A Devilishly Dark Deal. Maggie Cox

      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.