round so he was standing with his back against the door. ‘OK, then. If it matters so much, you’d better take it.’
He was challenging her, she realised, and Tamsin Calthorpe was a girl who could never resist a challenge. Her eyes were pinned to his as she moved towards him, her heart pounding pain¬ fully in her chest. Just do it, she thought wildly. You’re a big girl now, not that gauche and gullible teenager. Show him that he can’t intimidate you…
She made a short exhalation of exasperation and disgust. Quickly, so he couldn’t see how much her hands were shaking, she took hold of the hem of the shirt and tugged it roughly upwards, while he stood unhelpfully motionless, his gaze fixed mockingly on her face.
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ she hissed.
‘Being undressed so tenderly by a beautiful woman?’ he drawled with heavy irony. ‘Who wouldn’t?’
Viciously she yanked his arms up, standing on her tiptoes to pull the shirt over them, her breath coming in uneven gasps with the effort of manhandling his immensely powerful body, and of hiding the screaming, treacherous desire that it aroused in her. But as she reached up he made a sudden, sharp move backwards so that the door swung open and she fell against his chest with a cry of anguish and surprise.
A raucous cheer and a volley of wolf-whistles rang around the Barbarians’ dressing room. Tamsin froze in horror, her hands still entangled in the rugby shirt which was now midway over Alejandro’s chest, realising exactly how it must look.
Exactly how Alejandro had intended it to look.
‘Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying it too,’ he murmured. The amusement in his voice was unmistakable.
As she disengaged herself and stepped back, Tamsin felt an eerie calm descend on her. It was as if, in those few seconds, she was selecting an emotion from a range displayed before her: the murderous rage was tempting, or the cathartic, hysterical indignation… But, no. It might be difficult to carry off, but she was going to go for something a little more sophisticated.
She felt her mouth curve into a languid, slightly patronising smile as she took the bottom of the shirt gingerly between her finger and thumb, and pulled it disdainfully down, covering up the sinuous convex sweep of Alejandro’s stomach.
‘Cover yourself up, D’Arienzo,’ she said scathingly. ‘When I said “nice strip” I was referring to the shirt.’
The changing room erupted in whoops and whistles of appreciation as Tamsin turned on her heel and, casting a last, pitying glance at Alejandro, swept out. Her rush of triumph and elation lasted just long enough for the door to slam behind her, and then she collapsed, shaking, against the wall.
Suddenly the shirt seemed like the least of her problems.
Ignoring the boisterous cheers of his team-mates, Alejandro pulled off the shirt and tossed it contemptuously down on the bench before grabbing a towel and heading grimly towards the bathroom beyond the changing area. He felt none of the physical exhaustion that usually descended on him in the immediate aftermath of a game. Thanks to that close encounter with the High Priestess of Seduction and Betrayal, his mind was racing, his body still pulsing with adrenalin.
Adrenalin and other more inconvenient hormones.
The bathroom was a spartan white-tiled room with six huge claw-footed baths arranged facing each other in two rows, each filled with iced water. Research showed that an ice bath immediately after a game minimised the impact of injury, and shocked the body into a quicker recovery, but this didn’t make the practice any more popular with players. In the nearest tub the blond Australian giant, Dean Randall, sat still in full kit, grim-faced and shivering with cold. He glanced up as Alejandro came in.
‘Welcome to the Twickenham spa, mate,’ he joked weakly through chattering teeth. ‘I’d have kept that shirt on if I were you. It doesn’t make much difference, but, by God, anything’s better than nothing.’
Alejandro didn’t flinch as he stepped into the bath.
‘I think I’ll take my chances with the cold rather than wear an England shirt for any longer than necessary,’ he said brutally, closing his eyes briefly as the icy water tore into him like the teeth of some savage animal. For a second his body screamed with ex¬quisite agony before numbness took hold, mercifully obliterating the insistent pulse of desire that had been reverberating through him since Tamsin had tried to strip the shirt from him.
Randall forced a laugh. ‘No plans to come back, then?’
‘No.’ Alejandro’s gritted teeth had nothing to do with the freezing water. ‘It would take a whole lot more than a fancy new strip to make me come back and play for England.’
Like an apology from Henry Calthorpe. And his daughter.
Randall nodded. ‘You came to settle old scores?’
‘Nothing so dramatic,’ said Alejandro tersely. ‘It’s business. I’m one of the sponsors of the Argentine rugby team.’
‘Los Pumas?’ Randall gave a low, shaky whistle of respect and Alejandro smiled bleakly. ‘I’m here because, with another World Cup looming, it’s time everyone was reminded that Argentina are major contenders.’
‘I wish I could argue with that, mate.’ At the physio’s nod the huge Australian stood up and vaulted over the side of the bath, wrapping his arms around his body and jumping from foot to foot to bring the circulation back to his frozen legs. ‘You certainly showed them today, at any rate. They’d have walked all over us if it hadn’t been for you. I owe you a drink at the party tonight. You’ll be there?’
Alejandro nodded. Just thinking about the last England team party he’d attended made the agony of the iced water fade into insignificance. He frowned, resting his elbows on the sides of the bath, and bringing his clenched fists up to his temples as unwelcome memories of that night came flooding back: the damp, earthy smell of the conservatory at Harcourt and the warm scent of her hair, the velvety feel of her skin beneath his shaking fingers as he’d undone the laced bodice of her dress.
‘OK, Alejandro, time’s up,’ said the physio.
Alejandro didn’t move. A muscle hammered in his cheek as he remembered pulling away from her, struggling to fight back the rampaging lust she had unleashed in him long enough to find someone to lend him a condom. Telling her he wouldn’t be long, he had rushed out into the corridor…and straight into Henry Calthorpe.
The expression of murderous rage on his face had told Alejandro instantly who the girl in the conservatory was. And exactly what it would mean to his career. In one swift, devastatingly masochistic stroke, Alejandro had handed Henry Calthorpe the justification he’d been looking for. An excuse so perfect…
‘You some kind of masochist, D’Arienzo? I said, time’s up.’
An excuse so perfect it was impossible to believe it had happened by chance. Alejandro stood up, letting the iced water cascade down his numb body for a second before stepping out of the bath. That explained the directness of her approach. He’d thought there was something honest about her, something refreshingly open, but in fact it had been exactly the opposite.
She had deliberately set him up.
Back in the dressing
