More Than A Millionaire

“I need a woman.”

“Really?” Abby said with a snap.

“You’ve seen the apartment.” Emilio spread his hands. “I need someone to furnish it.”

“So employ an interior decorator.”

“I did. That was him on the phone this evening. I fired him.”

“I heard. Maybe you ought to call him back and unfire him.”

He looked at her pleadingly. “You can stay as long as you like. You solve my problem, I solve yours.” He held out his hand across the table.

Abby took it reluctantly. She had a nasty feeling that a whole portfolio of new problems was about to open up in front of her….

Born in London, Sophie Weston is a traveler by nature who started writing when she was five. She wrote her first romance recovering from illness, thinking her traveling was over. She was wrong, but she enjoyed it so much that she has carried on. These days she lives in the heart of the city with two demanding cats and a cherry tree—and travels the world looking for settings for her stories.

Look out for

The Millionaire’s Daughter and The Bridesmaid’s Secret

by Sophie Weston

Don’t miss these thrilling stories about two very different sisters and the men they marry—on sale in January and February 2002!

Books by Sophie Weston

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3630—THE SHEIKH’S BRIDE

3661—MIDNIGHT WEDDING

More Than a Millionaire

Sophie Weston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS a perfect Saturday afternoon at the Hacienda Montijo. Glamorous guests had enjoyed a long lazy lunch. Now they strolled through the famous gardens or drowsed over English tea on the lawn. Children romped in the swimming pool. The sun shone. Bees hummed.

The shy English visitor refused to be shifted from the terrace out into the sunshine, though.

‘Wouldn’t you like to go and mingle, Abby?’ said her hostess, without much hope.

‘No, I’ll just stay here and watch. If that’s all right,’ said the English girl politely.

Her hostess sighed and gave up. She was watching, too.

For below them, on the velvet-smooth tennis court, a battle to the death was in progress. A tall blond giant was sweating profusely as his opponent slammed him all around the court.

The dark tennis player was like quicksilver. He moved all the time, fast as a jaguar, graceful as a dancer. It seemed that wherever his opponent sent the ball, he was there first, totally in control.

‘Who is that?’ said the Montijo matriarch in displeasure. The blond giant was her favourite grandson.

She shifted in her cane chair and her daughter-in-law sighed inwardly. She signalled to her husband across the lawn. Why wasn’t he here when she needed him? He knew this was going to be difficult. He had no business leaving her to deal with it. Especially not as she was struggling to entertain the monosyllabic English girl at the same time.

She said brightly, ‘That’s Emilio Diz, Mama.’

The matriarch stiffened. ‘Diz?’

The English girl turned her head. She was a teenager; she should have been with the other teenagers, thought Annaluisa Montijo despairingly. But she was too tall and gangly to interest the boys and too suffocatingly shy to talk to the girls. So she ended up here in the middle of what was about to become a nasty family row.

‘Which one is Emilio Diz?’ she asked politely.

Both older women stared at her. Blond Bruno Montijo was the son and heir. The house was full of photographs of him, posed and unposed, muddy and magnificent on a polo pony, sleek and glamorous in black evening clothes at balls and receptions and premieres. His cups for fencing filled a cabinet in the library. He was rich, he was gorgeous and, inevitably, he was a national celebrity. Even if she did not recognise the world-class tennis player, the English girl should have recognised blond and gorgeous Bruno on his own home territory. It was almost an insult to the family not to. The matriarch drew an outraged breath.

Her daughter-in-law rushed into speech. ‘Of course, you haven’t met Bruno yet, Abby.’ She sent her mother-in-law a pleading look. ‘He’s my oldest son. The fair one.’

‘And the other really is Emilio Diz?’ said Abby, unaware of digging herself into a deeper hole.

The matriarch glared.

Her daughter-in-law intervened quickly. ‘Are you a fan, Abby?’ She tried hard to sound amused.

Where was Felipe? She caught sight of her husband and sent him another, more urgent, signal.

‘Of course she isn’t a fan,’ snapped the matriarch. ‘She didn’t know what the wretched man even looked like.’

‘No,’ admitted Abby, blushing.

Caught out again, she thought. This last week had been a nightmare. She seemed to have lurched from one social mistake to the next. She had never imagined people could make so many rules just to live day to day—or that she could find so many ways to break them.

She tried to explain that she wasn’t showing off about something she didn’t really understand. ‘I’ve heard my brothers talk about him. They thought he would be Wimbledon champion this year if he hadn’t retired from the circuit.’

But even that was wrong.

‘The circuit,’ sniffed the matriarch. ‘In my day lawn tennis was played by gentlemen. Not circus animals.’

Her daughter-in-law winced. Abby blushed harder and hung her head.

‘Oh, be fair, Mama,’ said the daughter-in-law, with compassion for this ugly duckling who always seemed to say the wrong thing, ‘Emilio Diz is a great tennis player and a national hero.’

‘Humph. Then why isn’t he still playing tennis? He’s only, what is it? Twenty-five? Twenty-six? Plenty of time to win something worthwhile. Why has he given up and gone into business?’ She spat the last words out as if they were obscene.

‘They say he’s very intelligent…’ protested the daughter-in-law faintly.

‘That’s why Felipe sold him the Palacio Azul, is it?’ said the matriarch with rancour.

The daughter-in-law knew when she was out of her depth. She looked round for help. It came puffing up the terrace steps.

‘For a very fair price, Mama,’ said Felipe Montijo, arriving slightly out of breath. ‘Unlike us, he has the resources to develop the place into a full sports complex…’

The matriarch swung her dark glasses round on him for an unnerving moment. ‘Develop? The house your grandfather built?’

‘It’s falling down, Mama. We can’t afford…’

‘And this man can?’

‘Oh, he can, all right,’ said Felipe with feeling. ‘He wasn’t just a tennis player, even when he was a professional. He made a killing on entertainment event software. Now he’s going into property in a big way.’

‘New money!’ Rosa Montijo was shocked and did not attempt to disguise it. ‘And you ask him to your home? Let him meet Rosanna?’

Felipe laughed. ‘He’s not interested in Rosanna, Mama. He’s twenty-five and he’s been on the international tennis circuit since he was eighteen, for heaven’s sake. He dates movie stars, not high school girls.’

‘In my day we would never have introduced the daughter of the house to a man like that.’

Her daughter-in-law intervened. ‘Felipe is doing business with him, Mama. Of course we ask him.’

The matriarch was disdainful. ‘His mother used to work for my hairdresser.’

Montijo husband and wife exchanged despairing looks.

Watching silently, Abby saw it with interest. It was the first time this pleasant husband and wife had shown any signs of communicating. They had been very hospitable but there was a coldness at the heart of this house. It worried her. She did not know how to deal with it. Probably that was what made her even more clumsy and tactless than all those rules she kept falling over.

Abby looked across the perfect lawn to the distant tennis court. A cluster of beautifully dressed people were grouped outside the netting, watching the match with palpable excitement. But it was not the fashionable crowd that brought Abby’s heavy brows together in a worried frown. It was not even the duel on court. It was that coldness.

Maybe that is what Daddy meant, when he said they were sophisticated, thought Abby. She sighed.

She knew she was not sophisticated. If she hadn’t already known it, the friends of her host’s daughter would have made her realise it. Their sexy clothes made her blink. And their knowing conversation silenced her. It was like watching one of the international soap operas that they all loved.

Abby never managed to see the glamorous soap operas, though most of them were aired in England. They were for-bidden at her boarding school. And at home she was too busy, mucking out the stables, tearing into the overgrown garden or doing what she could to patch up the worst decayed bits of the Palladian pile that was her home.

Her father would hug her and say she was a good girl but she knew that he was worried about her. Abby did not see why. She was perfectly happy. Well, maybe not perfectly. But as long as the west wing roof did not leak this winter, she had not got much to wish for, she thought.

Her noisy siblings treated her as if she was a fifth brother. The village generally behaved as if she was an apprentice workman, teaching her various tricks of carpentry and plumbing whenever the latest disaster struck the Hall. As for the county, now that she was sixteen, they either asked her to dinner as her widowed father’s partner for the evening or froze her out, as an impediment to his—in their view—long overdue remarriage.

It was the dinner parties that Abby hated. That was why her father had brought her on this business trip with him to Argentina.

She protested. Of course she protested. There was too much to do before Christmas. The pipes might freeze if she was not there to make sure that proper steps were taken when the temperature dropped. She would only be in the way.

‘But I really want you to meet the Montijos.’

Then they could come to Yorkshire in the summer when there was no possibility of freeze or flood.

‘Yes, and they will. But first I’d like you to stay with them. Señora Montijo is a very sophisticated woman. As well as very kind. See what you can learn from her, Smudge.’

‘Learn from her?’ said Abby, wary but disarmed by the nursery nickname.

‘Clothes and things,’ said her father vaguely.

There was nothing wrong with Abby’s clothes that a healthy increase in her allowance wouldn’t put right. But she was too fond of her father to say so. Four sons of super intelligence and expensive hobbies had depleted his resources almost as much as the roof. He worked hard and travelled the world. He made a good income. But the house and the family between them kept pace. There was never much left over for Abby.

Fortunately, so far she had been happy to live in jeans, topped off by shirts and sweaters that she found in the boys’ catalogues of sports and adventure wear. This was the first time she had realised that her father was not as happy with this wardrobe as she was.

‘You want me to be more feminine,’ she said, depressed. ‘Curls and stuff.’

Her father smiled affectionately and ruffled her soft dark hair, currently caught of her eyes in a raggedy pony-tail. ‘Please God, no.’

‘Well, then—’

‘You need a woman to show you how to deal with people, darling.’

‘Oh, come, Pops. We’ve done sex at school,’ said Abby dryly. ‘If we hadn’t, it would be a bit late now, don’t you think?’

He looked uncomfortable. ‘Not just sex.’

‘All right, what then?’

‘I suppose—social know-how.’

‘Social know-how?’ Abby was incredulous. She primmed up her mouth and minced across the room in a very fair imitation of a catwalk model. ‘How to get out of a sports car without showing too much leg? Come into the real world, Pops. Anyway, you don’t think there’s any such thing as too much leg,’ she added practically.

Abby thought he would laugh. He didn’t. He smiled, but absently. It was obvious that he was really worried.

‘Oh, Smudge. If only it was as simple as that.’

Abby began to feel alarmed. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I know you don’t. That’s part of the problem.’ He sighed. ‘You’re such an open person, Smudge. You’re honest and it never occurs to you that other people may not be.’

She shook her head, even more bewildered.

‘I’m no good at this,’ he said, angry with himself. ‘If your 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 probably feel more comfortable. Well, I would in your place. The run up to Christmas is not exactly formal but the parties are, you know, sort of special. And anyway, people expect to dress up for Montijo parties.’

Which Abby interpreted as, ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t turn up looking like a schoolgirl again and let us all down.’ She suppressed a sigh.

‘Then, thanks. Yes, please.’

Rosanna took her off to her room and Abby tried hard to enjoy the dressing-up session with Rosanna and her two best friends. They tried to include her in the conversation. But she did not know any of the boys they were talking about. And the tactics they discussed made her go hot with sympathetic imaginary embarrassment.

Then she heard a name she knew.

‘Is Emilio staying for the dance, Rosanita?’ said one of the friends, playing with her hair in front of Rosanna’s crowded dressing table.

Rosanna was inside her walk-in closet. She poked her head out of the door. ‘Yes.’ She added in naughty Spanish, ‘He struggled but Papa told him he had to stay and meet the right people.’

Abby translated the words in her head and nearly laughed aloud. She knew exactly how the tennis player felt. Maybe he was bad at mingling, too.

‘That means he’s the guest of honour, Abby,’ said the friend, translating kindly.

She did not need to translate. Abby had prepared for this trip by applying herself hard to Spanish. If she had to learn a new language, she thought, it might just as well be one where there were audio tapes available. But ever since she arrived, all the Montijos and their friends had brushed aside her halting attempts to speak their language. Abby did not know whether that was because they were too courteous or too impatient to let her fumble. But it had depleted her small store of confidence even further.

Rosanna emerged with a long burgundy dress. It was a sophisticated colour, too sophisticated for a sixteen-year-old, Abby thought at once. But they insisted that she try it on. So she did.

It swirled nicely round her legs when she moved. Only then they insisted on her borrowing some high, strappy shoes and she did not dare to move any more.

‘I’ll fall off,’ she said, hanging on to bedpost.

‘Not if you practise. You can’t wear kitten heels with a dress like that,’ said Rosanna fairly.

Abby tried to say that she did not want to wear the dress, either. There was a lot more wrong with it than the too subtle colour. It was more low cut than anything she had ever worn in her life. It made her feel uncomfortable. She said so. Rosanna gave her a shimmery scarf to wear with it but could barely hide her impatience.

‘Honestly, Abby, I don’t see the problem. It’s summer here, for heaven’s sake. Everyone wears low necklines in the summer. No one will even notice.’

‘I’ll notice,’ said Abby, dragging the designer fabric higher over her small breasts.

A bootlace strap slid off her shoulder. She hauled it back. The front of the dress slid back to its former anchorage. She grabbed it with both hands. In the long mirror she looked flushed and stubborn and acutely uncomfortable.

‘Well, you can’t wear a T-shirt and shorts to a party,’ snapped Rosanna, losing patience. ‘Not in Argentina. Your father,’ she added, clinching it, ‘would really mind.’

The others agreed. They turned a deaf ear to Abby’s reservations about the shoes, the straps, the sheer backlessness of the dress. They had done their best for her and now there were more interesting things to discuss.