Chloe's Rescue Mission (7 page)

He looked up. ‘This is an acupressure point. It helps stop motion-sickness.’

I nodded, too stunned to speak.

He smiled. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen the colour drain from someone’s face quite so quickly. But if you think you are going to be sick, we have bags for that.’

I nodded again. The nausea subsiding – more through shock, I suspected, than alternative therapy. I stared at his hands. They were warm and strong. I sat mesmerized, like a volunteer in a hypnotist’s stage show.

The plane did another roller-coaster impression and my hands clutched at his forearms. ‘Sorry!’

‘Feeling sick?’

‘I’ll survive, but I’ll be glad when it calms down.’

He frowned. ‘You and me both.’

I’ll just bet he was. The prospect of Chloe going one-two-three-retch all over his classy jet would be enough to piss anyone off.

The turbulence only lasted a few more minutes and, once the pilot announced we could remove our safety belts, Duncan released my wrists and retrieved his laptop, before immersing himself in some work. I slid my arms across my waist, and hugged them to me; the impression of his fingers still firmly indented on them.

I focused on the table for several minutes, until I dared to make a brief study of his seriously handsome face, which now peered intently at the contents of his laptop screen. It was the same face I’d seen back at the TV studios, and the same face I’d watched laughing at Mum’s stories. But now, I had a sneaking suspicion, it was the face that would fuel my imagination for the rest of the trip. Much against my better judgement.

‘This is gorgeous,’ I muttered to myself as I stood on the balcony of my room. I was looking out over the hillside stretching down to the town of Sitges. The sun’s rays were seeping through the sleeves of my blouse and warming my skin. This wasn’t exactly the his-n-hers suite Beth had predicted but the quality was excellent and the view spectacular. What a shame I only had a couple of days here.

The moment we’d arrived at the hotel, Duncan had excused himself to attend a meeting but suggested I take a tour of the exhibitors in the Sala Picasso, so I could familiarize myself with the different companies before I set about schmoozing them.

Despite being geared up for my first foray into schmoozing my prospective investors, I was faced with exhibition stand engineers and frazzled technicians – not a mover or a shaker amongst them. Not even the twitch of a corporate dynamo with deep pockets. But I was able to suss out the scale of the venue and where the Big Boys were located. Plus, I garnered a small library of leaflets to help cure my insomnia.

By the time I was through touring the exhibition stands, I needed a drink. The terrace outside was dotted with tables and umbrellas. I wanted time to soak up a little of the atmosphere so I sat at a table in the evening sun.

When the waiter appeared, I asked for a tinto de verano – an ice cool glass of red wine and lemonade would slip down nicely.

Across from me, bougainvillea in clashing colours of magenta, cerise and apricot were scrambling over the terrace walls. It reminded me of the tropical climes of Costa Rica.

I loved to travel. My first trip abroad was at the age of six. Dad took us camping in Gascony. Not wildly exotic but different all the same. I was fascinated by the fields of giant sunflowers, their faces turned up to the heat of the sun. I used do the same because it brought out my freckles. Being six years old, I liked freckles – as opposed to Mum who slapped sun-block on me with irritating regularity. I hated the stickiness of sun-block, and it tasted bitter.

Camping was a huge adventure to me. Dad made it even more so, involving us in everything from erecting the tent to barbecuing sausages. On our return journey, we had a stop-over in the Loire valley and visited Chateau de Chambord – the biggest, most spectacular castle in France. I thought I’d been transported to a magical realm, with its symmetry, its towers and the beautiful reflections in the water. I drove my family nuts, swanning about like a princess. In my imagination, the castle was my home. I would return to it in my schoolgirl dreams, again and again. For my birthday, Mum and Dad gave me the most gorgeous princess costume, complete with tiara and cape. I wore it every chance I could. I battled daily to wear at least part of it to school but Mum wouldn’t budge. ‘It’s for special occasions. If you wear it to school, it won’t be special any more.’ But on October 7th, she acquiesced and I wore the whole outfit to my Dad’s ‘special celebration’. I felt so important that day, and everyone told me how pretty I looked.

It took months for it to sink in that Dad wouldn’t be coming home. Ever.

Leaning back, I ran my fingers over the pressure points Duncan had massaged earlier. That was some trick. And not just the anti-sickness therapy. Swear to God, there’d been a fleeting moment when something else was brewing. When our eyes connected, my temperature had flared and shivers rippled up my spine. And I reckon there’d been a glimmer of acknowledgment in his eyes as he’d spotted my reaction. Then, bam! It was like a shutter slamming down. Like he knew he’d rung my bell and that’s all he needed to do.

No wonder he had such a reputation.

And I couldn’t deny his magic was working on me. Mind you, that wasn’t surprising. According to a recent article in Glamour, I was in my prime; hormones were coursing through my body like Atlantic salmon belting home to spawn.

However, I seriously doubted Duncan had any interest in me on that level – after all, I was no catch. But just in case he had, I absolutely knew the challenge before me was to resist.

I suspected Beth would have a different view but she’d always been the impulsive one. I had to keep my eye on the theatrical ball. Playboys were dangerous.

Although…I had to admit, Duncan didn’t seem like that…which probably made him even more dangerous. ‘I will resist,’ I muttered to myself. God knows, I’d made enough bad choices over men in the past, now would be a really dumb time to fall for another unsuitable candidate. I aimed to get the theatre back on track and, after that my own life.

My drink turned up in a tall, slim glass with condensation already forming. Three lumps of ice threatened to dilute the wine in the evening heat. I was thirsty so I knocked half of it back in one.

My feet ached and I only had forty minutes to dress for dinner, when I would have to switch into Schmooze Mode. I closed my eyes and listened to the chirrup of birds over the chatter of delegates on the terrace. It was so good to feel the warmth of sun on my face. Oh to be in holiday mode…

‘Are you all sorted for tomorrow?’ Duncan’s body blocked the sun. I opened my eyes.

‘Yes thanks. How about you – is it all shaping up for a good event?’

‘I think it is.’

‘Excellent!’ I raised my glass in a toast, and took a slug. A block of ice smacked me in the teeth, sloshing tinto over my face. I lurched forward.

Duncan, being a true gent, laughed. ‘Careful,’ he said, handing me a paper napkin.

I frowned. I wasn’t mad keen on public humiliation, unless scripted and rehearsed for a paying audience.

He sat down, which was a pity as I was intending to neck the remaining drink and leave. He was still smiling. ‘You okay?’

‘Absolutely fine,’ I said, mopping my chest.

A waiter appeared with a glass of beer for Duncan. Then the waiter relieved me of the wine-soaked napkin and asked if I’d like another drink.

‘No, thank you.’

Duncan reached into the pocket of his linen jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. ‘Your delegate list,’ he said, handing it to me. I opened it out. Bless him, he’d highlighted a bunch of names in pink and several others in green. ‘The pink ones are my hot favourites. I think you’ve a good chance of getting them on side. The green ones are possibles. The others…’ he shrugged. ‘Who knows? Maybe you can work on them.’

‘This is fantastic. Thank you.’

‘Speaking as a businessman, you want to keep your pitch simple and make it relevant. Find some way the company you’re talking to could have a stake in what you’re doing. Let them know how you’ll spend their money and tell them it’s urgent. You don’t want them fobbing you off and sitting on the idea for months. If they can’t help now, you need to know.’

‘Would it help to say we’ll have their logos mounted on the theatre walls – a sort of permanent advert for them?’

‘It might. But is that what you want – some indigestion brand slapped on the theatre wall, or worse?’

‘I see what you mean.’

‘I’ve no doubt you’ll win a few of them round,’ he said.

He glanced at his watch, prompting me to look at mine. Seventeen minutes to shower and change for dinner. At my audible gasp, he said, ‘Drinks are at eight, dinner’s not till eight-thirty.’

‘Great. Better go. See you later.’

He raised his glass to me and, I suspect, watched me walk away, which I’m glad to report, I managed without tripping over a stray leaf.

Marlean had suggested a cocktail dress for this evening and one full length for tomorrow’s gala dinner. Because I wanted to make an impact, I’d raided Mum’s vintage wardrobe, choosing one in several shades of coral that she’d worn in a production of The Boyfriend.

I kept my hair loose since I planned on giving it the works for tomorrow’s gala dinner. Left to mother nature and a slew of expensive ‘product’ not to mention judicious use of a curling iron, my hair ‘tumbled’ as Mum described it, in corkscrew curls. As a child, I’d hated my hair. If only I’d gown up through the eighties, I’d have been the envy of all my friends but the nineties gave us
Friends
and The Rachel, making hair straighteners de rigueur. Lord knows, I’d worked my way through enough of those. Thankfully, as I grew taller, my body balanced out the weight of the curls but it didn’t stop me wishing for a cute, blonde, pixie crop that I could just run my fingers through after a shower. I wanted to look like Carey Mulligan, which is a shame because she’s at least two sizes smaller, two inches taller and seldom brunette.

I checked the contents of my evening bag and headed downstairs.

There was a hum of chatter at the bar and a waiter stood handing out glasses of sherry over ice. I wasn’t mad for sherry but when in Spain…

Ahead of me was a chap in a navy and white striped shirt, navy chinos and super-shiny leather shoes. Was he approachable? I wondered, just as his head swivelled in my direction. I flicked my smile switch and headed for him.

‘Good evening, I’m Chloe Steele from the Joshua Steele Theatre project,’ I began.

‘I know who you are,’ he said in the sexiest French accent. He held out his hand to shake mine. ‘Philippe Beaumont from BVA, we’re a travel company.’

‘Excellent. Pleased to meet you,’ I said, not sure how a French travel company might mesh with a provincial English theatre. But he was friendly so perhaps I could cut my teeth on him. ‘So, you know why I’m here?’

‘Duncan mentioned your project to me. It’s an honourable venture but not, I think, one with which we can help.’ He delivered the news without a shred of regret.

‘Understandable. So, do you use these fabulous Thorsen Leisure hotels for all your events?’ I asked, neatly segueing to my assumed subsidiary role as a Thorsen Leisure champion. It was the least I could do for Duncan.

‘We do, occasionally.’

‘I’ve done a lot of events and this really ticks all the boxes,’ I gushed.

‘It’s a very good hotel, yes. And here’s the man behind its success,’ he said, looking beyond me to Duncan.

‘Philippe. Welcome to Hotel la Heradura.’ They shook hands, and Philippe clasped Duncan’s shoulder, suggesting they were good friends. Duncan nodded in my direction. ‘I see you’ve met Chloe Steele.’

‘Indeed!’

‘Have you told Philippe about your project?’ Duncan asked, like he was checking my homework.

‘Briefly, yes, but we were just talking about this hotel – it’s in such a great location, and the facilities are superb.’

He smiled back at me, ‘Thank you. I like to think we learn something from every new hotel we work on.’ He turned to Philippe. ‘I trust you brought your golf clubs with you?’

‘Of course. Do you play, Chloe?’

‘Afraid not. When it comes to sport, I’m a water baby. Otherwise, I’m more of a song and dance kinda gal.’

‘Really,’ he nodded. ‘Then perhaps you will allow me the pleasure of dancing with you, tomorrow evening?’ I’d seen that kind of smile before. The smile of a player. I wondered if he was Duncan’s wing man on the international dating circuit.

‘Happy to,’ I said.

Duncan glanced around the room, clearly not interested in our small-talk. He was even tapping his foot in agitation so I said, ‘Duncan, will there be a live band, tomorrow evening?’

He looked back at me. ‘A live band and a flamenco show. I’m advised they’re very good.’

‘I love flamenco – it’s just so energetic and full of passion,’ I said then regretted it, as Philippe’s eyes nearly popped with anticipation.

Duncan merely nodded and looked around, calling to a girl with a sleek platinum-blonde bob. She’d tucked the short side behind one ear and left the long side to drape over one eye. ‘Gemma, come here and meet Chloe.’

Gemma was even shorter than I was, and wearing the kind of asymmetric dress that required confidence. It made me feel I’d dressed for a Sunday school outing.

‘Chloe, this is Gemma Cox from Cox & Lambert PR.’ We shook hands. Duncan continued, ‘I’ve sat you at our table, Gemma, because Chloe has a project I think you’re going to find very interesting.’

‘I heard about it. You were on TV, selling yourself for the theatre. Great hook!’

‘Thanks.’

Her hand, chilled from her drinking glass, squeezed my arm. ‘Let’s sit down, these bloody shoes are killing me.’

Duncan pointed out our table and Gemma headed for it at remarkable speed, before jettisoning her shoes and groaning in relief. ‘Why do we do it?’ she asked, rubbing her left foot. ‘Right, tell me more.’

It didn’t take long for her to grasp the story. ‘That’s so cool, and there’s so much mileage we could get out of it.’

‘We?’

‘Sure. We so want to get involved.’

‘I’m afraid the theatre couldn’t afford to pay you, though.’

‘Don’t worry. We’ll do okay out of it. Kudos goes a long way, babe.’

By the time the table had filled up, Gemma was gamely helping to spread the word.

Even though I tried very hard not to, my eyes kept meeting Duncan’s. At one point, somebody mentioned the open-air spa pool. Beth’s prediction of Jacuzzis rocketed into my brain. I choked on a swallowed laugh and blushed. Duncan must have read a whole different message in my reaction, as one eyebrow lifted and a glint appeared in his eye. So I broadened my smile and raised my glass.