how many times has it happened since then?’ he said, draining his glass and picking up another cue.
Surreptitiously holding the edge of the green-baize table, Tamsin took a quick, shaky breath and made herself hold her head high as she gave a nonchalant shrug. The entire contents of the Cartier shop window wouldn’t induce her to let him see how much his rejection had hurt her, how far-reaching its consequences had been. She managed a gratifyingly breezy laugh.
‘I don’t know, it’s hardly a big deal. Don’t try to tell me you’ve lived a life of monastic purity and celibacy for the last six years?’
He didn’t look at her. ‘I’m not going to.’
‘Well, don’t you think it’s a bit much to expect that I have? What did you think, Alejandro, that I would have hung up my high heels and filled my wardrobe with sackcloth and ashes just because you weren’t interested?’ She laughed, to show the utter preposterousness of the idea. ‘God, no. I moved on.’
‘So I saw. A number of times, evidently,’ he drawled quietly, bending down and lining up a shot. ‘The England squad seems to be your personal escort-agency.’
Idly he jabbed the cue against the white ball, sending it hurtling across the table. Tamsin felt like it was her heart. ‘Wrong, Alejandro,’ she said stiffly. ‘The England squad are my clients.’
His eyebrows shot up; he gave a twisted smile. ‘Indeed? My mistake. I got it the wrong way round.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ she snapped. ‘They’re my clients because I’m the designer who handled the commission for the England kit. The new strip, the suits and the off-pitch clothing.’
Just for the briefest second she saw a look of surprise pass across his deadpan face, but it was quickly replaced by cynicism again.
‘Did you, indeed?’ he drawled, somehow managing to make those three small, innocuous words convey his utter disbelief. But before Tamsin had a chance to think up a suitably impressive response the door burst open and Ben Saunders appeared, swaying slightly. His unfocused gaze flitted from Alejandro to Tamsin.
‘Oops. Sorry … Interrupting.’ Grinning, obviously misreading the tension that crackled in the quiet room, he began to back out again with exaggerated care, but Tamsin leapt forward, grabbing his arm.
‘Ben, wait!’ she said grimly. ‘Tell him—’ she jerked her head sharply in Alejandro’s direction ‘—about the new strip. Tell him who designed it.’
Frowning, Ben looked drunkenly at her as if she’d just asked him to work out the square root of nine hundred and forty two in binary.
‘Uh … you?’ he said uncertainly.
Great, thought Tamsin hysterically. Brilliant. Hugely convincing.
‘Yes. Of course it was me,’ she said with desperate patience.
Ben nodded and grinned inanely, obviously relieved to have got the right answer. ‘And the shoots,’ he slurred, turning around clumsily to show off his suit, and almost overbalancing. ‘You did the shoots too, didn’t you? Lovely shoot.’ He beamed across at Alejandro. ‘Very clever, Tamsin. Very good at measuring the inside leg …’
Alejandro glanced at her, his face a study of sadistic amusement. ‘I’m sure,’ he said icily. ‘That takes a lot of skill.’
Tamsin clenched her teeth. ‘Thanks, Ben,’ she said, turning him around and steering him towards the door. ‘Now, maybe you’d better go and find some water, or some coffee or something.’ When the door had closed behind him she turned back to Alejandro with a haughty glance. ‘There. Now do you believe that I’m not just some airhead heiress with time on her hands?’
‘It proves nothing.’ Malice glinted in the golden depths of Alejandro’s eyes as he picked up his glass again. ‘I’m sure it makes great PR sense for you to be used as a front for the new strip, but surely you don’t expect me to believe that you actually designed it? Sportswear design is an incredibly competitive business, you know.’
‘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
