Undone By Her Ultra-Rich Boss

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘HERE’ WASA deserted bend in a stretch of the river that flowed close to the border with Spain but still within the district of Bragança. On both banks, terraces planted with vines were carved into the steep hills that descended to the shore. Just beyond the spot where Duarte had stopped, a golden sandy beach protected by a dense forest shimmered in the hot midday sun. It was secluded and beautiful, quiet and tranquil, and couldn’t have reflected Orla’s inner state less.

She was just so confused, she thought despairingly, hopping down from the Land Rover and seeking distance and air by wandering down to the shore. By Duarte and his effect on her, but also, more pertinently, by herself. She didn’t understand what she was doing. She knew she shouldn’t have accepted his invitation to spend the day with him. She had myriad excuses to decline—principally work and the mortification of the evening before—yet she’d found a counter argument to every single one of them.

Why had she done that?

Could it be because she simply wanted to find out more about him? Their interactions over the phone and email were naturally all about him and what he needed from her, but here, so far, the conversation had been all about her. Adept at deflection, he’d largely remained an enigma. So had she accepted it to correct a perceived imbalance that had her constantly on the back foot? Or really, did she just burn with the need to uncover the stories that lay behind the shadows that occasionally flitted across his expression and the guarded wariness that she sometimes caught in his gaze?

If it was the latter, she reflected, lifting her hand to shield her eyes as she gazed at the stunning panoramic view, she wasn’t doing a very good job of it, because apart from the brief yet illuminating glimpse he’d given her into his upbringing, the conversation on the way here had hardly corrected any imbalance. On the contrary, it had tipped the scales further in his direction.

What on earth made her want to tell Duarte everything about herself? Why had she brought up the subject of her ex? His way of plain speaking must have rubbed off on her, but whatever had prodded her to mention it, she wished she hadn’t. His comment about not expecting more than someone was able to give had stuck in her mind. Was that what she’d done with Matt? Had her expectations been unfairly high? While breaking off their engagement shortly after he’d been made redundant, he’d called her draining, unsupportive and impossible to please. At the time, she’d believed that if he couldn’t match up, if he wasn’t good enough to get another job, that was his problem, but maybe it wasn’t that simple.

Adding to the general chaos filling her head was the suspicion that she’d agreed to today because, despite the disaster of last night, she actually wanted a conversation with Duarte about expectations and tricks. She wanted to know what his goals were, particularly with regards to her. It was entirely possible that deep down, against all the odds, despite all the evidence, she still had hope. Her pulse had skipped a beat when he’d pulled up outside her hotel. Sitting next to him as he drove her here had made her stomach churn and she’d felt as if she couldn’t breathe even though the Land Rover had no roof and oxygen abounded.

It was madness, none of it made any sense, and, for someone who always knew what she was doing and where she was going, this flip-flopping of thoughts, the loss of control and her irrational behaviour was a worrying state of affairs. The most sensible, safest thing to do, therefore, would be to tell him she wanted to go back, but that ship had sailed because she didn’t.

With a sigh of exasperated helplessness, Orla turned round and walked back to the Land Rover, where Duarte was heaving a cool box out of the boot with impressive ease. Perhaps she’d find some kind of comfort by attempting to rebalance the scales of personal information. Probing into the tragedy of his family might be a step too far, but there were plenty of other things she wanted to know. If she was the one asking the questions for a change, perhaps she’d be able to claw back some sense of control.

‘How did you find this place?’

‘It’s part of the estate,’ he said, handing her a blanket and taking the cool box and a basket to a flat, grassy, shady spot at the edge of the beach. ‘A well-kept secret passed down the generations.’

Part of the estate? Just how big was it? They’d driven for nearly an hour to get here, the road winding up through hill after hill before dropping into the valley. It had to be vast. ‘It’s spectacular.’

‘It’s the perfect place for a picnic.’

And what else? Seduction? Who else had he brought here? Lovers? His wife? ‘Do you come here often?’

‘Not for years. As a university student I brought a girlfriend here once. I haven’t been back since.’

With inexplicable relief, Orla laid out the blanket. Duarte dropped to his knees, opened the cool box and began setting out the food, a mouthwatering selection of cold meats and cheeses, tomatoes, olives and rolls. Then from the basket he produced a clear bottle half filled with ruby-coloured liquid, and two glasses.

‘What’s that?’

‘Our wine.’

Their wine? Hmm. She sat down and frowned. ‘Is it still drinkable?’

‘Should be.’ He poured a measure into each glass and handed her one. ‘I’ve been meaning to say thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘I was impressed.’

It was odd how her pulse gave a little kick at that. ‘You didn’t look it.’

‘You’d succeeded where I’d failed,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘My pride may have been dented.’

Was that what it had been? With his confidence, he didn’t seem the type, and when she recalled how icy he’d become on hearing how she’d acquired it she had the feeling there’d been more to it. ‘Is your pride really that fragile?’

‘As an eggshell. Hence why we’re here.’

Right. Last night. Goals of his own. Research into expectations and tricks... And what had they been discussing again? Ah, yes. The wine.

‘Why didn’t you finish it the other night?’ she asked, at least ten degrees warmer than she had been a moment before.

‘I don’t drink alone.’

‘Why not? Too great a temptation?’

He gave a slight shrug. ‘Something like that.’

Not something like that, Orla decided. Or at least not just something like that. Could he have been responsible for the terrible mess she’d found at the house ten days ago? Could drowning his sorrows have been the way he’d handled the deaths of his wife and child? Had he been there, done that? It did seem to be the obvious explanation, and rumour had it he had disappeared for two whole months. However, that was a question she wasn’t going to ask. That was way too personal.

And in any case this glass of wine was making her think of the kiss in his office-slash-sitting room. Of legs. Of tasting and touching and an overwhelming of the senses. She’d let her head get the better of her too then, she thought with a sigh that she stifled with a sip of the wine that was indeed as delicious now as it had been a couple of days ago. Truly, she was her own worst enemy.

With a ‘Help yourself’ Duarte handed her a plate, and waited for her to take her pick of the smorgasbord before filling his own. Orla sat back and crossed her legs and tried not to ogle as he stretched out on his side and propped himself up on an elbow.

‘This is delicious,’ she said, nibbling on a chicken leg, then wiping her fingers on a napkin and contemplating what to sample next.

‘The cafe in the village is superb.’

‘Do you cook?’