More Than A Millionaire. Sophie Weston

mother were alive she would explain. It’s about learning how to talk to people. How to listen. How to hear what they really mean. Not just what they say. That sort of social know-how.’

      ‘You make it sound like learning another language,’ she scoffed.

      But inside she was alarmed. She had not seen her father so serious since Will had disappeared in the Himalayas for three weeks before he was found safe and well in totally the wrong valley. Surely her social inadequacies were not in the same class? She very nearly said so.

      But her father was struggling to put his worries into words. ‘It is a bit. And like a language, you just have to practice. Only you don’t. You’re a sweetheart and you look after the boys and me like someone twice your age. But—you haven’t the slightest idea how to walk into a room and mingle.’ He gave a sharp sigh. ‘You’re so shy. I don’t know what to do about it. Annaluisa Montijo is the best solution I can think of.’

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘Your mother always said there were going to be too many men in your life. I’m beginning to realise what she meant,’ he said ruefully.

      He smiled in that way he always did when he talked about his dead wife to his daughter. It was as if she was standing just behind Abby’s shoulder and he was laughing into her eyes. The intimacy was breathtaking. So was the sense of loss.

      When he looked like that, Abby would do anything for him. Even go to a country where she knew no one, did not speak the language and had no idea what she would do all day while her father was at his meetings. Abby was not good with strangers.

      And, though she did her best to disguise it whenever her father came out to the hacienda, this lot were way out of her ken. She had been more miserable—her first week at school, for example—but she had never felt so utterly surplus to requirements. She knew that her hostess wanted her to make friends with her daughter. But Rosanna Montijo and her smart friends, although they were only a year older than Abby, felt like another generation. She went to their dances and barbecues and counted the hours until she could persuade one of the chauffeurs to give her a lift home. She never managed to mingle.

      The only place she felt really happy at Hacienda Montijo was the stables. That was odd because, of all her family, she was the one who was secretly nervous of horses. But here the gauchos had patience with her slow Spanish and the horses, perverse creatures as always, were pleased to see her.

      This Saturday’s lunch party was an ordeal. She bore it by reminding herself that she was returning home for Christmas in three days’ time. All she had to do was avoid Rosanna and Rosanna’s friends today and she would be on the homeward stretch.

      Accordingly, she pleaded aversion to the powerful sun and stayed firmly on the terrace. This threw her in to company with the older Montijos. It was not easy, with the women speaking courteous English for her benefit and clearly wishing she was anywhere else.

      But it couldn’t be helped. In three days’ time she would be gone and could forget the whole beastly business: sophisticated seventeen-year-olds; international tennis stars that weren’t good enough for the Montijos; chilly family dinners; the lot. And she could go back to being grubby Abby Templeton Burke. After all, you didn’t need to be sophisticated to do basic repairs to the ancestral home.

      ‘Do you not play tennis, Abby?’ asked her hostess with a touch of desperation.

      ‘No.’

      ‘But you said your brothers like it?’

      ‘They’re good at it,’ said Abby with simple truth.

      ‘Oh. And you’re not?’ asked kind Felipe. ‘Well, it doesn’t really matter. I’m sure you’re good at lots of other things.’

      ‘Not games. My brother Will says I can’t catch a ball to save my life.’

      The matriarch did not like being ignored.

      ‘That man is showing off,’ she announced, pointing her gold-topped stick at the tennis court.

      ‘It’s not showing off if you’re world-class and not pretending to be anything else,’ said Felipe, harassed.

      ‘Just look at him.’

      On the court the tall rangy figure was now waiting for the blond boy to serve. Dancing from foot to foot, he exuded energy and effortless coordination.

      ‘Upstart,’ finished the older Señora Montijo with venom.

      ‘Mama, he’s a great guy,’ protested Felipe. ‘Came up from nothing. He’s educated himself. Now he’s putting half a dozen brothers and sisters through college as well, I’m told. And I’ve seen for myself that he’s got a great business brain.’

      Rosa Montijo shuddered. ‘And how did he get the money to start this business? Can you tell me that?’

      Her daughter-in-law took a hand. ‘You know perfectly well, Mama,’ she said indignantly. ‘He won it. All right, he hasn’t won any of the big titles. But he’s won plenty of prize money during his career.’ She cast a harassed glance at their visitor. ‘You mustn’t give Abby the impression that Emilio is some sort of criminal.’

      Felipe said soothingly, ‘You didn’t mean that, did you, Mama? Seriously, Abby, you needn’t worry about meeting undesirable types here. One of the business magazines did an article on him a couple of months ago. He must be a millionaire by now. He never had to—’

      ‘Look,’ interrupted the matriarch. ‘Now! Tell me that isn’t showing off. Go on, look!’

      They all looked.

      Emilio Diz dealt briskly with a workmanlike serve. The blond put the full force of his arm into his return. Even from the terrace they could see the way the dark man’s expression changed. Suddenly he was glittering with triumph. Then he was running backwards, lithe and sure-footed. The ball soared over the net, high and hard. Emilio Diz jumped, reaching. His body arced like a dolphin. In flight it was clear that the tanned limbs were pure muscle.

      ‘Look at that,’ said Annaluisa, forgetting her hostess manners in simple awe.

      Rosa Montijo sniffed. ‘Gypsy. He’s just trying to pretend he’s more than a millionaire. At Bruno’s expense.’

      There was a crack like the report of a gun. A shout of triumph rose from the throats of two dozen watchers.

      ‘He doesn’t have to pretend, Mama,’ said Felipe dryly, joining in the applause.

      The game was over. The two men were shaking hands over the net.

      ‘He could have given Bruno a chance,’ said the resentful grandmother. ‘He is your guest, after all.’

      ‘You don’t understand Emilio, Mama,’ said Felipe.

      The dark tennis player strode off the court. He was swinging his racquet as if impatient to get at the next challenge.

      The spectators gathered round Bruno, punching him on the back, shaking hands. But Abby, watching, saw that they were more careful of Emilio Diz. Or maybe they were just more respectful. They gave him a drink. They talked. But they didn’t touch him, those tactile, relaxed people who touched everyone.

      A confident redhead approached and batted her eyelashes at him. He looked amused and didn’t walk away. But Abby had the impression that he would walk away the moment he wanted to, gorgeous redhead or no.

      Felipe confirmed the feeling. He had taken off his sunglasses and was watching the dark star intently. ‘He doesn’t give anyone special treatment. Emilio plays to win,’ he said. He sounded just a little afraid.

      The afternoon party turned into a barbecue, as they so often did.

      ‘Do you want to borrow a dress, Abby?’ said Rosanna Montijo, trying hard. ‘We’ll be dancing afterward.’

      ‘Do you think I need to?’ asked Abby, trying in her turn.

      ‘You’d