Abby Green - Keeping Her Close

She was aware on some level that this fear was coming from a visceral place, not necessarily rational, but she couldn’t control it. She didn’t see herself ever being able to trust Rico. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d trusted anyone.

How could she, when her formative experiences had been learnt so painfully at the hands of someone who hadn’t even been as powerful?

She reiterated. ‘As I told you before, I had no desire to be dragged through the courts, and your departure that morning had left me in no doubt as to how reluctant you were to see me again.’

He seemed to consider saying something for a long time, and eventually he said roughly, ‘I told you the day I came to your flat that I regretted leaving you the way I did.’

Gypsy swallowed. She’d dismissed his words as an easy platitude at the time, but now they skated over her skin and made little tremors race up and down.

His mouth tightened into a thin line. ‘I rang the hotel…most likely just after you would have seen me on the news…but you’d already left…’

Gypsy stopped breathing. She had the vaguest recollection of a phone ringing as she’d walked away from the room, but she had assumed it was coming from somewhere else. That had been him ? To say what? That he wanted to see her again? But even as she thought that, and her heart clenched treacherously, she realised that she’d known who he was by then…so she would still have run, disgusted at having let herself be seduced so easily by someone like him. She’d still been raw after her father’s death—especially as she’d just found out the extent of his cruelty to her mother.

Gypsy tore her eyes from his and looked down, feeling very wobbly inside. ‘You say that you rang. Whether you did or not is a moot point now.’

‘Clearly.’

Rico’s voice was harsh enough to have Gypsy’s eyes meet his, and something in those grey depths made her breath hitch.

And then, moving abruptly, Rico put down his napkin and stood up. ‘I have to go into my office here today. The event we’re going to tonight is black tie—it’s for a charity I’m patron of. Be ready to go out at seven p.m.’

Gypsy watched as Rico strode powerfully from the room, and when he’d gone the absence of his intense energy made her sag like a lead balloon. She’d been to dozens of society charity events, as her father had been patron of many—but only to enhance his ego, avail himself of tax benefits, and occasionally to dip into the funds for himself.

He’d never got caught. He’d been too good at creating smoke and mirrors so people didn’t ask questions or looked the other way. But Gypsy had known, though she’d always been too terrified of the potential punishment if she did something as audacious as call the police. But nevertheless her father had managed to punish her for her knowledge.

Once again she was being hurtled back in time. With effort she forced her mind away. She’d never wanted to be party to something like this again, and here she was, right in the middle of it. She let familiar cynicism wash over her as she thought of the prospect of the evening to come, but knew it was a weak attempt to avoid the thought of going out on Rico’s arm in public.

She couldn’t even drum up the disgust she’d expected to feel at the thought of seeing Rico posture and preen purely to raise his profile. She had an uncomfortable presentiment that he would confound her expectations again.

That evening Gypsy sat beside Rico at the head table, in a thronged and glittering ballroom in one of Buenos Aires’ best hotels. She was incensed that her distaste for this milieu was being constantly diminished because she was so distracted by how gorgeous Rico looked in a classic black-tie tuxedo.

Isobel was minding Lola, and had kindly helped Gypsy to get ready earlier. She’d endeared herself to Gypsy even more when she’d confided with feeling that she and Rafael had a pact that they’d only go to charity events if and when it was absolutely necessary, and only if Rafael could promise that he would try to extort as much money as possible out of the assembled Buenos Aires elite. After they’d given over their own generous donation, of course.

Gypsy had been happy with her appearance once Isobel had left. Her hair was straightened and twisted into a classic chignon, and her plain dark green silk dress, sleeveless and with a cowl neckline, fell to the floor. She looked the part—the part she’d been trained well to play by her own father when it had suited him to act out the role of devoted parent, which had only ever lasted as long as they’d been on public display.

When Rico had come into the bedroom earlier and asked, with a horrified glance at her head, ‘What have you done to your hair?’ Gypsy had felt like a gauche teenager again—acutely self-conscious and aware that she just didn’t have the right look for this world.

Defensively she’d touched her hair and said, ‘Isobel straightened it for me. It’s tidier like this…I thought for the dinner—’

But he’d just said curtly, ‘Come on, we’ll be late,’ and strode out of the room, making Gypsy want to slam and lock the door behind him.

Now she looked resolutely away from Rico, and tried not to let the fact that his powerful thigh was brushing against hers intermittently bother her. But she couldn’t pretend to herself that she wasn’t affected, and squirmed inwardly at the thought of Rico knowing.

Suddenly a hush descended on the room as a compère got up and signalled to the crowd. She heard Rico sigh deeply beside her and snuck a look. His face was expressionless, but his jaw was tight, and she knew in that instant that he too hated this. Reeling at that information, she watched dumbly as he got up with fluid athletic grace after being introduced, and walked to the podium with thunderous adoring applause resounding around the room.

Up until that point Gypsy hadn’t taken much notice of what the charity in question was, but now she recognised it as one of her father’s own pet projects. One that he’d taken funds from. Her face burned with mortification at the realisation, and also at the weak fear that had led her to keep quiet about it when she’d been younger.

Rico was talking now, and Gypsy became quickly mesmerised by the simple articulacy of his words and his obvious genuine passion for the cause. A few people shifted uncomfortably around her; clearly they’d just expected him to get up and smile and say nothing of any consequence. But Rico was not going anywhere yet.

He knew his subject well. He was listing facts and figures that made her feel dizzy, and he was not afraid of mentioning the unpalatable stuff that people at an event like this preferred not to hear. To her knowledge he hadn’t even brought a piece of paper, but with simple eloquence he put it to the crowd to put their money where their mouths were and started an impromptu bidding session—the prize being a new car of the winner’s choice, from him. She could see exactly what he’d done; he’d embarrassed them into action, and now they couldn’t bid fast enough.

The woman to Gypsy’s left, who had been introduced as the co-ordinator of the charity, shook her head and smiled conspiratorially. ‘I don’t know where we’d be without him. He consistently shakes people out of their complacency and inertia. If only everyone could be as dedicated. There are far too many poseurs and charlatans standing in as concerned philanthropists.’

Gypsy swallowed painfully.

Finally he was finished—once an obscene amount of money had been bid. Everyone started to stand up and move about. Rico was coming back down to the table and, to Gypsy’s surprise, with singular intent he grabbed her arm and said succinctly, ‘OK I’ve had enough. Let’s get out of here.’