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It sounded weak to admit it now, but, yes, she’d caved in and done exactly as her stepfather had demanded—mainly because her mother had got down on her knees in that over-the-top way of hers and begged her to. Had sobbed that Paul would never forgive her if she didn’t and she couldn’t cope with a divorce and going back to being a single mother. The ensuing drama had felt like an embarrassing nightmare and in the end Emily had agreed. But she’d convinced herself it was all for the best and it would save her even more heartbreak further on down the line, because surely to Alej she was nothing more than a brief fling. A teenage love affair which wasn’t going anywhere—especially when increasing numbers of women were lining up beside the polo pitch to watch him play and making their availability very plain. Just as she’d told herself she would soon forget him. That the latter part of her assessment had never come true wasn’t anyone’s fault, particularly not his.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I finished it.’
I finished it in the most horrible way possible which still makes me shudder to think about it, which is why I rarely do.
‘So why do you think he’s chosen you to salvage his image, out of all the PR representatives in the world?’ questioned Marybeth slowly.
‘He says he wants to go into politics,’ Emily answered, her brow furrowing into a thoughtful frown. ‘And needs to shed his bad-boy reputation pretty sharpish.’
‘And that’s it?’ Marybeth’s eyes glinted. ‘That’s the only reason he’s employing you?’
It was a question Emily didn’t want to answer as she snapped her suitcase closed and gave Marybeth a bright smile. ‘I guess so. What other reason could there be?’
But she thought about her partner’s question all the way to Heathrow airport and through the long flight which followed, which was delayed further by a technical problem on the plane which was supposed to take them from Brunei to Melbourne. Hadn’t there been a whisper of revenge underpinning the dogmatic way Alejandro had demanded she go and work for him? Was the unspoken clause that he wanted to capitalise on the undoubted chemistry which still existed between them, or was that just her imagination? Because that was never going to happen, no matter what the provocation. No matter that she still found him the sexiest man she’d ever set eyes on, she wasn’t going to tumble into his arms the way she used to do. She didn’t dare. Why would she put herself through something like that when the cold glint in Alejandro’s eyes made no secret of the fact that he now despised her? All she needed to do was to resurrect his battered public image and earn the money he had promised her. Simple.
* * *
It was hot when she arrived in Melbourne—hotter than Emily had expected, though she’d never been to Australia before. She felt grimy and sticky after the long journey but was due to meet Alejandro at the racetrack and reckoned a trip to her hotel to freshen up would make her even later than she already was. So she scurried into a washroom at the airport and did the best she could in the cramped surroundings, but the creases in the clean dress she pulled on were stubbornly refusing to fall out and her cheeks were flushed and shiny.
Passing a news stand, she saw Alejandro’s rugged features staring back from the front page of a tabloid underneath the headline Billionaire’s Racy Race Party!
Digging into her purse for some coins, she tucked the newspaper into her bag and read it during the bus ride to the stadium, hating the way her heart sank as she pored over the feature, thinking how much one of the women photographed entering his hotel resembled his ex-mistress—a fact which hadn’t escaped the notice of the journalist. It gave them the perfect opportunity to print an old picture of Colette and Alejandro kissing passionately at the Monaco Grand Prix and Emily couldn’t rid herself of the image of the supermodel’s long fingers splayed possessively over the Argentinian billionaire’s taut bottom.
She was still feeling peculiar when the bus arrived at the race venue in Albert Park, and the constant droning of powerful cars coming from inside the stadium only added to her feelings of disorientation. Her phone started vibrating and she didn’t need to see the name to know who it was from, as she squinted at it in the sunshine. The terse message blazing from the screen could have originated from only one person.
Where the hell are you?
Alejandro. Sounding angry and impatient. Was this going to be his default mechanism with her from now on? she wondered. But at least he’d kept his side of the bargain and, just before she’d left England, a batch of photos had arrived, each showing Joya. Now happily rehomed in Alejandro’s vast Argentinian ranch, the horse’s body had started to fill out and gleam with health as he stood regarding the camera with some of his perky expression of old. Unexpected tears had pricked at Emily’s eyes as she’d stared at the images and she’d felt an overwhelming burst of gratitude as she’d boarded the night bus to the airport.
And now it was time for her to keep her side of the bargain, despite her misgivings.
She tapped out a reply.
Yes, I had a very pleasant trip—thanks for asking!
Another terse reply shot straight back.
Where are you?
This was going to be fun, thought Emily as her fingers flew over the smooth surface of the screen.
Just going up to the VIP section as instructed. Assume someone will meet me there?
There was no response to this one, so she picked up her suitcase and asked for directions, before heading for the gate where a small but well-heeled throng were congregated. Emily looked around with interest, because she’d never been to a motor-racing event before and it was a lot dressier than she’d imagined. Some of the women were wearing expensive skinny jeans and floaty blouses with discreet diamonds glinting at their ears and wrists, while others were in silk dresses with crazy-high heels. Emily frowned. Maybe Marybeth had been right in insisting that she borrow some fancy clothes for the trip, after all. Surreptitiously, she smoothed down her hair, uncomfortably aware that her battered suitcase was standing out like a sore thumb amid all the soft designer handbags.
Everyone was being ushered through the metal turnstile without fanfare, but as soon as Emily stepped forward, a burly security guard planted himself in front of her.
‘Pass?’ he said, extending the palm of his hand.
‘I should have been left one at the gate.’ Emily forced a smile, acutely aware of the beads of sweat which were springing up on her forehead and of a woman in front who had turned round to give her a haughty look. She wanted to exude her usual air of competence but for some reason it seemed to be eluding her. ‘By Alejandro Sabato.’
The security man raised his eyebrows. ‘Alejandro Sabato? The sponsor?’
‘That’s right. He’s expecting me.’
‘Is he now?’ The guard could barely keep the smirk from his lips. ‘That’s what they all say, love. I’m afraid it’s more than my job’s worth to let you in without a ticket.’
‘It’s okay, Wesley.’ A rich, accented voice filtered through the warm air towards them. ‘I can vouch for her.’
