‘Call me overoptimistic but I think the Archer deal is yours so, really, I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain, don’t you agree?’
An undecipherable look crossed his face. ‘Sim. If that is what you prefer, we will talk later.’
Saffie forced a nod. ‘Thank you.’
Joao led her to the front row. Beyond the panoramic windows, the band struck the first notes of the national anthem.
From the moment of kick-off, Joao’s team displayed breathtaking skill. With Ernesto taking up the self-appointed mantle of explaining the intricacies of soccer to Lavinia, Joao was freed to fully immerse himself in the sport he loved, a fact that didn’t seem to please the man in the adjacent owner’s box.
When Saffie caught his gaze for a third time, she forced herself to examine him. A second later, she knew she was staring at Pueblo Oliviera.
Her gaze flew to Joao. He was staring at her, a grim little smile on lips.
‘That’s your father, isn’t it?’ she asked a little redundantly.
When Joao’s gaze shifted to the man, it was as if he’d been hewn from ice. ‘If you mean the man whose sperm sired me, then yes,’ he rasped grimly. ‘But he doesn’t deserve the title you bestow on him and he never will.’
The final whistle was a sharp trill, breaking the tense atmosphere.
Lavinia turned to Joao, a wide smile on her face. ‘That was incredible. Now I get the whole buzz around this game.’
Joao inclined his head, made the appropriate responses as celebratory champagne was served, but Saffie could cut the tension cloaking him with a scalpel.
It thickened unbearably when Pueblo Oliviera strolled uninvited into their box.
Conversation trailed off but Pueblo, a man in his late fifties with salt-and-pepper hair, and face and frame that unmistakeably resembled Joao’s, was undaunted. He exchanged greetings with guests, then sauntered over to where Joao stood with Lavinia.
For several minutes, he ignored his son, while ingratiating himself with Lavinia. But even while the older woman smiled and remained gracious, her attention repeatedly strayed to Joao, seeking his input on the match, the wine in the region, his plans for Archer Cruise Liners, rumoured to be the investment she’d established her name on.
‘I intend to keep it,’ Joao answered. ‘It’s not a secret that I have Greek shipbuilders on contract for my own liners. But I am prepared to rename it the Archer Oliviera Cruise Line, if you’re amenable.’
The older woman gasped. ‘You would do that?’
Joao nodded. ‘You have my word. Which is more than I can say for some.’
Pueblo snorted. ‘I suggest you wait until it’s written in indelible ink before you believe him, Mrs Archer.’
‘One thing your son has a reputation for, Mr Oliviera, is never breaking his word,’ Saffron blurted before she could stop herself.
Beside her, Joao stiffened, but when she glanced at him, his face was woodenly neutral, his fixed stare on his father.
Pueblo’s eyebrows slowly went up as he slid a scathing glance over Saffron. ‘I see you have another eager woman racing to your defence,’ he said, addressing his son for the first time. ‘I thought I’d seen the last of that with your pathetic mother.’
Saffie’s breath caught but Joao responded evenly. ‘We both know she was doing that simply to score money for drugs. The question here is who is more deplorable for exploiting a drug addict in return for sex?’
Pueblo went red in the face, fury steaming from him as he took a menacing step towards his son. His mouth worked but no words emerged.
‘What precisely do you want to say to me?’ Joao taunted icily. ‘That I’m worthless? That I’ll amount to nothing? Or that you’ve been proven wrong on your every prediction but still believe you hold the upper hand in the game?’
His father gave a scoffing laugh.
‘You truly think you’re better than me?’
Joao spread his arms wide and smirked. ‘My achievements speak volumes for themselves.’
Either Pueblo Oliviera was too dense to see he was nowhere in his son’s league or too proud to admit when he was beaten. Saffie suspected it was the latter.
‘I was winning long before you were born,’ he growled.