‘Charity!’ Ricardo frowned, sharply aware of the anguish in her voice, and wondering about her use of the word charity. ‘And I will not take a woman out with me who has nothing to wear other than a pair of jeans!’
‘You are not taking me out with you. I am here to work.’
‘Maybe, but it is not out of the question that we could be photographed together by someone who does not know the real situation.’
‘You’re a snob,’ Carly accused him wildly.
‘No. I am a realist! I believed that you were entirely professional in your attitude towards your work, but it seems that I was wrong.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I should have thought it was obvious. Were you the professional I believed you to be you would accept the necessity of dressing suitably for your role instead of behaving like an outraged virgin. Especially since we both know that is something you most definitely are not!’
He might think he knew that, but she knew something very different indeed, Carly reflected. ‘And that is the only reason you bought the clothes?’
‘What other reason could there be?’ he challenged her.
‘You’ve already made it clear to me that you think sex is something you can buy,’ she pointed out. ‘But I won’t and can’t be bought, Ricardo.’
He was very angry, she recognised, his pride no doubt stinging in much the same way as hers had when she had opened those wardrobe doors. Good!
‘You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. I have simply provided you with the kind of clothes I expect the women I am seen with in public to wear. That is all. Had you not had your case stolen it would not have been necessary, but it was and it is. If it makes you feel any better, then perhaps you should think of the clothes merely as being on loan to you, to wear as a necessary uniform. As for paying for sex—I think I am capable of recognising when a woman wants me, Carly.’
There was nothing she could say to that.
‘It’s almost dinnertime. I hope you are hungry. Dolores is very proud of her cooking,’ he announced coolly, changing the subject.
Carly looked down at her jeans.
‘I’m really not hungry.’
Not for food, perhaps—but for him? Ah, that was a different story. She was hungry for him—starving for him, in fact. Starving for the feel and the scent of him, for the taste of him, the reality of him. She could feel her body aching heavily with the weight of that hunger.
A sense of desolation and pain filled her. She hadn’t asked to feel like this. She didn’t want to feel like this. Not for any man, and least of all for a man such as this one.
Ricardo studied her downbent head. She looked tired, somehow vulnerable, and he could feel a reluctant and unwanted compassion—a desire to protect her—stirring inside him.
His only interest in her—aside from the fact that he wanted her like hell—was because of her role in Prêt a Party, Ricardo reminded himself fiercely. Emotional entanglements and complications just weren’t something he had any intention of factoring into his life. He was prepared to accept that one day he might want a child—a son, an heir—but when that day came he intended to satisfy that need not via marriage, with all its potential financial risks, but instead by paying a carefully selected woman to have a child for him and then to hand over all rights to it to him. With modern medical procedures he wouldn’t even need to meet her.
‘If you wish, I am sure Dolores will be happy to serve you dinner in your room,’ he told her brusquely.
Carly veiled her eyes with her lashes, not wanting him to see what she was feeling.
If last night she had not stopped him, tonight—this night—they would have been together, and food would have been the last thing on either of their minds. It could still happen. All she had to do was go to him and touch him, show him, give way to what she was feeling. Other women had no qualms about showing men that they wanted them, so why should she?
She gave a small shiver, already knowing the answer to her own question.
CHAPTER NINE
SHE was used to the motion of the helicopter now, and did not feel as apprehensive as she had done before. They had already left New York behind them. The traffic on the highway beneath them looked like a child’s toys.
She was alone with Ricardo in the helicopter this time, but he wasn’t giving her a running commentary on their surroundings as he had done before. She told herself that she was glad of his businesslike attitude towards her, and the distance it had put between them.
Had he come to any decision yet as to whether or not he intended to use Prêt a Party’s services? If so, she hoped that he had decided in their favour. They certainly needed the business.
She had received the e-mailed copies of the cheques she had requested and her inspection of them had confirmed what she’d already suspected. All the cheques bore—as legally they had to, according to the terms of the business—two signatures. Her own and Nick’s. Only she knew that she had not signed the cheques herself. Which meant that someone had forged her signature. Someone? It could only have been Nick. Lucy was the only other person beside herself who had keys for the cupboard in which she kept the chequebooks.
Even without checking her forward costings for the year Carly knew that, because of the huge amount Nick had withdrawn from the business, by the time they reached their year-end they would be showing a loss of nearly half a million pounds.
The terms of their bank account were that Lucy would personally make up any overdraft from her trust fund. They had been in business for three years so far, and Carly had taken great pride in the fact that she had managed the financial affairs of the company so well that the bank had not had to invoke this condition. Until now.
Half a million pounds. She had no idea how much money there was in Lucy’s trust fund, but she suspected that Nick would know. And she suspected too that he had made a deliberate and cold-blooded decision to help himself to money from it via the business, because he knew that Marcus would never agree to hand so much money over to him.
But understanding the situation was one thing. Knowing what to do about it was another. By rights she should tell Lucy what she had discovered, because she was sure that the carte blanche Lucy had given Nick to draw money from the business did not include forging Carly’s signature in order to get even more. But Nick was Lucy’s husband. Lucy would be bound to feel humiliated and hurt if Carly told her that he had been stealing from her. And what if Lucy refused to believe her and Nick insisted that he had not signed Carly’s name? Would it be better if she got in touch with Marcus and alerted him to what was happening? Carly felt torn between her loyalty to Lucy and her fear for her.
Mentally shelving the problem, she focused instead on more immediate issues. She had spoken to her opposite number at the New York event organisers earlier, and she had assured Carly that everything was going according to plan.
‘It looked like there was going to be a problem with the caterers at one stage. The magazine told us they wanted only colour-co-ordinated vegan food, in their house colours, but then they rang up saying that they’d heard that a certain glossy magazine editor only ate Beluga caviar and they had to have some.’
Carly had sympathised with her. Everyone knew how that particular British editor dictated and directed what was ‘in’ in certain important New York fashion circles. Just having her attend the event would be a major achievement. Of course she’d agreed gravely with her counterpart—it was essential that the caviar was provided, even though it meant breaking the colour-co-ordinated theme.
‘We’re serving champagne cocktails on arrival—peach and rhubarb with pepper. We’re using this new chef who’s into mixing together different textures and tastes. He’s very avant garde. Virginia wants everything exclusive but statement-making simple. That’s why she’s chosen the Hamptons as the venue.’
Carly had continued to listen sympathetically.
Only the very richest of the rich could afford to live the ‘sim
ple’ life Hamptons-style. She had read up on the area and knew that it was the preserve of those with old money—or at least it had been, until the media and fashion set had discovered it.
The magazine had been insistent that they wanted a very stylish and upmarket event—which was, Carly suspected, why they had been commissioned.