Champagne Summer: At the Argentinean Billionaire's Bidding / Powerful Italian, Penniless Housekeeper

‘Welcome to the Twickenham spa, mate,’ he joked weakly through chattering teeth. ‘I’d have kept that shirt on if I were you. It doesn’t make much difference, but, by God, anything’s better than nothing.’

Alejandro didn’t flinch as he stepped into the bath.

‘I think I’ll take my chances with the cold rather than wear an England shirt for any longer than necessary,’ he said brutally, closing his eyes briefly as the icy water tore into him like the teeth of some savage animal. For a second his body screamed with exquisite agony before numbness took hold, mercifully obliterating the insistent pulse of desire that had been reverberating through him since Tamsin had tried to strip the shirt from him.

Randall forced a laugh. ‘No plans to come back, then?’

‘No.’ Alejandro’s gritted teeth had nothing to do with the freezing water. ‘It would take a whole lot more than a fancy new strip to make me come back and play for England.’

Like an apology from Henry Calthorpe. And his daughter.

Randall nodded. ‘You came to settle old scores?’

‘Nothing so dramatic,’ said Alejandro tersely. ‘It’s business. I’m one of the sponsors of the Argentine rugby team.’

‘Los Pumas?’ Randall gave a low, shaky whistle of respect and Alejandro smiled bleakly. ‘I’m here because, with another World Cup looming, it’s time everyone was reminded that Argentina are major contenders.’

‘I wish I could argue with that, mate.’ At the physio’s nod the huge Australian stood up and vaulted over the side of the bath, wrapping his arms around his body and jumping from foot to foot to bring the circulation back to his frozen legs. ‘You certainly showed them today, at any rate. They’d have walked all over us if it hadn’t been for you. I owe you a drink at the party tonight. You’ll be there?’

Alejandro nodded. Just thinking about the last England team party he’d attended made the agony of the iced water fade into insignificance. He frowned, resting his elbows on the sides of the bath, and bringing his clenched fists up to his temples as unwelcome memories of that night came flooding back: the damp, earthy smell of the conservatory at Harcourt and the warm scent of her hair, the velvety feel of her skin beneath his shaking fingers as he’d undone the laced bodice of her dress.

‘OK, Alejandro, time’s up,’ said the physio.

Alejandro didn’t move. A muscle hammered in his cheek as he remembered pulling away from her, struggling to fight back the rampaging lust she had unleashed in him long enough to find someone to lend him a condom. Telling her he wouldn’t be long, he had rushed out into the corridor … and straight into Henry Calthorpe.

The expression of murderous rage on his face had told Alejandro instantly who the girl in the conservatory was. And exactly what it would mean to his career. In one swift, devastatingly masochistic stroke, Alejandro had handed Henry Calthorpe the justification he’d been looking for. An excuse so perfect …

‘You some kind of masochist, D’Arienzo? I said, time’s up.’

An excuse so perfect it was impossible to believe it had happened by chance. Alejandro stood up, letting the iced water cascade down his numb body for a second before stepping out of the bath. That explained the directness of her approach. He’d thought there was something honest about her, something refreshingly open, but in fact it had been exactly the opposite.

She had deliberately set him up.

Back in the dressing room, he picked up the discarded England shirt and looked at it as he brutally rubbed the feeling back into his frozen limbs. The new design was visually arresting and technologically ground-breaking, and, in spite of himself, he was grudgingly impressed. Impressed and intrigued. Applying similar design principles and fabric technology to his polo-team kit would make playing in the heat of the Argentinean summer he had just left behind so much more bearable. Thoughtfully he picked it up and was just about to put it into his kit-bag when his eye was caught by the number on the back.

Number ten.

It all came crashing back. For a moment he’d allowed himself to forget that this was so much more than just a cleverly designed piece of sports kit. This shirt, the England number ten, was what he had spent so many miserable, lonely years striving for. When it had felt like there was nothing else to live for, this had been his goal, his destiny, his holy grail, and through his own hard work, his own blood and sweat, he’d achieved it.

Only to have had it snatched away from him, thanks to Tamsin Calthorpe.

In one swift, savage movement he threw the shirt into his bag and swore viciously. So she wanted this back, did she? Well, it would be interesting to see how far she would go to get it this time, because Alejandro didn’t intend to relinquish it easily.

Tamsin Calthorpe had been directly and knowingly responsible for him being stripped of his England shirt six years ago. She owed him this.

And a lot more besides.

CHAPTER TWO

‘HUMILIATING doesn’t even begin to describe it,’ Tamsin moaned, clutching the phone and sinking down into the steaming bathwater. ‘I mean, it would have been bad enough if he hadn’t remembered me, but it was a million times worse when he did…’

Sticking a foot out of the water, she used it to turn on the hot tap with a dexterity born of long practice and added, ‘Obviously I can’t go to the party now.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Serena mildly. ‘You’ve got to. You can’t let him get to you like that.’

‘I’ve got a splitting headache, anyway,’ Tamsin said sulkily. ‘It’s probably the start of a really bad migraine.’

‘You don’t get migraines.’

‘Yes, well, there’s always a first time. Look, Serena, it’s all very well to say I shouldn’t let him get to me, but it’s a bit late for that, wouldn’t you agree? It’s not just about what happened today; it’s about the fact that Alejandro D’Arienzo got to me six years ago and completely—’

‘Exactly. Six years.’ Her sister’s calm logic was beginning to wind Tamsin up. ‘You were a teenager, for goodness’ sake—we all make mistakes and do things we regret when we’re young.’

‘You didn’t,’ Tamsin snapped, making islands of bubbles on the surface of the water. ‘You played it so cool that Simon was virtually on his knees with a ring before you’d kissed him. I, on the other hand, was so deranged with infatuation for Alejandro that I dressed like I was charging for it and didn’t even take the time to tell him my name before I threw myself at him.’

‘So? It’s in the past. Like I said, we make mistakes, and we move on.’

‘I know, but …’ Tamsin knew Serena was right. In theory. ‘Moving on’ sounded so simple and logical. So why had she never been able to do it? Even Serena had no idea of the extent to which what had happened that night had affected her in the years that followed. And was still affecting her now. ‘I can’t.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m going to have to stop you right there. I thought tonight was about your work not our sex life.’ Ouch. ‘I thought that you were going to the party to unveil the England team suits?’ Serena gave a breezy laugh. ‘Gosh, just think: all those people who said you were flaky and you only got the commission because of Dad will love it if you don’t turn up because of some bloke!’

Tamsin stood up in a rush of water.

‘What? Who said that?’

‘Oh, well, no one in particular,’ soothed Serena. ‘Not in so many words, anyway, although Simon said that article in last week’s Sports Journal sort of implied—’

‘God, I hate that!’ Snatching a towel, Tamsin stepped out of the bath and stormed into the bedroom, stepping over the chaos of discarded clothes and piles of magazines, and leaving a trail of wet footprints on her polished wooden floorboards. ‘How dare they say that? Don’t they do their research? Don’t they know I have a first-class degree in textiles, and that I was up against some of the stiffest competition in the business to get this commission? Don’t they know that Coronet won “best new label” at last year’s British Fashion Awards?’

‘I’m not sure, but I do,’ said Serena placidly. ‘It’s the press pack at the party that you need to be haranguing, not me. Although, of course, if you’re not there I don’t suppose you can. You’ll just have to let the clothes speak for themselves. The suits are exquisite, and from what I gathered from Simon the new shirts were very—’

Tamsin, who had flung herself down on top of the mountain of clothes piled on her un-made bed, gave a cry of dismay and slithered to her feet. ‘Oh, my God, the shirt! I’d almost forgotten about that. I have to get it back. If I don’t, by the end of tomorrow’s press conference my reputation is going to be toast, and on top of everything else that’s the last thing I need.’

‘How are things at Coronet?’ asked Serena carefully.

‘Bad. While I was dealing with the shirt crisis, Sally left a message on my answerphone to say that another buyer had pulled out because of loss of exclusivity, since the designs have been so widely copied on the high street.’

‘Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, darling,’ Serena said weakly. ‘And the shirt crisis wasn’t your fault. The factory messed up the dye process, and it’s entirely to your credit that you thought to test the shirts for colour-fastness ahead of the game.’ Serena giggled. ‘Otherwise England would have been playing in pink by half time.’

‘Given that the press are out for my blood already, I don’t think they’ll see it that way.’ Tamsin threw open her wardrobe and began to rifle through the rails. ‘Which is why I can’t afford for it to get out.’

‘What’s that noise? What are you doing?’

‘Looking for something to wear.’

‘Ah. Does that mean you’re going?’

‘Oh yes, I’m going all right,’ Tamsin said grimly, pulling out a sea-green silk dress, grimacing and putting it back. ‘I’m fed up of being taken advantage of. Alejandro bloody D’Arienzo picked the wrong day to mess with me. He screwed me up enough last time, and I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of doing it again. He took something that belongs to me.’ She paused, frowning. ‘And I intend to take it back.’