Читать книгу: «A Devilishly Dark Deal»
“Mr Aguilar …” she began.
He raised an eyebrow. “Marco,” he corrected gently.
Her incandescent summer-blue gaze slid away for a moment. He saw her take a deeper breath, as if to centre herself.
“I was wondering if you’d made a decision about whether you might be able to help the children or not?”
Marco took a few moments to marshal his thoughts. He hadn’t embellished the truth when he’d told her at their first meeting that there were many charities he supported. Yet none of them was directly helping orphaned children. The subject was apt to bring back memories of a childhood he had striven hard not just to forget but to hide from the world at large.
“In truth, Grace, I would like a bit more time to give the matter some proper reflection before I decide. Is that all right with you?”
“Of course … It’s just that …”
She leaned forward and he saw conflict in her eyes—maybe trying to press him for a decision was warring with her innate impulse to be polite. Even so, he wasn’t above using whatever weapon he could from his personal armoury to get what he wanted. His success in business hadn’t come about without a propensity to be single-mindedly ruthless from time to time. Pretty little Grace wanted something from him, and likewise he wanted something from her, he realised. He didn’t doubt there was a way of gratifying both needs.
About the Author
The day MAGGIE COX saw the film version of Wuthering Heights, with a beautiful Merle Oberon and a very handsome Laurence Olivier, was the day she became hooked on romance. From that day onwards she spent a lot of time dreaming up her own romances, secretly hoping that one day she might become published and get paid for doing what she loved most! Now that her dream is being realised, she wakes up every morning and counts her blessings. She is married to a gorgeous man, and is the mother of two wonderful sons. Her two other great passions in life—besides her family and reading/writing—are music and films.
Recent titles by the same author:
THE LOST WIFE
THE BROODING STRANGER
ONE DESERT NIGHT
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
A Devilishly
Dark Deal
Maggie Cox
MILLS & BOON
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Sheila, my romantic sister.
You had the best laugh and the most beautiful voice
and not a day goes by when my heart doesn’t ache
because I miss them both so much.
CHAPTER ONE
TIPPING up the brim of her wide straw hat, Grace Faulkner settled back in her deckchair, glanced through her over-large sunglasses at the glinting aquamarine ocean and sighed. She should be making the most of the tranquil scene and just relaxing, but it wasn’t easy when her insides were deluged with querulous butterflies.
She was so besieged because very shortly she planned to confront one of this elite area’s most revered and wealthy entrepreneurs and petition him to become a patron of the children’s charity in Africa that was dearest to her heart. And not just to become a patron—but also to make a much needed generous donation so that essential building could commence on a new orphanage. The present one was all but being held up by hope and prayer alone.
What had fuelled her aim was hearing the owner of the café she’d been sitting in the day she’d heard the buzz that Marco Aguilar was visiting the area telling an American tourist that he’d known him as a young boy—that he’d grown up in a local orphanage and hadn’t he done incredibly well for himself when you considered his start in life?
That overheard snippet had seemed more and more like divine providence to Grace as she’d mulled it over, and she didn’t intend to let it go to waste. She knew she would probably only get the smallest window of opportunity to catch the businessman’s eye before she’d be hauled off the premises by one of his security guards, and she should be prepared for that. But when it might mean the difference between helping to improve the lives of the children who had moved her so unbearably and returning to Africa with the news that she’d failed to secure them the funds they were so desperately in need of, a security guard trying to eject her seemed a small price to pay. Having recently seen for herself the squalor in which those orphans lived daily—a squalor that only the chance of a good education and caring patrons could help them out of—Grace had vowed to her charity worker friends before she left that she would do everything she could to help make that chance a reality. But first they had to rebuild the children’s home.
The drowning noise of a helicopter coming in to land alerted her. It had to be him. Because she’d been so troubled and exhausted after her return from Africa, her parents had persuaded her to stay at their holiday home in the Algarve to take a much-needed break. For once she hadn’t resisted their steering of her movements, and she was glad she had not—because on only her second day there she had heard the local buzz that Marco Aguilar was due to make a visit to one of his myriad exclusive hotels for a meeting. That particular hotel was situated in the resort complex right across the road from where she was staying, and if the rumours were at all to be relied upon today was the day. The arrival of the helicopter—the first she’d heard in three days at the resort—surely confirmed it?
With her heart pounding, she got up from the canvas chair positioned on the baking hot patio and quickly returned inside to the villa’s pleasantly cool interior. Flying into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator, she dropped it into her straw bag, repositioned her sunglasses on her nose, then pulled off her hat and threw it onto a nearby chair. Checking that she had her keys, she hurriedly left the building …
The helicopter had landed on a discreet pad somewhere amid the lush pine trees, and now there was a bank of sleek cars—mostly black—parked in front of the hotel. The impressive modern façade was edged by a pristine emerald lawn, and already there was a bevy of reporters and photographers running across it—a few that were ahead were moving swiftly through the revolving glass doors into the lobby. By the time the mêlée had disappeared into the hotel, and just as Grace was stealing a few apprehensive moments to decide what to do next, a gleaming black jaguar drew up at the front of the lawn. A burly cropped-haired bodyguard exited the car first then smartly stood holding the door wide as the man who was clearly his boss climbed out of the vehicle.
Due to his phenomenal success in business, and the purported enigmatic nature that was so indisputably appealing to admirers everywhere, photographs of Marco Aguilar were a regular feature in newspapers and magazines round the world, including the UK. There was no doubt that it was him.
Grace’s first impression of the businessman that had made his fortune in the field of sports and leisure—in particular exclusive golfing resorts like this one—was that his physical presence was as commanding as his much-admired reputation. The impeccably stylish linen suit he wore was a perfect foil for his hard-muscled physique, and the moneyed air that radiated from the top of his shining black hair down to the tan-coloured Italian loafers he wore on his feet definitely suggested that the man had an unerring eye for the very best of everything. As he leaned over to speak to his bodyguard she saw even his eyes had the luxurious sheen of the finest dark chocolate. The sweltering Mediterranean sun was all but baking everything in sight, but in contrast he appeared ice-cool.
Narrowing her gaze to view him more clearly, she saw with trepidation that his hard jaw was undeniably clenched and the set of his well-cut lips formidably serious … perhaps even angry? Panicking slightly because if he was already ticked off about something then it was highly unlikely that he would even acknowledge her, she thought dismayed. Worse still, if he thought she was making a nuisance of herself he might call the police to arrest her.
Swallowing down her nerves, she tucked the leather strap of her straw bag neatly down by her side, then endeavoured to stroll casually towards the hotel entrance just as if she was a guest there—for surely this must be the window of opportunity she’d prayed for? It occurred to Grace that the reporters had made the mistake of assuming the VIP they so eagerly sought was already inside the hotel—perhaps smuggled in through a side entrance somewhere? Wishing that her heart wasn’t beating so fast that she could scarcely hear herself think above the throbbing sound of it in her ears, she endeavoured to slow and deepen her breath to calm herself. She had to do this. The businessman’s reputation and aura might be intimidating, but she couldn’t let that stop her. Come what may, there was no backing out now.
‘Mr Aguilar!’ When she was about five feet away from him on the baking walkway she called out his name. The bodyguard immediately moved his intimidating bulk Grace’s way, to prevent her from getting any nearer. ‘Mr Aguilar … please can I have just a moment of your time before you go inside to your meeting? I promise I won’t keep you very long.’
‘Mr Aguilar does not talk to anyone from the press unless it is prearranged.’
The bodyguard’s heavily accented voice was a growl as he reached out to physically waylay her. She flinched as the man’s huge hands encircled her bare arms in her sleeveless cotton dress, and at the same time saw a bead of sweat roll down his ample cheek.
His manhandling of her lit a furious spark of indignation inside her. ‘Let me go! How dare you grab me like that? For your information, I’m not a reporter.’
‘You have no business trying to talk to Mr Aguilar.’
‘For goodness’ sake—do I look like I pose any kind of threat to your boss?’ Grace couldn’t bite back her frustration. To get so close to the man she desperately needed to talk to and then be denied access to speak to him at the very last moment was beyond frustrating.
‘Let her go, José.’
The man behind them snapped out a clear-voiced command and her heart hammered even harder beneath her ribs. The bodyguard immediately released his hold and she stepped to the side of him, at last coming face to face with her hard-jawed quarry.
‘If you do not belong to that mercenary rabble from the press, who are primed to try and get me to answer questions about my private life and then embellish them for their undiscerning readership, what exactly do you want from me, Miss …?’
Indisputably his accent was Portuguese, but his English was close to perfect. The intensity of Marco Aguilar’s examining gaze threw her for a second. The rich caramel eyes with their fathomless depths seemed to bewitch her. ‘Faulkner …’ she answered, her voice not quite as steady as she would have liked. ‘Grace Faulkner. And, just to reassure you, I’m not remotely interested in your private life, Mr Aguilar.’
‘How refreshing’ His remark was like a sardonic whiplash. He folded his arms.
Grace made herself press on regardless. ‘I’m here because I’d like to tell you about an orphanage in Africa that badly needs help … specifically financial help … to rebuild the falling-down shack that houses it and to provide a school and a teacher. I’ve recently come back from there, and it’s quite unbelievable how these poor children are living—not even living … just existing. There’s an open sewer right outside where they’re sleeping, and several of them have already died from drinking contaminated water. This is the twenty-first century for goodness’ sake! We’re so rich in the west … Why are we allowing this to go on without doing something more about it—without every one of us feeling outraged on a daily basis?’
‘I admire the passion and dedication you exhibit in the name of your cause, Miss Faulkner, but I already give financial aid to several charities worldwide. Do you think it fair to corner me like this when I’m about to go into what is to me a very important meeting?’
Grace blinked. The rumour ran that he was there to oversee the takeover bid of a less prosperous resort. It was what he was known for excelling at … buying ailing resorts and making them thrive, thereby reaping the benefits. If the newspapers and magazines were to be believed, the benefits aided his playboy lifestyle. But how much more money and power did the man need before he decided enough was enough?
Her indignation and temper got the better of her. Pushing her fingers through the fall of blonde hair that glanced against her perspiring brow, she levelled her gaze with the billionaire’s and didn’t flinch even once. ‘Fair?’ she echoed angrily. ‘Do you think it’s fair that these children are dying for want of even the most basic sanitation—and more importantly for want of love and care from the rest of humanity? Surely your “very important meeting” can’t possibly be more important than that?’
In less than a heartbeat Marco Aguilar had positioned himself in front of her. The brief contraction in the side of his smooth cheekbone warned her that she’d struck a nerve. At the same time the sweltering heat that beat down on them from the dazzling sun up above seemed to magnify the hypnotic effect of his spicy cologne. Feeling a little bit more than slightly giddy beneath the twin onslaught of burning sun and aggrieved male, Grace wondered where she’d found the audacity—some might say stupidity—to imagine for even a moment that this was the way to get someone as wealthy and influential as him on her side. Clearly it wasn’t.
‘Let me give you a word of advice, Miss Faulkner … Please don’t ever seek a career in a field that requires great diplomacy. I fear you would not get past the first round of interviews. You are very fortunate that I do not get my bodyguard to physically eject you from the complex. Forgive me …’ the dark eyes swept mockingly down over her figure and up again to her face ‘… my guess is that you are not a guest here, are you? In which case you are already on dangerous ground, accosting me like this. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting to go to. My fellow attendees may not be as needy as your orphans, but I assure you they will be baying for my blood if I do not put in an appearance soon.’
‘Look, I’m very sorry if I was rude to you, Mr Aguilar … Honestly, I meant no offence.’ Grace clamped even white teeth down on her lip for a second, in a bid to keep her passionate emotions under control, but it still didn’t stop her from bursting out, ‘All the same, you shouldn’t sneer at my clothes and make me feel small in order to make yourself feel superior, should you? Besides, I’m not here to try to impress you. I’m here for one reason and one reason only: the orphaned children that I told you about. Yes, I am passionate about this cause, but I defy anyone not to be if they’d experienced what I experienced over the past few weeks. I really hoped you might help us … especially when I heard that you’d been raised in an orphanage yourself.’
The businessman stood stock-still and the bronze pigment in his skin seemed to bleed out and turn pale. ‘Where did you hear that?’ he asked, low voiced.
Her mouth dried. ‘I heard it … just the other day.’ Feeling almost faint with unease, and not wanting to incriminate the café-owner, she made herself lift her chin and not flinch from the steely-eyed glare in front of her, ‘Is it true? Are you an orphan, Mr Aguilar?’
He exhaled a long sigh, as though to steady himself, then bemusedly shook his head. ‘You say you are not a reporter, Miss Faulkner, but you attack your prey just like one. You must want what you want very badly to be so impertinent.’
‘I do,’ she admitted turning red. ‘But only for the children … not for any gain for myself, I swear. And I didn’t mean to be impertinent.’
Just when Grace thought she’d absolutely blown any chance of getting his help, and had started to regret being so bold, astoundingly, the businessman appeared to reconsider.
‘Now is clearly not a convenient time for me to discuss this matter further, Miss Faulkner, but you have sufficiently got my attention to make me consider a meeting with you at a later date.’ Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, which she glimpsed was lined with light coffee-coloured silk, he withdrew a small black and gold card, extricated a pen as well, and scribbled something down on the blank space on the back of it. ‘Give me a ring tomorrow at around midday and we will talk some more. But I warn you … If you tell anyone that we even had this conversation—and I mean anyone—then you can forget that you ever saw me, let alone hope to receive my assistance for your cause. By the way, what is the name of this charity that you so passionately support?’
Grace told him.
‘Well … I will speak to you again soon, Miss Faulkner. Like I said, I will expect your call around midday tomorrow.’
Marco Aguilar turned and walked away, his faithful bodyguard hurrying after him and mopping his brow with his handkerchief as he endeavoured to keep up with his boss’s long-legged stride. Gripping the card he’d given her as if it was the key to unlocking the secrets of the universe, Grace let her captive gaze ensure she followed the pair until they went through the hotel’s entrance and disappeared inside …
Grateful for the almost too efficient air-conditioning in the luxuriously appointed boardroom, after the unforgiving midday heat outside, Marco restlessly flipped his gold pen several times between his fingers as he tried to focus on his company’s earnest director, seated at the far end of the long mahogany table.
The loyal Joseph Simonson was being as meticulous and articulate as usual with his information about the takeover bid—the man’s presentation couldn’t be faulted—yet Marco found it difficult to pay proper attention to his opening speech because he couldn’t get the memory of a pair of flashing brilliant blue eyes and a face that was as close to his imagined depiction of the mythical Aphrodite out of his mind.
Grace Faulkner.
But it wasn’t just her beauty that had disturbed him. Marco wondered how she had learned that he had grown up in an orphanage when it wasn’t something that he had ever willingly broadcast. A further conversation with her was imperative if he was to impress upon her the folly of repeating that information to the media—even though he knew there were local people who had always known it to be true. Perhaps he had been uncharacteristically foolish in hoping for their loyalty and believing they wouldn’t talk about his past with outsiders? He’d already been through a torrid time with the press … The last thing he needed was some new revelation to hit the headlines. And this one would perhaps be the most difficult for him to face out of all of them.
His thoughts returned to the image of Grace Faulkner that seemed to be imprinted on his mind. She’d declared that she wasn’t trying to impress him, but inexplicably she had. He’d already telephoned his secretary Martine and asked her to undertake some research on the woman and the charity she supported before he took her phone call tomorrow. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the first time that a female had behaved dishonourably to win herself the chance of getting close to him … accepted a fee from a newspaper for passing on some invented salacious anecdote about his life for them to print.
Marco found himself wishing that the girl was unquestionably who she said she was, and that the only reason she had waylaid him was because she wanted his aid for the cause that was apparently so close to her heart. When he’d stood in front of her, so close that gazing into her eyes had been like being dazzled by a sunlit blue lake, she hadn’t flinched or glanced guiltily away. No, she’d stared right back at him as if she had absolutely nothing to hide … as if she was telling him nothing but the truth. What would she think if she knew how seductive and appealing that was? He had dated and bedded some very beautiful women over the years, but their mostly self-seeking natures had not been beautiful.
Take his ex-girlfriend Jasmine, for example. The fashion model had made the mistake of trying to sue him for breach of his alleged promise to support her when the famous fashion house she’d modelled for hadn’t renewed her contract because she’d preferred to party and get high rather than turn up for work. Marco had made no such promise to her … in fact he had already told her that he was ending their relationship before her illustrious employers had dropped her. The woman had been a liability, but thanks to his lawyers the case had been more or less thrown out of court for a laughable lack of evidence. Shortly after that sorry episode she had sold her lurid little tale to a tabloid for some ludicrous sum, inventing stories of ‘ill treatment’ and making him look like some despicable misogynist.
That whole sorry debacle had happened over six months ago now, and ever since then Marco had become even more wary and cynical of women’s motives for seeing him. Despite his understandable caution, the fact that Grace Faulkner seemed far more interested in helping others instead of herself definitely made him want to find out more about the angelic-faced beauty, with a soft heart for needy children and the daring to just walk right up to him and present her case as if she had every right in the world to do just that …
‘Marco?’
Joseph was looking decidedly ill at ease, because his boss hadn’t replied to a question he’d asked, and Marco had the vague notion that he’d already addressed him twice. The rest of the board members shifted their gazes uncomfortably. Clearly they weren’t accustomed to their illustrious leader being so distracted.
Folding his arms across the hand-tailored jacket of his cream linen suit, he allowed an apologetic smile to hijack his usually austere lips. ‘Could you go over that again for me, Joseph? I think I must be a little jet-lagged after flying in from Sydney late last night and I didn’t quite take it all in.’ He shrugged.
‘Of course.’ At this amenable explanation, the British director’s shoulders visibly relaxed. ‘I’m sure that all of us here will endeavour to keep the meeting as short as possible in light of the fact that you must be understandably tired after your travels.’
With a little dip of his head Marco indicated his thanks, making sure to include every one of the well-dressed ensemble in his amicable gaze.
‘By the way,’ the other man added, his smile a little awkward, as if he were much happier dealing with matters appertaining to the business rather than making polite conversation with his boss, ‘how does it feel to be back home? It must be at least a couple of years since you were here for any length of time?’
‘That’s right … it is.’ His usual guard slammed down into place and Marco deliberately ignored the first part of the question. Home was a concept that even his immense wealth had never been able to make a reality for him. When a man had grown up an orphan, as he had, ‘home’ was just a tantalising dream that was always mockingly out of reach … a fantasy that just wasn’t on the agenda, no matter how much his heart might ache for it to be possible …
A palatial house or mansion didn’t equal a home in the true sense of the word, although he had several of those round the globe. Lately he’d been working particularly hard, and his plan had been to stay in the Algarve for a few weeks at least, to kick back and take a long overdue rest, but the instant he had recalled his humble beginnings growing up Portugal, the idea suddenly lost most of its appeal. The prospect of spending time alone didn’t sit well with him either. Marco had plenty of acquaintances, but no real friends he could truly be himself around … Even as a child he had never made friends easily. One of the carers at the orphanage had once told him he was a ‘complicated’ little boy. With his child’s logic, he had judged that to mean that he was difficult to love …
Once more he flipped his pen, hating the sudden prickling of anxiety at the back of his neck and inside his chest—a sign that he was feeling hemmed in, almost trapped. Because for him there was neither solace nor reassurance in revisiting scenes from his past.
‘Let’s continue, shall we? I’m sure we are all very busy people with much to accomplish before the day is out, and time is not standing still,’ he announced abruptly.
Grimacing in embarrassment at his boss’s terse-voiced remarks, Joseph Simonson shuffled the sheaf of papers in front of him and cleared his throat before proceeding …
Grace’s insides were churning. It was a minute or two away from midday, and three times now she had snatched her shaking hand away from the telephone. Right then the fact that she might be just a conversation away from getting the financial assistance the charity needed to rebuild the children’s home, set up a school and employ a teacher, didn’t seem to help overcome her nerves. Yesterday she’d been fired up … brave … as if neither man nor mountain could stop her from fulfilling her aim of getting what she wanted. Today, after a more or less sleepless night when memories of Marco Aguilar’s piercing dark eyes had frequently disturbed her, she didn’t feel capable of much … let alone feel brave.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’
Exasperated, she grabbed the receiver from its rest on the kitchen wall and punched out the number she had determinedly memorized, in case by some cruel twist of fate she lost the card.
On arriving back at the villa yesterday afternoon, Grace had been seriously taken aback when she’d realised the number Marco had given her belonged to his personal mobile. It wasn’t the same as any of the numbers printed in gold on the front of his business card. Now, briefly shutting her eyes, she recalled the shining hopeful faces of the children she had left behind in that feebly constructed orphanage back in Africa and felt a resurgence of passion for helping make things right for them. Marco Aguilar was only a man. He was made of flesh and blood and bone, just as she was, she told herself. It didn’t matter that he wore hand-tailored suits that probably cost the earth, or that he might regularly make it onto the world’s rich lists. That didn’t make him any better than Grace. In this instance they were just two humane people, discussing what needed to be done to help those less fortunate than they were, and she would hold onto that thought when they spoke.
The softly purring ringtone in her ear ceased, indicating someone had picked up at the other end.
‘Olá?’
‘Olá.’
‘Mr Aguilar?’
‘Ah … is that you, Grace?’
She hadn’t expected him to address her by her first name, and the sound of it spoken in his highly arresting, accented voice made her insides execute a disorientating cartwheel. Staring out of the opened windows at the sun-baked patio, and the usually inviting deckchair that she’d had to vacate when the heat grew too intense to bear comfortably, Grace nervously smoothed her palm down over the hip of her white linen trousers.
‘Yes, it’s me. I presume I’m talking to Marco Aguilar?’
‘Just Marco is fine.’
‘I wouldn’t presume to—’
‘I am inviting you to address me by my first name, Grace, so you are not being presumptuous. How are you today? I trust you are enjoying this glorious weather?’
‘I’m … I’m fine, and, yes I am enjoying the weather.’ Threading her fingers through her wheat-coloured hair, Grace grimaced, taken aback that he should address her so amicably and not quite sure about how to proceed. ‘How are you?’ she asked cautiously.
‘I wasn’t planning on making this conversation that long,’ he commented wryly.
Colouring hotly, she was glad that he couldn’t see her face right then … just in case he imagined that she was one of those starstruck women who didn’t have the wits to separate fantasy from reality …
‘Well, I know you must be a very busy man, so you needn’t worry that I’ll talk your ears off.’ She made a face, thinking that she sounded like some immature schoolgirl with that infantile remark. ‘I promise,’ she added quickly, as if to emphasise the point.
‘Talk my ears off?’ Marco echoed, chuckling, ‘I hope you won’t, Grace, because they are extremely useful at times … especially when I’m listening to Mozart or Beethoven.’
‘I shouldn’t have said that. It was a stupid comment.’
‘Why? Because you think I might lack a sense of humour? I hope I may have the chance to prove you wrong about that.’
Taken aback once more by such a surprising remark, Grace hardly knew what to say.
‘It may surprise you,’ the man on the other end of the line continued, ‘but I have unexpectedly found myself with an entirely free afternoon today. Instead of us talking on the phone, I could send my driver round to where you are staying and get him to bring you back to my house. That would be a much more agreeable way of conducting our conversation don’t you think?’
She must be dreaming. Confronting him outside the exclusive resort was one thing, and talking to him on the phone was another … but never in her wildest dreams had she envisaged a man like Marco Aguilar inviting her to his house to discuss the charity she was so determined to help—just like that. If she didn’t know better she’d think she was suffering from heatstroke!
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