Sophie Weston - The Latin Affair

‘Well, I would have to look at the file…’

‘And of course you’re empowered to agree on compensation?’ he went on sweetly.

Nicky knew quite well what he was doing. Silently she ground her teeth.

‘I would have to consult Mr de Vries,’ she conceded stiffly.

‘Quite.’ His tone was suddenly a lot less sweet. ‘So let’s stop playing games. We both know de Vries is ducking and weaving. Cut the feeble excuses, dig him out of wherever he’s hiding and put him on the line now.’

If Nicky did not like being dismissed, she positively hated being patronised.

She yelled, ‘I do not play games. I do not tell lies. And Martin isn’t here.’

And banged the phone down.

Caroline gave her a slow, mocking hand-clap. ‘That showed him.’

Nicky was steaming. ‘So it should. Bully,’ she threw at the phone, as if the man were there in person.

‘Esteban Tremain must be shivering in his shoes,’ murmured Caroline.

‘Quite right too,’ Nicky announced, militant. ‘He shouldn’t have tried to bully Sally. And he shouldn’t have talked to me like that I haven’t got the time to take a lot of rubbish from people who don’t listen. It’s too close to lunchtime.’

She glanced at her watch as she spoke. She had a date with her brother and Ben had been known to leave a restaurant if people kept him waiting.

‘Tell that to Martin when you explain how you handled his biggest problem client,’ Caroline said with feeling.

Nicky stared. ‘Biggest problem client? What are you talking about?’

‘You mean you don’t know who Esteban Tremain is?’

‘Never met the man in my life,’ said Nicky, adding darkly, ‘And, on present showing, I’ll be quite happy if that’s the way it stays.’

‘Stately home?’ prompted Caroline. ‘Cornwall? Try, gorgeous.’

‘Oh, please!’

‘You can’t have forgotten him. A Savile Row suit with muscles. When he came in to the showroom every woman in the place wandered by for a look.’

Nicky shook her head. ‘None of us is that sex-starved,’ she protested, trying not to laugh. ‘What is he? A film star?’

Caroline said in a practical tone, ‘No. Just tall, dark and smouldering with sex appeal. And threatening to sue Martin for every penny he’s got’.

‘What?’

She cocked a mocking eyebrow. ‘Come on, Nicky. The kitchen at Hallam Hall must have cost us more grief than any other contract this year.’

‘Hallam Hall!’ gasped Nicky, enlightened at last.

Now she knew exactly who Esteban Tremain was. And how much he could cost Springdown Kitchens if he put his mind to it.

‘Oh, my Lord,’ she said. ‘Get the file into my office now. ’

Caroline ran.

Esteban Tremain looked at the suddenly buzzing telephone with disbelief. Nobody cut him off. Nobody. He began to punch buttons savagely. The door opened. ‘Er—’ said his secretary.

One glance was enough to tell her that he was in a temper. She did not think much of Francesca Moran’s chances of getting in to see him when he looked like that.

Esteban glared at her across the telephone.

‘What?’

‘Miss Moran,’ said Anne fast. Her tone was strictly neutral. ‘She’s been shopping. She wondered if you would like to take her to lunch.’

Esteban breathed hard.

Anne held her breath. When she’d come to work for him three years ago there had been plenty of people to warn her that Esteban would be impossible. He was a heart-breaker; he was a workaholic; he had a fiendish temper. She had learned that it was all true. Only he did not take any of it out on his secretary. Normally…

With an angry exclamation, he threw the telephone from him and flung out of his chair. Anne quietly restored the telephone to its cradle and waited.

Esteban strode up to the floor-length window. He thrust his hands into his pockets and glared out at the rain-lashed lawns. A muscle worked in his cheek.

Esteban wrestled with his temper. None of this was Anne’s fault, he reminded himself. He gave an explosive sigh and swung back to the room.

‘My regrets to Francesca,’ he said rapidly, not sounding regretful at all. ‘Anything else?’

Anne, the perfect secretary, did not protest. She just said carefully, ‘I’ll go along and tell her you’re too busy to see her, shall I?’

There was a small, sizzling pause.

‘She’s here?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘But I told her last time—’ He remembered again that it was not Anne’s fault and stopped. ‘Damn. ’

Esteban thought, then took one of his famous lightning decisions. ‘OK. You’d better wheel her in for a bit But not long.’

He reached for his jacket.

Esteban never received visitors in his shirt sleeves, Anne thought. Not even a lady he regularly spent the night with. Though she was not sure that Francesca Moran was in that category these days, in spite of the gossip or, indeed, the hints that Miss Moran herself let fall so heavily.

‘I’ll just clear a space,’ murmured Anne, again the perfect secretary, advancing on a tower of papers.

Esteban looked around his room in faint surprise. Apart from the papers that covered his desk, there were two large books open on the floor beside him and piles of more papers that needed his attention on every one of his comfortable chairs. He looked amused suddenly.

‘Don’t bother.’

‘But she’s got to have somewhere to sit.’

‘Why? It will only encourage her,’ said Esteban wickedly.

He flicked his lapels straight. Looking up, he gave her a conspiratorial grin.

‘Buzz me in five, max. Right?’

‘Right,’ said Anne.

Francesca Moran, she thought with satisfaction, would be back in the rainy garden a lot sooner than she expected. Anne did not like Francesca.

It would have been impossible to tell from Esteban’s manner whether he liked her or not. He kissed her on both exquisitely made up cheeks in welcome. But he adroitly avoided her move to deepen the embrace and retired behind the bulwark of his desk. Francesca accepted the rebuff as gracefully as if she had not recognised it. She took up a perch on the arm of an ancient leather chair and gave him a sweet smile.

‘We need to talk,’ she said caressingly.

Esteban raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh?’

Francesca’s myopic grey eyes made her look vague and fragile. It was misleading.

‘Yes. I was thinking all the time I was in Cornwall. It’s stupid for us to be like this. We ought to let bygones be bygones and pool our resources.’

Esteban’s poker face was famous. But for a moment he could not contain his astonishment. At once, he controlled his expression. But one corner of his mouth twitched.

‘Are you proposing to me, Francesca?’ he asked politely.

She was not disconcerted. She batted her eyelashes and gave him a smile of calculated charm.

‘Well, you’re not going to propose to me, are you?’

Esteban was surprised into laughing aloud. ‘You’re right there,’ he agreed, watching her with fascination.

Francesca shrugged. ‘So it’s up to me,’ she said with no sign of rancour. ‘You need a wife. It would be ideal.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t, you know,’ said Esteban. He was gentle but quite firm.

But Francesca, as he had learned in Gibraltar last year, did not recognise firmness when it meant someone not doing what she wanted.

‘It would be perfect,’ she said, unheeding. ‘The time is right for both of us.’

Esteban leaned back in his chair and surveyed her in disbelief. She smiled back, not discouraged. He decided to try another tack.

‘What makes you think I need a wife?’ he drawled.