he watched as Ellison went over to the safe and took out a gleaming polished wooden box and handed it to him.
Oh, my God, Matteo thought as he undid the intricate latch and saw the necklace firsthand.
Not even the photos did it justice.
How the hell had his grandfather come by this? Matteo wondered, and he could see now why he would want it back.
Jewellery had never really impressed Matteo.
This piece couldn’t fail to.
‘I doubt it’s possible to get Abby here,’ Ellison said.
Matteo looked over to Ellison and then back to the necklace and he took Ellison’s words as a dare—which was something he never said no to.
And his grandfather wanted the necklace so badly.
No, he could never be the man his grandfather wanted him to be but this he could do.
‘Can you give me your daughter’s contact details?’ Matteo asked.
His mind was made up—he would get this Lost Mistress back to where it belonged.
ELLISON HAD BEEN right about one thing—his daughter Abby really was terrible at the corporate stuff.
It had taken two weeks for her to reply to Matteo’s email and at best her response had been lukewarm.
Of course Matteo had looked into the Boucher team more closely by then.
He was a risk-taker by nature, but they were, even by his standards, more of a gamble than one should take.
It was their second year in competition and their best was a fifth place last year. Frequently, they placed last or second last. Now they were competitors in the Henley Cup—a prestigious international event, held over three races.
They weren’t considered a mention.
Matteo finally decided to call Abby but effusive wasn’t a word that had sprung to mind when she told him that no, they couldn’t meet, given that she was on her way to Dubai.
‘So am I,’ he, on impulse, had replied.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’ve got a couple of racehorses that I want to look at and my sister Allegra is holding a charity event in May... Hold on.’ Matteo checked his calendar. ‘Yes, that’s on Saturday the seventh. How about lunch on the Friday?’
‘I won’t be able to get away for lunch.’
‘Dinner, then?’ Matteo persisted and she returned his offer with a long stretch of silence. ‘Breakfast?’
‘Just stop by the track.’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll look forward...’
She had already rung off.
* * *
The heat was fierce in Dubai.
And as for the humidity!
Suffice to say, with the hangover Matteo had, he would far rather be in the airconditioned comfort of his hotel than in the goldfish bowl of a racetrack. The sun seemed to be coming at him from all angles as he made his way to the Boucher sheds.
Matteo had been in Dubai for three days and what an amazing three days they had been. The first had consisted of a wild welcome on board his friend Sheikh Kedah’s yacht.
Kedah seemed hell-bent on returning the wild week Matteo had given him on a recent trip to New York City. The second day had been spent galloping at breakneck speed with his friend along a beach. Matteo had taken a tumble and dislocated his shoulder. The sheikh had called for his private physician to put it back. With Matteo’s arm strapped and a little out of action they had hit the racetracks and placed a few bets on a camel race. The potential two years’ jail time for illegal betting had only served to give Matteo an extra high!
It had been a giddy introduction to Dubai but now he had crashed back to earth—the smell of oil was nauseating and the sound from the track had his molars aching. He’d lost the sling that the physician had provided and so his shoulder was killing him.
And Abby Ellison was nowhere to be seen.
It was after four and he wondered if she might have finished for the day. A group of guys were watching as Pedro, the Boucher driver, put the car through its paces. He knew it was Pedro because Matteo recognised the deep green of the Boucher car.
Matteo had done some further research on the team, of course.
They had entered in the prestigious Henley Cup. A series of three races—Dubai, Milan and Monte Carlo. The final race took place in July a week before Ellison’s fundraiser.
As newcomers the Boucher team wasn’t being taken seriously, especially because the owner was a woman. Just a little rich girl playing with her daddy’s money seemed to be the general consensus.
Pedro Sanchez, their driver, was someone who was being watched seriously though, and there were a couple of other teams who had their eye on him.
The group of men all ignored him and that suited Matteo just fine. He just drank from a large bottle of cola and idly watched.
Or rather, at first, he idly watched.
Matteo had never really been in to cars and not just because his parents had died in a crash. His father had once taken a five-year-old Matteo for a joy-ride.
There was no joy in that memory!
Still, this was different—Pedro was really putting the car through its paces now, hugging the bend, belting it down the straight, and the roar of the motor was, as it flew past him, a bit of a turn-on.
‘Whoa!’ one of the guys shouted as the car lost traction, but then Pedro skilfully righted it and Matteo watched as the car again sped down the straight and then slowed down as it came towards them.
‘Hey...’
Matteo turned as someone greeted him and blinked in vague surprise. ‘Pedro...’ Matteo shook his hand; he recognised the young man himself from his research. ‘Sorry for the double take. I thought that I was watching you out there. I didn’t realise there were two drivers.’
‘No, no...’ Pedro said. ‘Soon you’ll get to see me drive. That’s Abby—she’s just checking out some adjustments that she has made.’
Matteo looked back at the car and, sure enough, climbing out from it, dressed in tight leather, was no man, and the vague turn-on Matteo had felt before was rather less vague now.
He hadn’t known that he was in to leather either!
The racing world was looking up, he decided as she took off her helmet and the fire guard and then shook
