trusted. That lesson had been reinforced over the years as she’d seen how a lot of them behaved as soon as they arrived at a conference well away from wife and family. Sophie had lost count of the number of times married men had hit on her, and she had developed an icy stare and a cool put-down to perfection.
The following Tuesday evening Sophie walked into the ballroom of a top Venetian hotel on the arm of Abe Asamov. Abe was a fifty-something, barrel-chested and bald-headed Russian who barely reached her shoulder. She had been delighted to see him arrive at the hotel this morning, for the second day of the conference, because his was a friendly face amongst a sea of strangers.
Abe was witty, and took great delight in fostering a ruthless reputation. Only Sophie knew he was devoted to his wife and family. In her last year at university she had spent her summer vacation in Russia, teaching his four grandchildren English.
When Abe had asked her to be his partner at this gala dinner-dance, she had agreed. The company she was temporarily contracted to had been overjoyed, because Abe Asamov was a billionaire oilman and owned a great deal of Russia’s resources. Sophie wasn’t sure she believed Abe’s claim that he spoke only Russian, but she didn’t care because she was glad of his company.
‘You realise, Sophie, that they will all think you are my lady-friend.’ Abe said in his native Russian, grinning up at her as the waiter showed them to their table. ‘No ordinary man could look at a beautiful blonde like you and imagine you have a brain.’ He chuckled. ‘I think I will enjoy fooling people tonight.’
‘Watch it, Abe.’ She grinned, knowing he was no threat to her. ‘Remember you are a married man—and if that was meant to be a compliment it was a bit of a backhanded one.’
‘You sound just like my wife.’ Abe grinned back, and they both laughed as they took their seats.
Seated comfortably and with a glass of champagne in her hand, Sophie glanced around the room, taking in the other guests there that evening. Many she knew through her work. There was the ambassador, Peter, and his wife Helen, and next to them a couple who worked for the Italian government—Aldo and his wife Tina. There were also two Spanish men—Felipe and Cesare—whom Sophie was seated next to. Very pleasant company, she decided, and, taking a sip of her drink, she began to relax and look at her surroundings.
The dinner tables were set around a small dance floor, and at one end on a raised dais a jazz band played background music. The evening was a glittering showcase of the powerful elite of Europe. The men looked immaculate in dinner suits, and the women were dressed in designer gowns and jewels worth millions. But Sophie did not feel intimidated. Over the years she had worked and mingled with some of the richest people from all around the world—even crowned heads of countries. As a result, she had acquired the social skills and sophistication needed in such company.
At home, jeans and a sweater were her favoured form of dress, but she had amassed what she called her ‘business wardrobe’. The black satin Dior gown she wore tonight was one of her favourites, as were the crystal necklace and earrings. She knew she looked good and could hold her own in any crowd.
Feeling relaxed, Sophie glanced across the dance floor as a group of late arrivals took their seats and her green eyes widened in appalled recognition…Max Quintano and his stepsister Gina. Her shocked gaze skimmed over his hard, handsome profile and moved swiftly away. She was almost sure he hadn’t seen her.
With her heart pounding, Sophie manoeuvred her chair so she could turn her back slightly towards his table and hopefully remain unnoticed.
She turned to Cesare, seated on her left, and asked in Spanish, ‘So, what do you do?’ On hearing his response she focused all her attention on him. ‘An earth scientist? How interesting.’
Fool that she was, Sophie could not believe she hadn’t made the connection between global resources and Max Quintano before now.
Across the other side of the room Max Quintano smiled at something Gina said, not having registered a word. He had recognised Sophie Rutherford the minute he had entered the room. Her blond head was unmistakable, with the fabulous hair swept up in an elegant pleat, revealing her long neck and the perfect set of her bare shoulders. The cut of her gown displayed the silken smoothness of her back and the slight indentation of her spine. A spine he had once trailed kisses down. His body tightened at the memory.
He saw the exact moment when she recognised him, and watched as the cold-hearted bitch turned away in fright. He had despised her with a depth of passion he had not known he was capable off when they had parted, and the way he had dealt with it had been to ruthlessly blot her out of his mind for many years. Then, on the death of his father four months ago, due to a massive heart attack, the name of Rutherford had reared its ugly head again in the shape of Nigel Rutherford. Surprisingly, two months later on a brief trip to South America, Sophie Rutherford had been the object of much speculation. Twice in as many months he had been confronted with the very name he had tried to forget.
As executor of his father’s estate, and with his stepmother distraught at her husband’s death and in no fit state to concentrate on the running of Quintano Hotels, naturally Max had stepped in to help. An audit of the family’s business had disclosed that it was running at a very healthy profit, but there were one or two bad debts outstanding. The largest one was the Elite Agency, London—Nigel Rutherford’s firm. Max had soon discovered that they were not just slow at paying their clients’ accommodation bills, they had not paid at all for almost a year.
How it had been overlooked Max could only surmise. Maybe his father had been in failing health for some time without believing it. He could relate to that feeling, because he had done the same thing seven years ago. When Max had been told he might have cancer he hadn’t wanted to believe it, and a couple of nights in the lovely Sophie’s bed had fed his illusion of invincibility. How wrong he had been…. So he could not blame his father for doing the same.
On further investigation into the bad debt he had discovered that Quintano Hotels was not the only firm owed massive amounts of money by Nigel Rutherford. Max had joined with the rest in calling for a creditors’ meeting, which was to be held next Monday in London. However, Max had no intention of going—he was leaving it to the lawyers and accountants to take care of. He could not care less if the Elite Agency went under, along with its owner, as long as Quintano Hotels got paid.
But now, with the beautiful but shallow daughter only thirty feet away, sipping a glass of champagne and smiling as if she hadn’t a care in the world, a different scenario sprang to mind. If he attended the meeting in London he knew he would have no trouble convincing the other creditors to bankrupt her father’s firm; he was a very persuasive man.
Sophie was occupied at the moment, but next week he would make it plain to Nigel Rutherford that he wanted to meet his daughter again! He had already waited years, so a week or two longer wouldn’t matter. With ruthless cynicism Max decided it would be interesting to watch Sophie squirm when she realised who was responsible for her father’s downfall, and very satisfying to see how far she would go to save him.
Sophie Rutherford was the only woman who had ever walked out on him, and it had taken him a long time to get over the insult. Now fate had once again put her back in his life—and in his power, if he wanted to use it. With his body hardening at the mere sight of her he knew he did, and the iniquitous plan took root in his mind.
It had been an appalling trick of fate that had sent Max dashing back to Sicily and Sophie seven years ago. He had returned from five days in Russia to his apartment in Rome still celibate, and still resolved to stay away from Sophie. He had called an old girlfriend and arranged to have dinner that night, and also arranged to have lunch with Gina the following day—Friday.
