At the Argentinean Billionaire's Bidding. India Grey

photographer’s flash exploded as he took a volley of shots. Her bare legs and feet, held in the meaty hands of one of the England forwards, looked as delicate as the stem of some exotic flower, and next to the coarse, battered faces of the players Tamsin’s skin gleamed like pale-gold satin.

      ‘How come you get the best position anyway, Fitzpatrick?’ shouted one of the younger players at the back.

      Tamsin laughed, and to Alejandro the sound was like fingernails on a blackboard. ‘He’s more experienced than you, Jones. And his handling skills are better.’ As Jones blushed to the roots of his hair, the team erupted into more rowdy laughter and cheers.

      So that was what she’d been asking her father for: permission to appear in the team photo. He remembered her soft, pleading tone as she’d put her hand on his arm and said ‘only a couple of photographs’.

      Had she no pride at all? Alejandro’s face felt stiff with contempt as he leaned against one of the gallery’s carved wooden posts and watched. What was she, some kind of unofficial team mascot? It was perfectly clear that she knew all the players pretty well.

       How many had she slept with?

      The thought slipped into his head without warning, but he had to brace himself against the lash of unexpected bitterness that accompanied it.

      There was much clapping and shouting below as two of the players, under direction from the photographer, lifted her onto their shoulders. Laughing, Tamsin tipped back her head and looked up.

      He watched the smile die on her glossy lips as her eyes met his.

      In that moment Alejandro realised who it was she reminded him of: the blondes who’d populated the rugby parties he used to attend. The girl he’d thought was so different had grown up into one of those women he’d so despised at the party at Harcourt. A polished, hard-society blonde whose satiny skin concealed a ruthless streak a mile wide. A professional flirt, a consummate party girl, a shallow, manipulative man-user whose every flattering word was meaningless and every smile was a lie.

      And, judging from the look on her face now, she was all too aware she’d been found out.

      No.

      No, no no.

      It couldn’t be possible. Even her luck wasn’t that bad. As the two props set her back on her feet, Tamsin shook her fringe from her eyes and looked back up into the minstrels’ gallery where a figure in the shadows had caught her eye. A figure she’d thought for one nasty moment was…

      Oh, God. It was. Him.

      He was leaning insolently against a carved wooden post, looking down. Though his face was in shadow, every line of his elegant, powerful body seemed to communicate contemptuous amusement, and she could feel his eyes searing her with their intensity and their disdain.

      The photographer clapped his hands and trilled, ‘OK, people—are we ready? Now, if the two guys on either side of Miss Calthorpe could look down at her, please?’

      Why? Why couldn’t he just go?

      Dimly Tamsin was aware of laughing banter breaking out around her again, and of Matt pulling her towards him and making some joking comment to the player on her other side. But, as she looked up into Matt’s appreciative blue eyes, it was Alejandro’s cold, contemptuous stare that she saw.

      The photographer’s flash exploded in her face as fury erupted inside her.

      That was what he’d done to her that night.

      ‘That’s fabulous,’ gushed the photographer. ‘Really fabulous. Gorgeous, sexy pout, Miss Calthorpe. Now, shoulders straighter, Matt… Lovely.’

      He’d broken something inside her, so that no matter how much men like Matt flattered her and flirted with her…

      ‘Tamsin, you’re looking delicious. Just put your hand on Matt’s chest…yes, like that…’

      …she could never quite make herself believe that they meant it.

      ‘Now, let’s make sure we get the nice rose-patterned lining of the jacket in the shot. Just slip your hand underneath his jacket, and sort of half-push it off his shoulder. Yeah, like that. That’s gorgeous.’

      Maybe it was time she proved to Alejandro Arrogant D’Arienzo, and herself, that not all men found her such a turn-off?

      The shutter rattled like machine-gun fire. High on adrenalin, fuelled by fury, Tamsin let instinct take over. For six years she had surrounded herself with a forest of thorns, keeping men at bay with her endless succession of barbed comments and razor- sharp retorts, all because he had robbed her of the belief that she was desirable. But she would show him that she was attractive, she was sexy… Her spine arched reflexively as she slid her hand over Matt’s shoulder, but it wasn’t Matt she was thinking of. Turning her head towards the bright lights and the camera, lifting her chin in silent, brazen challenge, she looked into the shadows, straight into Alejandro’s eyes.

      It was like a steel trap closing around her—cold, hard, unyielding. He was looking down at her, the lights from below accentuating the sharp planes of his face, which were wholly at odds with the sensual swell of his mouth. And then, as she watched, he shook his head in an attitude of incredulous, pitying amusement.

      He turned and walked away. Just as he had six years ago. He walked away, without a backwards glance, leaving the hot throb of desire ebbing from her and nothing but icy desolation and humiliation in its place.