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“I need a woman.”
“Really?” Abby said with a snap.
“You’ve seen the apartment.” Emilio spread his hands. “I need someone to furnish it.”
“So employ an interior decorator.”
“I did. That was him on the phone this evening. I fired him.”
“I heard. Maybe you ought to call him back and unfire him.”
He looked at her pleadingly. “You can stay as long as you like. You solve my problem, I solve yours.” He held out his hand across the table.
Abby took it reluctantly. She had a nasty feeling that a whole portfolio of new problems was about to open up in front of her….
Born in London, Sophie Weston is a traveler by nature who started writing when she was five. She wrote her first romance recovering from illness, thinking her traveling was over. She was wrong, but she enjoyed it so much that she has carried on. These days she lives in the heart of the city with two demanding cats and a cherry tree—and travels the world looking for settings for her stories.
Look out for
The Millionaire’s Daughter and The Bridesmaid’s Secret
by Sophie Weston
Don’t miss these thrilling stories about two very different sisters and the men they marry—on sale in January and February 2002!
Books by Sophie Weston
HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®
3630—THE SHEIKH’S BRIDE
3661—MIDNIGHT WEDDING
More Than a Millionaire
Sophie Weston
MILLS & BOON
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS a perfect Saturday afternoon at the Hacienda Montijo. Glamorous guests had enjoyed a long lazy lunch. Now they strolled through the famous gardens or drowsed over English tea on the lawn. Children romped in the swimming pool. The sun shone. Bees hummed.
The shy English visitor refused to be shifted from the terrace out into the sunshine, though.
‘Wouldn’t you like to go and mingle, Abby?’ said her hostess, without much hope.
‘No, I’ll just stay here and watch. If that’s all right,’ said the English girl politely.
Her hostess sighed and gave up. She was watching, too.
For below them, on the velvet-smooth tennis court, a battle to the death was in progress. A tall blond giant was sweating profusely as his opponent slammed him all around the court.
The dark tennis player was like quicksilver. He moved all the time, fast as a jaguar, graceful as a dancer. It seemed that wherever his opponent sent the ball, he was there first, totally in control.
‘Who is that?’ said the Montijo matriarch in displeasure. The blond giant was her favourite grandson.
She shifted in her cane chair and her daughter-in-law sighed inwardly. She signalled to her husband across the lawn. Why wasn’t he here when she needed him? He knew this was going to be difficult. He had no business leaving her to deal with it. Especially not as she was struggling to entertain the monosyllabic English girl at the same time.
She said brightly, ‘That’s Emilio Diz, Mama.’
The matriarch stiffened. ‘Diz?’
The English girl turned her head. She was a teenager; she should have been with the other teenagers, thought Annaluisa Montijo despairingly. But she was too tall and gangly to interest the boys and too suffocatingly shy to talk to the girls. So she ended up here in the middle of what was about to become a nasty family row.
‘Which one is Emilio Diz?’ she asked politely.
Both older women stared at her. Blond Bruno Montijo was the son and heir. The house was full of photographs of him, posed and unposed, muddy and magnificent on a polo pony, sleek and glamorous in black evening clothes at balls and receptions and premieres.
