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He felt the phone in his pocket vibrate and resisted the temptation to cut the obligatory amusing anecdote short. Nothing in his delivery would make his audience suspect he had moved onto autopilot and was working out how soon he would be able to make his exit. Instead of his speech, his thoughts were on the rescue package he was putting into place for a friend. Jake was so grateful to him, which made him feel guilty. It hadn’t required much effort on his part to save Jake—the name Bardales inspired confidence and made those banks who didn’t appreciate that his friend was a techno genius a lot more likely to extend credit.
‘Again, thank you, Mr Jarvis, for asking me here to present the Cavendish Prize in my mother’s stead.’ Rio turned to look at the headmaster before he could launch into another speech. ‘My mother sends her apologies for being unable to be present herself today, as this school still holds such a special place in her heart. However, she is here in spirit and I believe her presence is still marked on several desks where she left a permanent impression. So without further ado...’ He took the crystal cup from the female teacher who held it out. ‘I present this award to this year’s recipient of the Cavendish Prize, Clarice Walker.’
Smiling, he watched a tall girl who was blushing as brightly as her auburn curls walk from the back of the room towards the stage, her progress accompanied by clapping.
He handed the girl the crystal goblet engraved with her name and the envelope that contained a more practical reward in the form of a cheque.
‘Congratulations, Clarice. My mother is looking forward to meeting you in the near future when she is more mobile.’
In the meantime, his normally very active parent was being a predictably pretty impatient patient, frustrated by the plaster cast that was her souvenir from a recent skiing trip.
He took a step back and joined in the clapping as the youngster took her place in front of the microphone. ‘Thank you, Mr Bardales. I do hope your mother is better very soon.’
His mother was fond of saying that being involved with young people kept her young, but being in this room filled with shiny idealism and even shinier faces made him feel old and not a little nostalgic for a touch of youthful rebellion—if there were any mavericks in the room, they were hiding it well.
It was hard to disguise his inner cynicism as he scanned the sea of faces staring up at the stage listening to the earnest speaker, wondering how long it would be before the real world would kill off all this youthful enthusiasm.
His thought stream was interrupted when the room suddenly erupted into sniggers at what he could only assume was an ‘in joke’ from Clarice. Rio fought an eye-roll, recognising with a jolt that he was displaying all the characteristics of a grumpy old man at only thirty-one—it did not bode well for the future.
Rio let his eyelids droop, the silky mesh of his lashes hiding the gleam of cynicism shining in the dark depths.Perhaps,he mused,I need a day off...Or a night in with someone smart and beautiful who had no interest in what made him tick, but just wanted to use this body that was actually in better condition than he deserved, considering the schedule that had left very little time for the punishing exercise regime he had once enjoyed.
His mobile mouth curled into a smile that flattened out as a movement in the periphery of his vision interrupted the pleasant fantasy before he had even begun to weave it, dragging his wandering attention to the rows of children sitting nearest the stage.
Finallya bit of rebellion! He didn’t fight off his grin as he watched one of the tiny occupants of the low bench just in front of the stage making a determined bid for freedom.
Rio silently willed him on, but inevitably he didn’t get far. The culprit was captured by someone who displayed a great deal of agility and also a really good bottom...actually, it was truly excellent, he decided, studying the curves outlined by conservative trousers that were wide-legged but pulled tight across her bottom as she stretched. The tall, leggy owner of the rich chestnut hair and excellent bottom released her hold on the kid’s arm, bending a little lower to say something that involved a wag of her finger, and, although he dragged his feet, the sulky little boy retook his seat.
He was attempting to pull his attention back to the proceedings on stage when the woman straightened up, one hand smoothing her glorious hair, the other smoothing the fabric of her trousers over long thighs. He was on the point of looking away when she lifted her head and they made eye contact.
The connection lasted seconds before she turned away, head bent to the child, but it only took a fraction of that time for his self-possession to fragment into a million pieces as recognition shuddered through him with the force of a sledgehammer blow that continued to send aftershocks throughout his body. He lowered his eyelids to shield his eyes as he nodded, mainly because everyone else was doing it in response to something the headmaster was saying.
Confusion was not normally part of Rio’s mindset, as confusion required an uncertainty, a hesitancy, an inability to cut through all the nonsense. None of these were attitudes he possessed, and he was rarely confused, but as he stood there questioning the evidence of his own eyes Rio was extremely confused.
It was the sort of confusion that came from seeing a familiar face out of context. Rio struggled to kick start his brain and think past the sense-limiting testosterone rush.
What the hell was this high-flyer doing in a school for kids of moneyed parents, wearing an outfit that made it easy for her to bend over and grab the would-be escapee kid—wide-legged trousers cinched in with a belt at her slender waist and a shirt that might have been sexy had it not been buttoned up to the neck?
If he ever thought about Welsh Gwen, he pictured her in a New York setting, dressed with immaculate City gloss, in sharp-edged fashionable tailoring that made sure people took her seriously despite the extraordinary face that was always going to set her apart from the other ambitious women aiming to shatter any glass ceilings that got in their way. And good luck to them; he liked ambitious women, just not ones who thought they could control him.
Ifhe ever thought about her...?Who are you kidding, Rio?he mocked himself as he fought to regain control of his stupefied brain. The dressed part was a lie too; he always pictured her completely naked and lying beneath him, her stunning legs wrapped tightly around him.
It had been nearly three years since he’d last seen her, and, despite the fact he was not someone to dwell on past mistakes, his subconscious had been known to drag him back to this particularly gorgeous mistake time and time again.
His eyes slid over her rear; he was thinking of the sleek curves under the clothes and an image flashed into his head of the last time he had seen her, walking away from him stark naked, anger and pride in her slow determined strides. He remembered every detail: her lovely long legs, her slender square shoulders, the graceful curve of her spine and feminine flare of her hips from a tiny waist. Thinking about the dimple just above her taut right buttock and the endless graceful legs sent a fresh flash of hormonal heat through his body.
He had spent considerable time and effort rationalising how their short liaison had left such a lasting raw impression on him, convincing himself that it was the element of unfinished business between them, thanks to that messy conclusion. All wasted energy as it turned out, as in reality he was unable to file the episode away in some dusty mental drawer marked ‘Over’ because he had never known a woman who had made him thishungry!
Though in his defence Gwen Meredith, with her melodic lilting voice, was not a woman a man forgot.Anyman with blood in his veins could not be indifferent to the memory of the electricity that had been between them, the little whimpered purr low in her throat whenever he’d slid his tongue between her plump lips... He inhaled sharply.Dios, this raw hunger was something he had not experienced before or since her; in fact, the memory had made any encounters he’d had since Gwen seem pallidand boring in comparison. He frowned and pushed away the sense-paralysing fantasies before they took hold, focusing instead on the mystery of her presence—here, where there were no glass ceilings whatsoever to shatter.
How and why the hell had she transplanted herself from New York to the English shires and a private school in leafy grounds?
He’d always enjoyed the challenge of unravelling a mystery.
It wasn’t until Max tried to twist out of her grip that Gwen realised she still had hold of his hand.
‘Sit down, Max.’
Her voice was lacking its usual note of calm authority and sounded as though it were coming from a long way off. The fact the child had ignored her did not at that moment feel like something that Gwen could deal with, when standing up was taking all her focus, and her head was still spinning.
