer he had secured for the Winners’ Circle from the staff his family had been forced to let go.

It had been both a gift and a curse to work with the gruff northern Englishman. Antonio was still unable to relinquish fully the stranglehold the past had on him even now, in the present. He wondered if Mason McAulty was still furiously adhering to the strict schedule she had set herself...

But his train of thought was interrupted as Amber placed a long-nailed hand on his forearm, and Antonio resisted the urge to flinch.

‘Is it true that you have a female jockey riding your horse? How simply thrilling!’

Cue more laughter. Laughter that made him wonder what dry response Emma would have come up with.

Damn it.

Emma—the woman he had worked with for eighteen months and never known about her medical history. He wasn’t so uncouth as to require one for members of his staff, and neither was he such an ass that he would have treated her any differently. But as his eyes raked over Amber and her figure-hugging outfit he suddenly realised what it was about Emma’s figure that had always niggled at the back of his subconscious.

Breast implants. He hadn’t initially noticed them—in fact had only just realised that they were implants. They weren’t obvious—in reality they were incredibly subtle—and the disguising of them was clearly intended by her choice of wardrobe.

In an act of what could only be described as self-preservation, any time he had come near to considering his PA’s assets, he had swerved sharply away. So, even as a man who considered himself a connoisseur of beautiful forms, perhaps he could be forgiven.

Assimilating this new information about Emma didn’t make him think any less of her—only more. It added yet another layer of complexity to a woman who was beginning to take up far too much of his thoughts for a member of his staff.

‘And that was when—’

‘I’m sorry,’ Antonio said insincerely, ‘I’ve just seen someone I need to speak to.’

He left the blonde woman practically stamping her foot in his wake and went to find... Anything would be better than that.

Until he walked smack-bang into Marcus Greenfeld.

‘Mr Arcuri,’ he proclaimed, before Antonio could extricate himself from the situation. The man took off his greasy glasses and began rubbing them with his tie. ‘Kind of you to come. Didn’t have to, of course,’ he said apologetically. ‘I hope you don’t mind the...the extravagance. But then, of course, it was your suggestion so, yes... Thank you. I—’

‘You have done an amazing job.’ The lie was giving the man far more credit than he was clearly due, but it was necessary to ensure that Emma’s inspired intervention was fully felt. ‘This evening’s gala has garnered a huge amount of positivity,’ he said, loudly enough for Emma to hear as she made her way over to the two of them.

Did he notice a slight blush on her cheeks?

‘Mr Greenfeld... Mr Arcuri—the meal will be served shortly,’ Emma informed them.

Antonio’s hawk-like gaze raked over her—all of her. Even dressed in the clothes he now saw that she wore like armour, she outshone Amber like the north star.

‘I was just telling Marcus how much I’m enjoying the gala. A truly wonderful event. And with that in mind I have decided to double the donations raised this evening. Marcus,’ he said, turning back to the man, ‘please be so good as to announce that before the meal starts. Let’s see if it greases some wheels.’ He tried not to look at the man’s glasses as he spoke.

His statement signalled the end of the conversation, but Marcus Greenfeld still took an awkward moment to realise it was his cue to leave.

Emma was looking at him with huge round eyes. The same eyes that had first caught his attention in London. He needed to get his own eyes off his PA and on to the next fiancée option. He needed to keep his mind on track. He wasn’t here for the charity—he was here to help secure the Bartlett deal.

‘That’s...that’s wonderful, Antonio. Thank you so much.’

‘You don’t have to thank me. It’s my charity, after all. Besides... It’s good publicity.’

‘I don’t believe that,’ she said, levelling him with a stare that saw far too much, and speaking in a voice that held too much optimism. ‘I think you’re doing it out of the kindness of your heart.’

‘Don’t paint any illusions about me, Emma. Trust me—there’s very little good left in me.’

‘Well, then. I’ll just have to nurture that last little bit of goodness.’

As she slipped away into the throng of guests his errant mind wondered what else she might nurture and he cursed himself to hell and back.

When the guests started to make their way in a somewhat chaotic line through to where the meal was being served, he saw Dimitri peel off from a group of attractive women.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ Antonio asked as they stood back and watched the guests pile in for the meal.

‘Absolutely. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,’ Dimitri replied, full of laughter.

‘I’m glad you find humour in this.’

‘And in your purpose,’ Dimitri responded, clinking his glass of champagne against Antonio’s. ‘So, anyone caught your eye yet?’

As Antonio scanned the guests at the gala, all decked in the kind of finery that suited their opulent surroundings, his eyes snagged on Emma once again.

‘Emma shared the list of suitable candidates with me, and I must say, apart from that girl Amber, she’s chosen wisely. Though if you’re not overly taken with option one I’d be happy to take her off your hands.’

‘Che palle, Dimitri.’ Antonio cast Dimitri a dark look, but his friend only shrugged.

‘Ti?’ Dimitri queried in Greek.

‘Natasha Eddings—“option one”—is not up for grabs. This isn’t a cattle market, Dimitri. This is important. If Bartlett is even going to meet with me, then I need a fiancée to resolve any detrimental effects of my previous...assignations.’

‘Is that what the kids are calling it these days?’

‘Don’t joke. This is a serious matter.’

‘I know,’ Dimitri said, his eyes shining with understanding. ‘But, Antonio, you can’t just stumble across a woman you’ve never met before, make her an offer to be your fake fiancée, expect her to have little or no ulterior expectations, and present her to Bartlett wrapped in a bow.’

Antonio bit back a curse. Dimitri was right. Urgency and necessity had made his usually quick and clever mind sluggish and slow. He saw the many flaws in his plan immediately.

What had he been thinking? He needed the deal, he needed to bring Steele to his knees, and he needed a fiancée who would understand and support him in it.

His eyes caught Emma, laughing with a member of the hotel’s staff before stepping away through the glass doors to the balcony that wrapped around the outside of the hotel. She had done so much. He was impressed with how she’d multi-tasked, clearly making an unprecedented success of the event whilst never missing a beat in her day-to-day role. She was conscientious, bright and articulate. And above all she was professional. In short, she was perfect.

* * *

‘Mum, it’s...’ Emma paused, pulling her mobile briefly away from her ear to check the screen for the time ‘...one a.m. in London. What are you doing up?’

‘Oh, I got stuck into a painting and the next thing I knew it was midnight.’

As Emma looked out onto the famous New York skyline she imagined her mother in the brightly lit, airy loft of her home in Hampstead Heath. When her parents had divorced her father had been the one to leave, moving into a flat nearer to the school where he worked, but only round the corner from the home they had all once shared.

The divorce had signalled the end of the nightly fights that had become a regular feature of Emma’s life—desperate and painful arguments her parents had thought she hadn’t heard. The heart-wrenching accusations, the arguments over how differently to handle their sick daughter, and her father’s confusion as to why Louise Guilham had changed beyond his recognition.

Emma had initially felt relief when they’d separated, and then guilt, knowing that her father still desperately loved her mother. His painful bewilderment at the transformation in his wife and child had cut Emma deeply, and prompted the awful thought that had it not been for her illness her mother might have somehow stayed with her husband, and she might have somehow found a way to keep them all together.

‘Where’s Mark?’

Emma liked her mum’s partner. He made her happy, and he also gave her the space she needed to be creative at unsociable times. Emma knew better than most that when her mum ‘got stuck into a painting’ she could be gone for days. She loved her mum’s paintings—her favourite one hung on the wall of her little Brooklyn flat—and still felt bad that her mother’s work had been put on hold during her illness at a critical time in her mother’s career.

‘Asleep. I just wanted to know how the gala went.’