Kitabı oku: «Irresistible Bargain With The Greek / His Forbidden Pregnant Princess», sayfa 5

CHAPTER FIVE

THE STENTORIAN VOICE halted Talia mid-plunge and she floundered back up. Her eyes went to the edge of the pool as she brushed the strands of wet hair from her face.

Luke was standing there, glowering down at her. Talia blenched, grabbing the edge of the pool to steady herself. ‘I…I wanted a swim,’ she said.

She didn’t try to make her voice sound defiant—let alone entitled—but Luke seemed to take it that way. She could tell by the instant darkening of his eyes.

‘May I remind you,’ he bit out, and the sarcasm was blatant in his clipped words, ‘that you are here to work. This is not a holiday for you!’

She saw him breathe in sharply, lips pressing in a thin line.

Talia opened her mouth to tell him she knew that, and understood it only too clearly, but he forestalled her attempt at self-defence.

‘What’s happened to those letters I left you to type up?’ he demanded.

‘I…I’ve done them. That’s why I thought it would be OK to have a swim,’ she said falteringly.

Clumsily, she hurried to get out of the pool, wading up the steps. As she emerged she was burningly conscious that, even though she was wearing a plain one-piece suit, it was clinging to her body, exposing every curve and a lot of bare leg. She seized a towel and wound it round her body while her wet hair streamed water down her back.

His eyes were on her, she could tell, and she felt colour flare out across her cheeks as she dipped her head, squeezing water out of her long hair. She hoped he would go, so she could escape up to her room, but he was not done with her yet.

‘My PA said she’s received nothing,’ he retorted.

She looked confused. ‘You didn’t say anything about sending them anywhere. And I don’t have any contact details.’

He cut across her. ‘It will have to be done now.’ His mouth tightened. ‘Get changed and meet me in the office.’

He strode off before she could make any reply, and disappeared indoors. Hurriedly, Talia ran up to her room. The bad mood that had encompassed him as they’d left the hotel was clearly still clinging to him, and when she joined him again, as quickly as she could, she saw with a sinking heart that it had only worsened.

He was sitting at the computer, her work on the screen. At her entry he turned. ‘This,’ he said grimly, ‘is a complete mess.’

He lifted a hand to indicate the screen, where one of his long, complicated letters was displayed. There were half-sentences in red, to show where she wasn’t sure she’d taken down what he’d said correctly, and there were queries and question marks freely dispersed throughout.

Talia pressed her hands together. ‘I told you,’ she said, her voice as composed as she could make it—which was not very much, ‘I don’t take dictation and it was hard to write in the car because of the bumpy road. You gave me very little time, and these letters deal with matters I’m not familiar with.’ She swallowed. ‘I did my best,’ she said.

She could feel her throat constricting and sense tears building up behind her eyelashes. She was reminded of how once, when she was a novice designer, her father had given her instructions she hadn’t been able to carry out. His anger had wiped the floor with her. She had cried, and he had been even angrier. But she wouldn’t cry in front of Luke—she wouldn’t!

Gritting her teeth, she blinked rapidly, taking the seat that Luke was now vacating with a bowed head. He positioned himself behind her, so he could read the screen as well, and she felt the closeness of his presence overpowering her.

‘OK,’ he said tersely. ‘I’ll give you the corrections.’

He did so, and her fingers stumbled on the keyboard, but she soldiered on, blinking away the haze in her eyes as she laboured over the intricate figures, the complicated tabulation they required, and then added headings for addresses and pagination as well.

It seemed to take for ever, and her head was aching again with the concentration and fumbling finger-work, but finally it seemed he was done. Done with the work and done with her. She hit ‘send’ on the set of documents, to the email address he’d dictated, and sat back, her hands falling nervously to her lap.

Behind her, Luke spoke in that remote, impersonal tone she was getting used to.

‘You can clock off now. And you can have the evening to yourself—I’m dining out. Tomorrow, make a start on your initial design ideas. As for any more secretarial work…’ his voice tightened. ‘I’ll use an agency.’

He walked out and, feeling crushed yet again, Talia slowly made her way upstairs to the sanctuary of her bedroom, lying for a long while flat on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

The man she had once known so briefly, so incandescently, who had for a short few hours transformed the world for her, who had looked on her with passion and desire, had gone. Gone for ever.

A bleakness filled her. A sense of desolation. She felt her eyes haze over again, and this time she did not try and suppress her tears…her hopeless, flowing tears…

Luke was having dinner with one of the senior civil servants in the Department of Business Development, but he scarcely heard what the man was saying. His thoughts were elsewhere, circling round and round in his head like a vulture, and he could not banish them.

I can do this. I can do it and I will do it. I must. I will make myself immune to her and I absolutely will succeed!

But it was proving harder than he’d thought—damnably harder! Being with her again, tormented by all the memories of their unforgettable encounter, he’d felt his eyes constantly wanting to go to her, to drink her in.

It was bad enough when she was looking the way she had on the flight, or at dinner last night, and on the drive to the hotel site—so withdrawn and expressionless. But then—he felt emotion stab at him—at the hotel, when she’d walked out into the garden, her face and her eyes had come alive with delight and pleasure. The radiance in her expression! That brief moment of shared feeling with her.

He’d had to force himself to be terse, to stamp down on her enthusiasm, ramming home to her the fact that he was only interested in the profit he could make—that he did not get sentimental over projects.

Or sentimental about her, either.

That was the message he had to convey. His jaw tensed in recollection. And it was the only message he had allowed himself to convey when he’d come across her cavorting in the pool that afternoon. Harsh displeasure. Because if he hadn’t—

I couldn’t have coped with seeing her glorious figure, so nearly naked, that swimsuit clinging to her lush curves and slim waist.

So he’d made himself speak angrily to her—but the anger had been for himself, at his own weakness. His own vulnerability to her.

His hands tightened on his knife and fork as he made some abstracted reply to whatever had been said to him.

I will not be vulnerable to her—not again. Never again. I will not let myself desire her, or want her, or crave her. I brought her here only to teach myself how to be immune to her. How to feel indifferent as well as to pretend indifference. And I will succeed. I must succeed.

His host was speaking again, asking him about his plans, and he forced himself to focus. There was no point replaying the day in his head…no point letting his thoughts go to the villa, where Talia would be dining alone, going to bed alone…

He reached for his wine and knocked it back. He wanted to gain some strength from it but all he felt was tempted. Unbearably tempted by Talia…

Talia settled herself down at the table that Fernando and his staff had carried out onto her wide balcony, underneath a shady awning. A light breeze sifted off the sea far below, lifting the heat, and the awning took the blaze of the sun off her. Down in the gardens she could hear birdsong, and occasionally the voices of the villa’s staff as they went about their work.

It was very peaceful.

It was a peace she was trying to find inside her own head—hard though it was. She had slept restlessly, neither comfortable with the air-conditioning nor without it, and had stepped out at one point onto the dark balcony to be enveloped in the balmy warmth of the night, to hear the incessant chirruping of the tree frogs all around her. The moon had sailed overhead and she’d felt her lungs tighten; she’d heard her mother’s voice again, unbidden, talking about the joy of being romanced beneath a tropical moon…

She’d gone back indoors, the words ringing hollow in her head. Luke had returned quite late—she’d heard the car—and had, it seemed, retired immediately. She’d been in her bedroom, where the staff had served dinner—delicious, but lonely—after which she’d spent some time emailing her mother, doing her best to sound cheerful.

She’d told her mum about the site visit, the ideas she had come up with, and how excited she was about them; she’d explained that she would be working on them tomorrow, described the beautiful island, the hot weather, and reassured her that the jet lag was easing.

But that was all that was easing, because this morning had brought no sign of any thaw from Luke. She hadn’t even set eyes on him. Breakfast had been served in her room, and when she had asked after Luke, somewhat tentatively, she had been informed that he would be out all day and he had instructed her to work from the villa.

So now she began to develop her ideas for the hotel refurbishment, reaching for her art paper, her paints and pencils. She got out her notebook with the rough floor plans and measurements, and loaded the copious photos she’d taken the day before onto her laptop.

As she scrolled through them she began to feel the same emotions building up in her that she had felt on site and at lunchtime yesterday. Enthusiasm started to fire in her. The hotel was in such a beautiful situation, its architecture so perfect for its shoreline position between the azure ocean and the emerald rainforest, how could she fail to want to see it restored to beauty? To rescue it from the decay and ruin it had been subjected to?

I’ll make it beautiful again. I’ll make it more beautiful than ever.

A thought ran through her head—one she clutched at. She would do it for Luke. For the man with whom she had spent that magical night. Not the man who was now treating her with such callous indifference.

He no longer wanted her, and was making it glaringly obvious that whatever had burned so brightly and yet so briefly between them was nothing more than dead ashes now, but still she would use whatever talent she possessed to show him how beautiful that sad, ruined place of devastation could be.

If her design talents were all he wanted of her now, those at least he would have.

With renewed determination, she got to work.

Luke strode back into the villa. He’d had a long day. Frustration was biting at him. He’d met with another bunch of civil servants and the site’s owners in the morning—relatives, he knew, of the government Minister for Development—and the message he was getting from them was loud and clear. They wanted him to buy the site—but at a price he was in no way prepared to pay.

Meetings in the afternoon with the architect and the structural engineering firm he intended to use had indicated that the cost of restoration was going to be astronomical, and then he’d made another lengthy visit to the hotel.

He flexed his shoulders as he headed into the office to communicate with his PA in Lucerne. It was time for some tough negotiations to commence.

He relished the prospect.

What he did not relish was what he was about to do.

He settled himself at the desk and picked up the house phone. ‘Fernando, please inform Ms Grantham that I require her company this evening. Tell her to be ready for six thirty—formal evening wear. It is a reception at the Minister for Development’s residence, with dinner afterwards.’

He set down the phone, his expression flickering. Should he really do this? Should he really spend the evening with her? But how else was he going to make himself immune to her except by spending time with her? It had to be done.

I can do it. I will do it. I must do it.

It was a mantra he repeated to himself that evening, as they took their seats in the back of the chauffeured car that set off from the villa.

He’d said nothing to Talia as she’d joined him in the hall on the dot of half past six, just given her a brief nod of acknowledgement before heading out to the car. Now, as she sat beside him, assiduously looking out of the window instead of at him, he allowed himself a glance at her. Then he forced himself to really look at her. Forced himself to take in her profile and the soft swell of her breast, to catch the fragrance she was wearing. He made his senses endure it.

When they arrived, some twenty minutes later, at the lavish private residence of the government minister, they walked into the crowded interior past flambeaux flaring beside the portico. He did not offer Talia his arm—that was something he knew he could not endure—but he did endure the minister who, on seeing him arrive, strolled up to them with a genial smile on his face. He greeted Luke and clearly expected an introduction to the woman at his side.

‘My…secretary,’ Luke heard himself say.

What he’d intended by saying that was not to let the minister know that he was already progressing to interior design for the hotel. For that would reveal the extent of his interest in the purchase, thus weakening his bargaining position. But too late he realised that the note of hesitation in his description of Talia’s role was fuelling an appreciative look from the minister, who was drawing a quite different conclusion.

‘I wish my secretary were as beautiful as you, my dear.’ The minister smiled at Talia, his gaze openly admiring.

Luke felt his hand clench. A primitive urge speared him—a desire to whisk Talia away from any man who cast such a look at her. And an even more primitive urge pierced him when he heard Talia give a light laugh at the compliment.

Then the minister was greeting another new arrival and Luke promptly clamped a hand over Talia’s elbow, steering her away. He felt her wince at the tightness of his grip and let her go. A waiter glided up to them, bearing a drinks tray, and Luke took two glasses, handed one to Talia.

‘I need to network,’ he said. And then, before he could stop himself, he heard words fall from his lips which he instantly regretted but could not prevent, because of the dark thorn of jealousy that was driving him. ‘Try not to flirt with every man here.’

He heard a low gasp from Talia but ignored it, moving forward to greet one of the minister’s aides whom he’d met that afternoon.

Talia’s lips pressed together. There had been no call for him to say such a thing to her.

What does he think I should have done? Told the minister whose approval he needs for his project that my looks have nothing to do with my professional competence?

She’d got through the moment in as graceful a fashion as she could, having had long experience of such comments and heavy-handed admiration in her years of endless hateful socialising at her father’s side.

Feeling awkward in the extreme—as she had from the moment she’d climbed into the car beside Luke, with the atmosphere between them more distant than ever—all she could do now was fall automatically into the routine that she was familiar with at functions like this: murmuring anodyne greetings, keeping quietly at Luke’s side as she had at her father’s.

Her father had required her to be merely ornamental. Was that why Luke had brought her here?

Her mouth thinned painfully. It certainly was not for the pleasure of her company, that was for sure! She was punishingly aware, and it made her feel horribly constrained herself, that he’d not spoken a word to her except that totally unfair comment just now, which had stung her to the quick. And he was broadcasting on every frequency the fact that he had no interest whatsoever in her being with him.

So why had he stipulated that he required her presence?

As she did what was presumably her duty at his side—being his ‘plus one’ for the evening—it started to dawn on her why he might have insisted she come with him tonight.

Did he want to keep other women at bay? Was that it? Because it was clear, now that she paid attention to it, that he was being eyed up—covertly and not so covertly—by female eyes all around. Her mouth thinned painfully again. She couldn’t blame them for gazing at him. All women would take one look and crave him.

The way I do.

She pushed the bleak, hopeless thought out of her head, letting the familiar anguish fill her instead. She had had her chance with Luke and had walked out on it. Although it had been for reasons way beyond her control at the time, the result had been the same—she had left when she had desperately wanted to stay, and her lack of courage in that moment had spoiled everything.

He doesn’t want me any more. There’s nothing left of what there was. Nothing at all…

She sighed. All that was between them now was the fact that, for some reason she really didn’t understand, he had brought her here to do a job. She must be grateful for that. Grateful that he’d heard her plea not to be evicted from the Marbella villa immediately. Grateful for the generous terms he’d offered. And that generosity was undeniable, she knew. What she would have been paid for her interior design skills wasn’t even close to three months’ market rate rent on the villa.

No wonder he wanted her to do every extra he cared to chuck at her, she thought bitterly. From being his secretary—however useless he thought her—to accompanying him to glitzy networking events like this, the purpose of which, she could only suppose, was to shield him from a horde of eager females waiting for their opportunity to pounce.

He seemed to be making methodical progress around the room, selecting various individuals to talk to, and from his conversation it was clear to Talia that for him this was simply an extended business meeting. She didn’t follow most of it, confining herself to shadowing him meekly and being mindful not to ‘flirt’—as he had so sneeringly and so unfairly put it. She stayed as modest and docile as she could, while trying not to appear dull or boring.

It was more of a skill than she knew Luke would credit, and it had been learned from years beside her father.

The thought was bleak, bringing home to her just how little she meant to Luke. Less than little.

‘Right, we can leave now.’

His voice interrupted her painful cogitations. She felt her elbow gripped again—in that tight, commanding hold that steered her purposefully in any direction he wanted. They were soon crossing the large room, pausing only for Luke to shake hands several times and make his farewells as they left. Dutifully, Talia, too, murmured her goodbyes, bestowed civil smiles, and then, finally, they were outside in the warm night air, before the chill of the air-conditioned car enveloped her.

Luke threw himself in beside her, leaning forward to instruct the driver.

Talia heard him give the name of the island’s most famous hotel.

Now what?

It was dinner. As docilely as she had at the minister’s cocktail party, Talia walked in beside Luke, the skirts of her evening gown swishing around her legs. She was grateful she’d packed it, having not been sure just what she should bring with her. It was a world away, she thought with a pang, from the tightly sheathing dark red dress she’d worn at the party where she’d met Luke. This, like all her evening gowns, had been chosen to suit her father’s taste—fussier and more embellished than she would have liked. But her father had wanted her to look expensive, to show the world how wealthy he was.

Her eyes shadowed. That life had gone for ever, and now she was picking her way across the bomb site that was all she and her mother had left. She was trying to protect her mother as best she could, whatever it took. Including being here like this with Luke.

It was a mockery—oh, such a mockery—of the way they’d been that magical evening at the party! The coldness of his manner burned her, as if she’d swallowed bitter acid.

With that sourness in her throat, she took her seat at the table reserved for them, quietly accepted the menu and started to peruse it. Why had Luke brought her here? If her role as minder—keeping females from pestering him—was no longer necessary, he could easily have sent her back to the villa. But, whatever his purpose in bringing her here, she just had to cope with it, however painful.

She stole a glance at him. He was absorbed in the menu, and then the wine list, his expression closed. The waiter came to pour water, bestow a basket of rolls upon the table, and then he stood and waited for their orders. She gave hers, smiling up at the young waiter, whose face split into a wide, answering smile as he repeated her order in his lilting Caribbean accent. She heard Luke give his order in the terse tone that was becoming grimly familiar to Talia. Then the waiter nodded and headed off.

‘Try not to flirt with the waiting staff, either.’

Talia’s snapped her head towards Luke, eyes widening. ‘I wasn’t!’ she said, breathless with indignation.

‘He couldn’t take his eyes off you,’ came his reply. His eyes narrowed. ‘No man can.’

He glanced towards another table nearby, where two men were openly casting their eyes in Talia’s direction. He couldn’t blame them. Even in that unflattering evening gown of hers she was the most beautiful woman in the room. His jaw tightened, and he felt the scythe of emotion scissoring within him yet again. She’d been the most beautiful woman at the cocktail party and she was the most beautiful woman here.

The most beautiful woman anywhere she goes…

His eyes swept back to her. She’d dipped her head at his words, that wash of colour he’d seen before when he’d spoken sharply to her flushing across her sculpted cheeks.

It made him angry. But it was an anger that came from deep within. An anger that was in himself—at himself. He could feel his gaze drinking her in, absorbing the way the long lashes of her tawny eyes dusted the delicate curve of her cheek, how her rich mouth trembled, how the sweep of her hair exposed the graceful line of her throat…

Desire flooded him. Longing…

He cut it off, refusing to acknowledge it. He told himself yet again that the only reason he had brought her with him tonight was to inure himself to her, and that he must succeed in doing so.

To stop himself looking at her again, he beckoned the sommelier to the table, immersing himself in a discussion of wines. Yet he was still burningly conscious that across the table from him Talia’s slender fingers were pulling a soft roll to pieces. Her head was still dipped, her eyes averted from him.

He chose the requisite wine, busied himself with its tasting and approval, then dismissed the sommelier and turned his attention back to Talia. He wanted to find something in her to criticise, something to bolster his determination to make himself immune to her.

His eyes alighted on her gown. He frowned. It really did nothing to accentuate her stunning beauty—and, whilst he knew he should be pleased, he heard himself say, his tone critical, ‘Is that dress by the same designer as the dress you wore at the villa?’

She started, as if she hadn’t expected him to talk to her. ‘Er…yes,’ she answered. Her expression was wary.

‘It doesn’t suit you,’ he said bluntly. His eyes flicked over her dismissively, and he saw that flush of colour run out over her cheeks again. ‘It’s far too fussy and over-embellished.’ Before he could stop himself, he added, ‘Nothing like what you were wearing at that party—’

As the words left his lips he cursed himself. The last thing he needed to do was remind himself of that night.

But Talia was only dipping her head again, saying in a pinched voice, ‘My father liked this kind of style. He said it was very feminine. It was the way he liked me to look.’

Luke’s expression tightened. So she’d dressed to please her doting father? That shouldn’t surprise him—after all, it was Gerald Grantham who’d bankrolled her luxury lifestyle.

Abruptly, he changed the subject. He shouldn’t give a damn what her dress was like—the less flattering to her the better, as far as he was concerned!

‘So, what progress have you made on your design ideas?’ he put to her as their first course arrived.

She lifted her head again and took a steadying breath. ‘I’m working on a colour palette at the moment. You told me to come up with my own ideas, but if you want me to run them past you, in case you don’t like them—’ she started.

He cut across her. ‘When I hire professionals I don’t expect to have to do their job for them,’ he said brusquely.

She flushed, yet again, and said falteringly, ‘That isn’t what I meant. I just thought that if I’m coming up with some ideas you dislike from the off you might as well tell me now, so I can make it how you want.’

He took a draught from his wine glass. ‘If I don’t like them I won’t use them,’ he said. He set his glass back on the table. ‘Tell me, what kind of commercial experience do you have? Anything I might have come across?’

She took a breath. ‘I did all the interiors of my father’s properties, but—’

She was going to say, But please don’t judge me on that work. I had to stick to my father’s exacting brief, not use my own ideas.

She never got a chance to finish. A frown had flashed across Luke’s face, drawing his brows together darkly.

‘You never told me that.’

He made it sound like an accusation, and Talia felt herself flushing. ‘You’ve never asked me anything about what I’ve done,’ she started to protest in her own defence, wanting to let him know that the work she’d done for her father did not represent her creative skills.

But Luke was already speaking again, his frown deepening. ‘What have you done for other clients?’ he demanded.

She felt herself hesitating, but answered truthfully. ‘Um…nothing. But—’

She tried to get out the fact that her father had not permitted her to work for anyone else but, as before, Luke cut right across her, his frown deeper again.

‘Are you telling me that all your work has been for your father?’

The scathing note in his voice was unmistakable and Talia winced inwardly, knowing that if he’d seen any of the garish interiors she’d done for her father he would judge her by them—critically.

‘Well?’ Luke demanded, clearly wanting an answer.

She swallowed, nodding, and again tried to explain just why that was, and that the work did not represent what she was capable of stylistically. But Luke gave her no chance.

She heard him mutter something under his breath in Greek. It sounded disparaging, even though she hadn’t a clue what it meant. Then he was eyeballing her again, his jaw set. Pointedly, he threw another question at her.

‘So, what do you make of this place, then? From a professional point of view,’ he asked her. His voice was sharp suddenly, his gaze pinning her. Challenging her.

She glanced around the opulent dining room, trying to gather her thoughts in what was becoming his blatant interrogation—and a hostile one at that. She felt wrong-footed, and tried to recover her composure.

‘It’s very…impressive,’ she said.

She chose the word carefully. Personally, she thought the opulent gilded furnishings and décor out of place on a tropical island, but she did not wish to insult the famous designer whose hallmark was evident here.

Luke’s eyes narrowed. ‘And will you be attempting to emulate this style yourself?’

She looked at him uncertainly. His question had sounded sardonic, and she wasn’t sure why.

‘I would do my best, if that was what you wanted,’ she replied neutrally.

It was the last thing she would choose herself—to impose this kind of overblown style on that devastated, hurricane-blasted hotel. It would be totally wrong for it.

She never got the chance to say so. He was nodding, his expression hardening. ‘Ah, yes—just as you “did your best” typing up those letters so atrociously!’

She flushed at the derision in his voice. To her dismay, as when he’d been correcting her hopeless typing, pushing her harder and harder, she felt tears haze her eyes. She felt her throat tightening and tried to fight it in vain, blinking rapidly to try and clear the treacherous mist that was forming.

Unhappiness twisted inside her. Why was he getting at her over this? Why was he jabbing at her with everything he said? She dipped her head, taking another mouthful of her food, though it suddenly tasted like ashes in her mouth.

Luke’s expression tightened. The revelation she’d made that the only design experience she actually had was courtesy of her father was damning. Totally damning! She obviously wasn’t a professional interior designer in the least. She was nothing but a dabbling amateur—a rich man’s daughter who’d clearly fancied the idea of interior design as something to while away the time between shopping and socialising.

Her doting father had indulged her and she had amused herself by producing interiors that were, without exception, in every property belonging to Grantham Land that he had seen since his acquisition, uniformly hideous! Flashy, ostentatious, and tasteless.

Luke’s expression tightened even more. There wasn’t a chance in hell she could come up with something that was of the slightest use to him.