HELEN BIANCHIN - The Spaniard's Baby Bargain

Oh, hell, where had that come from?

‘I’ll remind you, any attempt at clever journalistic tactics on your part will be met with silence.’

Oh, my. Ariane drew herself up to her full height and took a slow, steady breath. ‘Point taken.’ She even managed a faint smile. ‘Shall we begin?’

An hour later she had nothing more on Manolo del Guardo than what was already available in previous Press releases. Which meant she had to work a little harder.

‘Tell me what it was like growing up in the ’hood.’

The faint smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘You want I should draw a picture?’ Street gangs, poverty, where survival meant being one step ahead of the law in alleyways where one false move could bring a knife in the ribs…or worse?

‘I imagine it was tough.’

He doubted her imagination stretched as far as the reality. Except he’d managed to get out and move on. Lean years when he’d worked his butt off twenty by seven, taking risks only the brave or a fool would touch.

‘The prime motivation was to survive.’

His voice held an edge of mockery, and a wealth of living lurked in the depths of those dark eyes. Elements she could only guess at.

‘Perhaps you’d care to elaborate?’

‘I don’t see the need to provide a vicarious insight into the days of my youth.’

OK, so he was going to play hardball. ‘Self-protection, or a need to bury your past?’

He didn’t move, yet she had the sensation his powerful body suddenly went on full alert.

The silence in the room became a palpable entity, and she held her breath, waiting for a display of temperament.

It didn’t happen, and there was little she could detect beneath his obsidian gaze.

Supreme control, she registered, and wondered what it would take to break it. A faint shivery sensation threatened to slither the length of her spine at the thought of what direction his anger might take…certain in her mind it would be laser-swift and deadly.

Ariane’s attention was so focused on the man that at first she didn’t register the faint sound of a baby’s cry.

‘You’ll have to excuse me.’ Manolo rose to his feet in one fluid movement and crossed to the door.

It was then she heard the angry wail of a distressed babe, a sound that rose to a crescendo in seconds.

Ariane signalled for Tony to cut, and followed Manolo del Guardo into the foyer.

The sight of him cradling a baby in the curve of his arm caused the breath to catch in her throat.

At that moment he turned, and she stood locked into immobility at the ruthless intensity of his gaze. ‘Your intrusion is not welcome.’ His voice was dangerously soft, and the infant’s wailing increased.

She had the unbearable urge to take the child and attempt to soothe its pain. ‘The camera isn’t on, nor is the sound.’

The fate of Manolo del Guardo’s late wife was common knowledge; so too was the existence of their daughter. Except no photos of the child had reached the media.

‘Ensure it remains that way.’

The infant’s wailing intensified, then subsided into a series of cross, hiccuping cries.

Ariane couldn’t help herself. ‘She has colic.’

‘And you know this…because?’

She wanted to hit him. Instead she held her breath and counted to three before releasing it. She even managed a negligible shrug. ‘We can take up where we left off when you’ve settled your daughter into the nanny’s care.’

‘Difficult, when the girl walked out yesterday, and a replacement isn’t due until mid-week.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Was that genuine concern? Or a polite act? Manolo opted for the latter. ‘We’ll reconvene after lunch.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘At two.’

He headed towards the stairs, and Ariane retraced her steps to find Tony running a review of the morning’s taping.

‘We’re taking a break?’

‘Dismissed until two.’ She crossed to where he stood. ‘What do you think?’

‘So far so good. He’s ice.’

‘And won’t crack?’

He shot her a direct look as the tape went into rewind. ‘Waste of time to even try.’

Ariane viewed the morning’s session with an analytical eye, then retrieved her notebook, made a few notations and returned it to her briefcase.

There was half an hour until lunch, and she felt the pressing need for some fresh air. ‘I’m going to take a walk in the grounds.’

‘And examine the plant life?’

‘You have a better suggestion?’

Tony offered a wicked smile. ‘You could go pound the punching bag in the gym.’

‘Talk to me at day’s end. Although kickboxing is more my style. You could join me.’

‘Sorry, sweetheart. I’m not into masochism.’

She wrinkled her nose at him. ‘I might let you win.’

He lifted both hands in mock-capitulation. ‘Do me a favour, and go smell the roses.’

‘While you do…what?’

His slow grin held a teasing quality. ‘Kick back and anticipate this afternoon’s verbal interaction.’

Ariane rolled her eyes. ‘How come you get to have all the fun?’

He waited a beat, then offered quietly, ‘Watch out for yourself.’

A friend, as well as an associate, he saw too much. ‘Always.’

The automatic assurance didn’t fool either of them, and Ariane collected her cellphone before making her way to the rear of the house.

French doors led onto a large terrace, and she crossed it, then descended a set of stone steps to a paved courtyard.

The grounds were larger than she’d expected, with an expanse of immaculate lawn. Garden beds abounded with an array of flora in bloom, a riot of colour and green foliage, exquisite topiary. There was a gazebo, painted white with a peaked roof and decorative scrolls. A water fountain stood nearby, and she sighted a marble birdbath.

Shrubbery, garden seats—it was close to picture perfect, and she wondered if Manolo del Guardo surrounded himself with beautiful objects because he genuinely enjoyed them, or whether they were merely the possessions expected of a wealthy man. Suggested, supplied and maintained to create an image.

The house…mansion, she corrected mentally. Had he employed a team of interior decorators and given them carte blanche?

Her cellphone beeped and promptly went to mes sage-bank, providing a reminder she should check the morning’s incoming calls.

Three, she determined a few minutes later, two of which were from Roger. A sick feeling twisted her stomach at the brief, crude words.

Ignore him, she counselled silently, hating the wiliness of his psychosis. He rarely rang from the same number twice, switching SIM cards, using numerous pay-phones in a game devised to fool her so she’d engage each call or message. Even in the few seconds it took to hit the erase button, he managed to achieve his objective.

Roger was the reason she’d taken up martial arts. For the discipline and control…as a form of protection and a means of channelling her anger against his intrusive harassment.

Ariane pocketed the cellphone and deliberately focused her attention on her surroundings. It was a beautiful summer’s day, with only a few drifts of cloud in the sky. The warmth of the sun caressed her skin, and the air held the sweetness of flowers in bloom, their colours, some muted, many bright, a visual delight.

A short while later she returned indoors, freshened up, then she joined Tony in the dining room for lunch. Thin slices of veal, Parma ham, salads and fresh bread, followed by a delectable fruit salad.

There was time to retouch her make-up and smooth her hair before joining Tony in the designated interview room, where she went over her notes and the questions she wanted to pose during the afternoon taping.

Manolo del Guardo appeared shortly after two, in, unless she was mistaken, a change of shirt. White, top few buttons undone, with cuffs rolled back, the difference in style was minimal, and probably unnoticeable to the untrained eye.