‘Yes.’ Tamsin spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Astonishingly enough, I do know, because I got the job.’
Nodding thoughtfully, Alejandro took an unhurried mouthful of his drink. ‘And what qualified you for that, Lady Calthorpe—your father’s position in the RFU? Or your own extensive research into rugby players’ bodies?’
‘No,’ she said as soon as she could trust herself to open her mouth without screaming. ‘My first class honours degree in textiles and my final year project on techno-fabrics.’ Looking up at him, she gave an icy smile. ‘I had to compete for this commission and I got it entirely on merit.’
His dark brows arched in cynical disbelief. ‘Really?’ he drawled. ‘You must be good.’
‘I am.’
It was no use. If she stayed a moment longer, she wouldn’t be able to keep the rip tide of vitriol that was swelling and surging inside her from smashing through her flimsy defences. She put down the cue and threw him what she hoped was the kind of distant, distracted smile that would convey total indifference as she turned to reach for the doorknob. ‘You don’t have to take my word for it, though. If you look at my work, it should speak for itself.’
‘I have, and it does. For the rugby shirts, at least.’ He laughed softly and she froze, her hand halfway to the door as a bolt of horrified remembrance shot through her. ‘I have one, remember?’
Her fingers curled into a fist and she let it fall to her side, the nails digging painfully into her palm. She could have sunk down onto the thick, wine-red carpet and wept. Instead she steeled herself to turn back and face him.
‘Of course,’ she said, unable to keep the edge of bitterness from her voice. ‘How could I forget?’
He came slowly towards her, his head slightly to one side, an expression of quiet triumph on his face. ‘I really don’t know, since you seemed pretty keen to get it back earlier,’ he said quietly. ‘Obviously it can’t be that important, after all. To you, anyway.’
Tamsin swallowed. He had come to a halt right in front of her, and it was hard to marshal the thoughts swirling in her head when it suddenly seemed to be filled with him. She closed her eyes, trying to squeeze him out, but the darkness only made her more aware of his closeness, the warm, dry scent of his skin. She opened them again, looking deliberately away from him, beyond him, anywhere but at him.
‘It is important, I’m afraid. I need it back.’
‘You need it?’ he said softly. ‘If you’re the designer, you must have lots of them. Surely you can spare that one?’
‘It’s not that simple. I…’
The mirror above the fireplace reflected the broad sweep of his shoulders, the silk of his hair, dark against the collar of his white shirt. She stared at the image, mesmerised by its powerful beauty as the words dried up in her mouth.
‘No. I thought not,’ he cut in, a harsh edge of bitterness undercutting the softness of his tone, like a knife blade wrapped in velvet. ‘It’s not about the shirt, is it? It’s about the principle—just as it always was. It’s about your father not wanting the English rose on an Argentine chest, isn’t it?’
Argentine chest. Alejandro’s chest.
‘No,’ she whispered.
Gently, caressingly, he reached out and slid his warm hand along her jaw, cupping her face, stroking his thumb over her cheek. A violent shudder of reluctant desire rippled through her. She felt herself melt against him for a second before his fingers closed around her chin, forcing her head back so she was looking straight into his hypnotic eyes.
‘I hope you’re a better designer than you are a liar.’
‘I’m not lying,’ she hissed, jerking her head free. Her hand automatically went to the place where his had just been, rubbing the skin as if he had burned her. ‘This has nothing to do with my father. There was a—a problem with the production of the shirts. I only found out yesterday when I suddenly thought to test one, and found out the red dye on the roses wasn’t colourfast. I had to contact the manufacturers and get them to open up the factory and start from scratch on a new batch of shirts, but there was only time to make one for each player. That’s why I need yours back, otherwise on the photoshoot at Twickenham tomorrow Ben Saunders will be half-naked, as well as hungover,’ she finished savagely, feeling her blood pressure soar as he gave a short, cruel laugh. ‘What’s so funny?’
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