In Megan’s opinion, to be as successful as he was he had to be both, with the added essential ingredient of utter ruthlessness thrown in!
The tension back with bells on, Megan heard her father add, ‘The Rios family estate is nearby, magnificent old place.’ The awe in the voice of a man who lived in a stately pile with more rooms than Megan had ever counted suggested the Rios Estate really was something out of the ordinary.
‘Well, if he was here he’s gone now,’ she said as much for her own benefit as her dad’s.
‘I stayed there once when Luis and I were negotiating a deal. My God, that man was slippery. Did you ever meet Emilio’s father?’
‘I thought he was a bit of a snob, actually.’
‘No, not a snob,’ her father disagreed, sounding irritated by her outspoken appraisal. ‘Just very old-school and immensely proud of his family heritage, and who can blame him? They can trace their history back centuries. You know, this Madrid stopover of yours might not be such a bad thing after all.’
Deeply distrustful of the thoughtful note in her father’s voice, Megan frowned and said warily, ‘You think so?’
‘I’ll ring Emilio.’
A loud announcement on the speaker system drowned out Megan’s wailed protest of, ‘Oh, God, no, don’t do that!’
‘I’ve lost touch since Luis retired. This could be the perfect opportunity to reconnect, and I’m sure Emilio could arrange accommodation for you.’
‘I wouldn’t want to trade on our relationship.’
Ignoring the sarcasm of her retort, Charles mused thoughtfully, ‘The Rios family have strong South American connections, connections that could be very useful if the Ortega deal proves viable. Actually, even if it doesn’t there are—’
Shaking her head, Megan cut her father off mid-flow.
‘No.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, no, I will not butter up Emilio Rios for you.’
‘Did I ask you to?’ her father said, sounding suitably bewildered and hurt by the accusation.
‘Emilio Rios was Philip’s friend, not mine. I don’t even like the man.’ Two years ago he had been well on the way to becoming a carbon copy of his aristocratic, aloof father. By now he had probably become equally stuffy and pretentious.
There was nothing like being lauded as a genius to confirm a person’s belief in his own infallibility, and having beautiful women throw themselves at your feet was not exactly going to encourage humility, she reflected sourly.
‘You used to follow him around like a puppy.’
The reminder brought a flush to her cheeks. ‘I’m not twelve, Dad.’ Actually, she had been thirteen when her brother had brought home his college friend, who had been the most beautiful young man she had ever imagined, let alone laid eyes on.
He had been kind.
Later he had been cruel.
‘And anyway, he definitely doesn’t like me.’ This was not a stab in the dark; it was actually an understatement. Two years on the memory of his blighting scorn no longer had the power to make her feel physically sick. Though she was a little way off laughing at it.
‘Don’t be stupid, Megan. Why would he not like you? I doubt if you even registered on his radar back then.’
Is that meant to make me feel better? Megan wondered.
‘I did have hopes he might have fallen for Janie.’
Why not? Megan thought. Everyone else had, or so it had seemed to her when she had watched, with wistful envy, her beautiful half-sister make male jaws drop wherever she went.
‘But I think that marriage of his was a done deal when they were both in their cradles. But that’s over and it’s different now. You’ve turned into quite an attractive young woman. No Janie, obviously.’
Obviously, Megan thought, and her twisted smile was more philosophical than cynical as she said, ‘You mean I lost twenty pounds.’ There was less of her but suddenly she was a lot more visible, at least to male eyes. ‘Look, Dad, I have to— Hold on, Dad,’ she added, turning in response to the pressure of a hand on her shoulder.
The expression of polite enquiry on her face melted into one of wild-eyed panic as she tilted her face up at the man standing at her shoulder.
He was the reason why she was suddenly not being jostled. People did not jostle Emilio Rios. It wasn’t just his physical presence, which was considerable, it was his aura.
‘You!’ Oh, God, how long had he been standing there? The thought that he had been listening made her feel queasy.
Emilio Rios smiled and Megan’s lips parted. She had no control over the tiny sigh of female appreciation that emerged from her throat. Fortunately the level of noise in the place drowned it out.
The smile did not reach his dark eyes, just deepened the fine lines fanning out from the corners, leaving the gleaming depths intent as without a word he framed her face with his big hands.
A myriad emotions swirling in jumbled psychedelic chaos through her head, Megan stood immobile as she felt the warm brush of his breath against the fluttering pulse at the base of her neck, then the downy softness of her cheek as his dark features blurred out of focus as she struggled to escape the magnetic tug of his unblinking stare.
Logic told her this was not happening, but it was. This wasn’t a dream; it was real. Dreams were not hot; he was. Across the inches barely separating them the heat of his body seeped through the fine creased linen of her jacket.
Say something! Do something?
She did neither, but he did.
Emilio bent his head and covered her mouth with his.
Scream, kick him, bite him, said the voice in her head.
Instead she melted into him, her soft body moulding sinuously against the lean, hard length of him. Her lips parted with a silent sigh, not just allowing but inviting the bold, erotic penetration of his tongue.
Need and enervating lust rolled over her, sweeping her along in its wake as she clung to him, her arms sliding around his middle.
The crowds faded, her sense of self faded, all that remained was the taste of him filling her mouth, the texture of his warm lips. The hunger inside her responding with mindless enthusiasm to the erotic probing advances of his tongue.
Then just as abruptly as it had begun it stopped and she was standing there deprived of the heat of his body, shaking and feeling pretty much as if she had just been run over by a truck.
Megan’s hands balled into fists at her sides.
‘Mr Rios,’ she croaked. ‘I was just talking about you.’ She raised the phone that she still held in a white-knuckled grip.
He just kissed you!
Two years had not changed him. He looked perhaps a little leaner, a little harder, the angles and planes of his incredible face perhaps more sharply defined, but essentially he was still the same.
But you’re not that Megan, you’ve moved on, she reminded herself.
He just kissed you.
Emilio stood waiting for his breathing to return to something approximating normal and watched her, fascinated to see denial this close up. Megan was addressing her remarks to some point over his left shoulder and her attractive contralto voice had an audible edge of hysteria. The open neck of her blouse didn’t quite hide the pulse that beat at the base of her throat.