The Shameless Life of Ruiz Acosta (6 page)

How was I supposed to know she had a key?

I don’t know who was more surprised—me, or the blonde. Anyway, I apologised, and, on my way out of the room, managed to tumble over her shoes and snap the heel off. Needless to say, all hell broke loose. Quickly realising that neither my vocabulary nor my stumpy, bitten nails were up to a cat fight I took myself off to the bathroom and locked the door, where I proceeded to sing tunelessly with my hands over my ears until I heard our mutual friend arrive. When I removed my hands from my ears it was to hear him promise to do something about the mad woman in the flat and replace the shoes she had destroyed. Traitor, I thought.

But the promise of shoes made me think that here was a man I might be able to do business with … until I considered this more deeply and realised that a playboy would never do it for me, because I want to buy my own shoes and I’m pretty sure one pair wouldn’t be enough …

Closing the computer, Holly sat back before turning to her next task. Lifting the newspapers onto the table, she sorted and stacked them, and then started methodically trawling through the ads. She had a reassuring number of opportunities circled when she heard the front door open and a familiar stride coming her way. Her heart began to thump. It was very early in the day to have any sort of confrontation, let alone be thrown out on the street with some bimbo cheering Ruiz on. It was with enormous relief that she realised he was alone. Opening her laptop again, she pretended to be working when he came into the room.

‘Good morning, Holly.’

‘Morning,’ she said offhandedly. But she rather spoiled the effect by looking up to find Ruiz dressed immaculately in a sharp dark suit, with a crisp white shirt, and a pearl-grey tie. He looked amazing.

‘I just got in from Paris,’ he explained, dumping an exquisitely wrapped box of tiny rainbow-tinted macaroons on the table in front of her.

‘What have I done to deserve this honour?’ she enquired in the same cool tone, while hectic images of hysterical girlfriends re-enacting the ‘off with her head’ scene between the Red Queen and Alice leapt unbidden into her head. Did the Red Queen wear a translucent pink thong, perchance? ‘What?’ she said as Ruiz shrugged off his jacket, loosened his tie, freed a couple of buttons at the neck of his shirt, and stretched out on the sofa swinging a distinctive carrier bag from a well-known Parisian boutique above his head.

‘What size feet have you got?’ he asked.

‘Isn’t that a rather personal question?’ There were some things a lady never divulged. Though, to be fair, the shoes she had trashed belonging to Miss Pink Basque had been the same size Holly wore.

‘Well, if you don’t want them.’

‘If I knew what you were talking about …’

‘Why don’t you come over here and find out?’ Ruiz suggested. ‘If the shoes are the wrong size you can always take them back to the store and change them.’

‘In Paris?’

‘No need to sound so snippy,’ he said, sitting up to bait her with a stare. ‘Not jealous, are we?’ And just like that the dark, dangerous eyes were laughing again.

But after the bimbo affair Holly refused to be won over quite so easily. ‘I’m not at all jealous of you,’ she said crisply. ‘I’ve seen your friends.’

‘You’ve seen a passing acquaintance,’ Ruiz assured her, ‘who has now passed.’

‘Away? How unfortunate.’

‘Into history, I was about to say. Don’t be sarcastic, Holly,’ Ruiz warned, pretending to be stern. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’

She turned back to the keyboard, hurting inside. Even a mistress who had passed into history was a mistress too far. ‘I suppose I can use the story for the column,’ she muttered.

‘If you don’t want the shoes …’

Holly stiffened. ‘Are you saying you bought the shoes for me?’

‘I bought the blonde shoes—’

‘What a gentleman you are,’ Holly interrupted acidly. ‘How thoughtful of you.’

‘Holly,’ Ruiz droned good-humouredly, ‘I bought the shoes to replace the ones you broke, but the blonde decided she’d prefer a cheque for a somewhat larger amount, so I took the shoes back to the store—’

‘Do I need to hear this?’

‘I just want to make it clear that I’m not giving you anyone’s leftovers. I bought them for you. Don’t you want to see them?’

‘For me?’ she said suspiciously, hating the way her voice was trembling. ‘You bought shoes … for me?’ She turned to find Ruiz looking less confident than usual, or maybe she was delusional, which was entirely possible. In the end curiosity got the better of her. There was nothing wrong with taking a look. She could only hope Ruiz’s taste in shoes was an improvement on his taste in women. She could fake it for the column, but she was pretty sure she couldn’t fake anything for Ruiz, though he stood a serious risk of having the shoes land heavily on his head if this was another of his jokes!

‘Before we came to the mutual decision that cash was king the blonde chose some trashy, sparkly things, like the ones you stomped on,’ Ruiz explained, handing the box over. ‘I thought they looked better in pieces, frankly, and so I chose these. What do you think?’

Did shoe heaven cover it? The leather was the softest she had ever felt, the heel was the highest, the colour was a beautiful pale dove grey. And the sole was scarlet. ‘I think …’ They’re divine, Holly thought, feeling a quiver of excitement at the prospect of wearing them. She could never have afforded shoes like these … ‘I think you should return them to the shop,’ she said, remembering the advice she had given one of her readers in capital letters on this very subject: ‘Never Accept Expensive Gifts From Men. Why? Because it puts you in their debt.’ And the piece hadn’t even gone to press yet, sensible Holly reminded drooling Holly sternly. ‘As they haven’t been worn I think you could get a full refund,’ she said, placing the shoe back in its box.

‘What’s wrong with them?’ Ruiz demanded, removing his crossed feet from the table and sitting up straight.

‘I never accept gifts like this from men.’

‘Well, that’s a habit you should change right away,’ Ruiz observed dryly. ‘I suppose it also means I can’t take you out to supper tonight—though if you feel badly about it, I can always let you pay …’

Ruiz was asking her out?

No. Ruiz was asking her to take him out, which gave Holly a problem. If this had been a straightforward invitation to supper she could refuse, but seeing as she was taking up half a penthouse that was rightfully his, the least she could do was stand Ruiz a meal …

‘Perhaps if we go out I’ll get a chance to talk to you about paying a fair rent to live here,’ Holly murmured thoughtfully. To date, both Ruiz and Lucia had refused to take any money from her, while Holly’s house-hunting efforts had swung disastrously between scratching sounds behind the skirting boards to smelly drains, and even, on one memorable viewing, an infestation of ants. ‘Rent?’ she prompted, seeing now that there was something very worrying in Ruiz’s eyes.

‘What a great idea,’ he agreed mildly. ‘Trust you to come up with something.’

The day improved when Holly arrived at
ROCK!
to find she had been given her own office with two assistants to help her, which she had to take as a sign that the agony-aunt column was on the up. ‘But let’s not get carried away,’ she cautioned the two girls sent to help her. ‘This is still early days, and—’

‘You’ve worked a miracle so we can all keep our jobs?’ Pixie suggested.

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ Holly argued red-faced.

‘You have to carry on living with the playboy now … poor you,’ Freya said, exchanging a wry look with Pixie. ‘Not that we’re jealous, or anything.’

What would Ruiz have to say about that? Holly wondered, feeling the buzz inside her ramp up a gear at the thought that she had to go out to supper tonight with him.

‘Anyway, we’re just glad to be here,’ Freya added warmly as she plonked a thriving pot plant, her personalised mug, a budget-sized box of tissues and a generous supply of chocolate for them all to share on the desk.

‘You’re right,’ Holly agreed, telling herself not to be so selfish and join in the celebration. She had to stop wishing and longing, and pretending she could steer her life to a happy-ever-after-ending in which a confident Holly Valiant won the hand of a prince instead of a frog. She could do what she liked through the column, but not that. The ‘Living with a Playboy’ feature was a fiction to boost reader numbers, which it had done, and that had to be enough for her. Except it wasn’t, Holly admitted silently as she exchanged spirited high fives with the other girls.

But hang on a minute, Holly thought as the celebration subsided. Wasn’t this expansion of the column and securing of their jobs the moment she’d been working towards? And wasn’t it essential to immerse herself in that work if she was going to forget being anxious about supper with Signor Sexy tonight? Her gaze fired as the other girls looked to her expectantly. ‘Chocolate?’ she said.

‘Tick!’ the girls chorused.

‘Bottle of fizz to celebrate?’ She was less sure of this one and was already planning to slip out and buy something.

‘Tick!’ Pixie said triumphantly, producing a bottle from behind her back.

‘I think we have everything we need,’ Holly confirmed. ‘Let’s kick this column into shape!’

And let me have something I
can
control to think about, she prayed fervently, instead of a whole lot of man that I can’t.

CHAPTER FIVE

‘Mirror, mirror on the wall—’ Will someone cover the damn mirror!

Tonight’s the night. I am taking the playboy out to supper and I can’t decide what to wear. I realise that taking him out reverses the natural order of things—but then I am not the playboy’s natural order, if you take my meaning. I am more of a meagre side dish—the type of thing you order to try, and more often than not leave untouched. Me? Lacking in confidence? What makes you think that?

All right. I admit it. Every item of clothing I possess is on the bed, or on the floor. Carrier bags and sales tickets are scattered around like confetti, because, as it turns out, my wardrobe is full of nothing to wear. And, as I am constantly reminded by the playboy’s long-legged basque-wearing friends, sex sells. Not exactly my area of expertise. Consequently, I have decided that my next article for you will be a helpful piece on the subject of staying out of debt. At least that’s where my credit card provider told me I should be concentrating my thoughts.

I must admit the real crisis of confidence came when I tried to decide what to underpin my modest outfit with tonight. As I don’t possess a single basque, or hold-up stocking, should I chance a shocking-pink thong?

As my underwear is unlikely to receive an airing, that hardly matters, does it?

And the playboy? He’s acting as cool and as sexy as ever. Accompanying me to supper is nothing more than a workaday chore for him in order to keep in his sister’s good books. So at least I should be safe. And I should be glad about that—right?

TYPING up her column was a displacement activity Holly had hoped would take her mind off the fact that she would soon be sitting across a table from Ruiz—speaking to him, staring into his eyes—all the time pretending they were nothing more than friends. Her shopping had been more erratic than usual with her frantic purchases more suitable for a royal wedding than a casual supper in a local bistro and she was fast losing confidence in her ability to pull this off.

Closing the lid on her laptop, Holly glanced at the shoe box the unscrupulous Ruiz had left temptingly outside her door. It was on her bed now. She had been forced to bring it into the bedroom in case someone fell over it. But of course she couldn’t wear the shoes unless Ruiz allowed her to pay for them. And as that would take a whole month’s salary …

The dress she had finally chosen to wear was a sale-rail spectacular—A-line, with a flirty skirt and a high scooped neck. It wasn’t black, which was about the best that could be said for it, but at least it was the same soft blue as her favourite shirt. With her hair neatly brushed, lip gloss present and correct, and just a suggestion of smudgy grey eye shadow to complement the flick of black mascara, she was ready. And nervous.

What did she have to be nervous about? Eating supper was a harmless activity.

Sharing food could be very sexy.

Fish and chips?

Mating rituals like eating supper together and how to avoid them was another good headline for her column, Holly concluded as she shifted anxiously from foot to foot in the hallway, waiting for Ruiz. But seeing as there was no escape from tonight, fish was out—ditto anything like spinach that might get stuck in her teeth. Thankfully, she had identified a healthy-food café where they could nibble on crudités and drink sparkling elder-flower water. Perfect. She would keep a clear head and as the café was brilliantly lit with sensible, hard-backed chairs Ruiz wouldn’t want to stay for long—

And when they came home?

She’d plead tiredness and go to bed. Alone.

Just when she’d almost given up on him, Ruiz stormed back into the apartment like an avenging angel in a cloud of cold air and warm smiles with Bouncer panting vigorously at his heels. ‘Ready?’ he demanded.

‘Ready,’ Holly confirmed.

‘Where are you taking me?’ he said as he bent down to remove Bouncer’s leash.

‘I thought the little café down the road—’

‘The one where we met?’ Ruiz sounded upbeat as his lips pressed down with approval of her choice. ‘Hang on while I fill Bouncer’s water bowl—’

‘No … No, that one’s shut,’ she called out.

Ruiz sauntered back into the hall. ‘Tell me you’re not taking me to that place where they serve lentil soup, and you have to sit round a communal table on hemp sacks?’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ she said. ‘They do have private booths.’

‘Where you can sit on even bigger hemp sacks? No, thank you.’

‘So where do you want to go?’ she said irritably.

‘You’re letting me choose?’ Ruiz’s mouth curved in a grin.

Why couldn’t she learn to keep her big mouth shut? She would never be able to afford Ruiz’s preferred style of restaurant. ‘I’m sure I can find somewhere else you would like,’ she told him firmly.

‘I know somewhere you’d like,’ Ruiz countered. ‘It’s walking distance from here—and not expensive,’ he added when Holly’s eyes widened in panic. ‘Mid-week is all about economy, Ms Valiant.’

‘Are you mocking me, Señor Acosta?’

‘Would I?’ he said.

Holly’s look said it all. And now her mind was swinging wildly between the safe café of her choice and somewhere of Ruiz’s choosing—and how
economical
that would be in terms of their very different incomes. ‘Am I dressed okay for this place of yours?’

‘You’ll do,’ he said, holding her gaze with a raised eyebrow and a sexy grin.

‘It’s still my treat,’ she insisted firmly, trying to hang onto her composure.

‘Of course it is,’ Ruiz agreed. ‘Though I am prepared to make a deal with you.’

Why was he staring at her shoes? Her comfortable, clunky-heeled shoes? They were perfect if they were going to walk to the place Ruiz had mentioned. Did he need to look at them as if she had committed some terrible faux pas and make her even more nervous about stepping into Ruiz’s world than she already was?

‘This is the deal.’ Ruiz angled his disreputably stubbled chin in Holly’s direction. ‘I’ll pay for supper tonight if you wear the shoes I bought for you.’

The shoes he bought? Accept his gift? Take a totter on the wild side on five-inch heels instead of remaining safely corralled inside the magazine column on her clunkies? ‘I can’t walk in high heels. And, anyway, I already told you that I—’

‘Don’t accept gifts from men,’ Ruiz supplied. ‘I do remember.’

‘So, how does this work?’ Holly demanded. ‘I get the shoes and you pay for supper. Do you seriously think I’m going to go for that?’

‘I think you should,’ he said evenly. ‘I think if you had any sense you would.’

‘Well, clearly I don’t have any sense,’ Holly fired back, ‘because—’ Because what? Come on, come on ‘—because tonight is supposed to be my treat for you.’ Ah, yes, sweet relief. ‘Because you have to let me do something in return for allowing me to stay in the Acosta penthouse.’
Yes!
‘And as for wearing a pair of brand-new shoes that you could easily take back to the store and get a refund for—’

‘Oh, get over yourself,’ Ruiz flashed, raising the emotional temperature by a few thousand degrees. ‘You’re my sister’s best friend. If my friends were in London and needed accommodation I would expect Lucia to show them hospitality. This is a courtesy to my sister.’

As she had thought. Okay, she’d asked for that, Holly accepted as Ruiz and his storm-face reached the door. ‘Okay?’ he questioned, banging it open.

‘Okay,’ she fired back. Stepping out of the fictional world she had created for Ruiz and into reality with him might be a little more combative and complex than she had first imagined, Holly realised. And as for the effect on her senses, she could only trust that the keeper of her moral code was on duty tonight.

‘I thought we might go dancing,’ Ruiz dropped in casually as he held the door for her to go through.

‘Dancing?’ Holly managed on a dry throat, knowing her face must have been a picture of doom as she walked past him.

‘Something wrong with that?’ Ruiz demanded, turning to lock the door.

Where to start? Dancing meant touching each other, holding each other, moving as closely as two people could move together, unless they were—

‘Those shoes are perfect for dancing. Thank you for wearing them,’ Ruiz said with worrying charm as she click-clacked across the lobby towards the elevator.

‘My pleasure,’ Holly said primly, which was the understatement of the year. Well, she could hardly leave the shoes alone in a box while she went out, could she? They might fade, or something.

‘Tonight should make very good reading for your column,’ Ruiz observed as they stood waiting for the lift to arrive.

Holly forced a small laugh. Not too good, she hoped. She’d given up on the thong and was wearing really big knickers instead.

They crossed the road and walked through the park with a good three feet of air between them. Where was Ruiz taking her? Holly wondered as he turned off down a cobbled side street where the mews houses would go for millions and any club would be exclusive in the extreme. She was feeling extremely self-conscious by the time Ruiz stopped outside an iron-studded door where the faint strains of South American music could be heard on the street. But the club did look intriguing—all dark and mysterious like the man at her side.

‘A Brazilian friend of mine owns the club,’ Ruiz explained. ‘They have great food and even better dancing. A place like this will be dynamite for your column. Ready, Holly?’

As she would ever be, Holly thought, taking a deep breath.

When would she get another chance like this? Holly asked herself sensibly. The humour in Ruiz’s eyes reassured her, though when he rested his arm across her shoulders as they waited for the doorman to examine their faces through the grill, she had to tell herself that Ruiz was just doing his thing and that it was in his nature to make people feel good.

Richly carpeted steps led down to a luxurious, stone-flagged basement, where lead-paned glass glinted in the sultry glow of candles. The heavy polished furniture and rich draperies in ruby reds and regal purples gave the club an established sense of luxury and indulgence. Ruiz was right about it providing food for her column. It was not only packed, she could see now through the archway leading into the main dining room and dance floor, but, judging by the clientele, it was the hottest place in town. Her readers would definitely be interested, Holly thought as Ruiz held her coat. ‘Is that a samba they’re playing?’

‘Very good,’ Ruiz remarked as he handed Holly’s coat to an attendant. ‘I can tell you’re eager to dance—’

‘Oh, no,’ Holly exclaimed as her pulse raced off the scale. ‘I’m only here to observe.’ But in her head she was already practising the steps. She had taken some classes a while back with a friend, but her heart thundered at the thought that Ruiz might put her to the test. She reassured herself that the samba had been one of the easiest dances to learn:
back, forward, forward.
There were only three steps to remember, for goodness’ sake—

‘You do dance the samba …?’

Ruiz’s eyes were dancing with laughter, Holly noticed. ‘And how do you know that?’ she challenged him.

‘You’re mouthing the steps.’

‘No, I’m not,’ Holly argued, relieved when the maître d’ arrived to escort them to their table. He had seated them right at the edge of the dance floor, which was fantastic for watching the dancers, but terrible if, like Holly, you didn’t want to be so dangerously close to the action.

‘The steps will soon come back to you,’ Ruiz assured her with an amused smile.

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Holly agreed as the maitre d’ removed the reserved sign with a flourish.

‘And I think you’re going to be very good at it,’ Ruiz prompted when Holly gave him a look. ‘Dancing, I mean.’

As Ruiz lounged back in his comfortably padded chair all Holly could think about was the scary dance teacher, yelling at her to
Bounce, Valiant, bounce! For goodness’ sake, lift your feet, girl!
Before she fell over them presumably. Would samba lessons delivered in her local community centre by a moustachioed teacher help her now? Holly wondered as she gazed at the slinky couples moving effortlessly around the floor. Somehow, she doubted it. This samba was faster, cooler, and way sexier than she remembered, especially when she compared it to her shambling attempts. But then she had been dancing with an equally uncoordinated girl. Men had been thin on the ground in the classes, so most of the women ended up dancing together, Holly remembered, glancing at her rugged companion. Dancing with Ruiz Acosta might be somewhat different, she suspected.

He was impatient when people kept on greeting him—especially impatient when he noticed the curious glances they were lavishing on Holly. He should have known better than to bring her here but he had wanted her to have a treat. He had wanted to get her away from the computer and from the shadows of the past for just one evening. He would have liked half an hour with the man who hurt her. She was so inexperienced, so vulnerable. He hated the type of man who took advantage of that. He wondered if Holly had ever known love. Lucia had told him something about her clever friend who had been sent away to school on a scholarship by parents who never visited. No wonder his generous-hearted sister had palled up with sensible Holly Valiant. He could see it all now. Lucia had provided the warmth Holly had so badly needed, while Holly had kept his sister in line—just about.

‘What are you smiling at now?’ she said.

‘Thinking about Lucia …’

‘Ah.’ She relaxed.

‘And I’m enjoying myself,’ he confessed, only realising now how true that was. He was completely relaxed—especially now that everyone had taken the hint and seen that he wanted to be alone with his supper companion. Had anyone ever made love to Holly, he wondered, or had they just used her without ever seeing the side of her that Holly kept so close? She was different from anyone he had ever known. He knew most women only wanted him for the material things he could provide—things in which Holly had absolutely no interest.