Prima Donna (49 page)

Pia lay on the bed, ankles firmly crossed.

‘Hey, baby,’ Paolo cooed at her, his hand tracing circles on her tummy. He’d only managed to get as far as unbuttoning her shirt. ‘Don’t be like this. We get so
little time together as it is.’

Pia flashed her eyes at him. ‘I told you I’m still cross with you, Paolo. You were going to abandon me out there.’

‘But, baby, I simply thought it would be easier for you to go back in the chopper.’

‘No. You were prepared to leave me behind in the middle of the rainforest so that you wouldn’t be late back and risk angering your dear papa. The prodigal son has returned, after
all. He needs to show off his heir to all Brazil’s glitterati tonight. He probably wants to introduce you to your future wife, the meek ugly daughter of some shipping magnate,’ she said
cruelly. It was well known how Velasquez Senior controlled his son through the purse strings.

‘Now you’re being crazy. He knows I could never look at another woman. He can see I’m mad about you.’

‘I think we both know what your father can see you’re mad about.’

Paolo took his hand off her and jumped off the bed. This was proving to be more hassle than it was worth. He shouldn’t have broken off his flirtation with that Venezuelan model, Irina. He
thought both he and Pia had gone into the relationship knowing it was nothing more than sex. Why was she giving him a hard time about their affair now? They’d been having fun. What was with
the guilt trip? Why was she being so uptight today?

He pulled on his clean trousers, irritated. He was tired and horny. Why couldn’t she just put out, help him relax before tonight? ‘I need to help my parents greet the guests,’
he said, shrugging on his jacket and checking his hair in the mirror. He picked up his shades from the table and looked down at her. She stayed staring at her feet.

‘I’ll see you up there, then,’ he said tetchily.

Pia heard the door slam behind him and closed her eyes with relief. She needed time alone. Time to think.

She’d done nothing but dance since coming back to Brazil. Her tutors had been delighted when she’d sought refuge with them, and in return she had allowed nothing to impinge upon her
thoughts beyond training for Varna. Every day she was going to class and making rehearsals, feeling increasingly confident that she was finally making the full recovery – both physical and
emotional – that only time could provide and that Will had denied her. The date of her showdown with Ava was fast approaching and she knew she needed to be in the best condition of her life.
There were no more second chances.

Which was why Paolo had fitted into the plan nicely. It was an easy, thoughtless, uncomplicated affair – a little light relief in the evenings – and took up absolutely no headspace
at all. Just what she had thought she needed. Going back to her old ways, being wild and free like she had been in the good old days – the days before the accident, before Will and Tanner had
entered her life and Sophie had left it – was supposed to have proved to her that she’d got her life back, after all, the one she’d been wrenched from.

Except that now she had it back, it didn’t seem enough somehow. She didn’t feel free, like she’d expected. She felt lost and bored and lonely. Something had changed.
She
had changed. The old fall-backs weren’t working.

It was Tanner’s fault, she knew. He kept knocking her off balance. Every single time he opened his mouth, he revealed another truth that sent her world spinning off its axis –
Will’s lies, Sophie’s innocence, and now the small fact that he’d saved her life . . .

It was her reaction to that that bothered her most of all. When she’d thought it was Will who’d saved her, she’d felt crippled by the debt. He’d wanted her body, soul and
trademark. But Tanner? Well, a plain thank you would have sufficed. He didn’t make her feel beholden to him in any way, and yet as they’d trekked back on the horse together and the real
story of the past few months settled in her brain, she’d felt desperate to
be
beholden to him. She could have risen a man from the dead doing what she’d done to him today, and
although he hadn’t entirely succeeded in stopping her seduction, she knew he was determined to resist her.

She locked her arms behind her head as she watched the ceiling fan rotate, trying to remember what she’d loved to hate about him – his uppishness, his arrogance, his oh-so-British
stiff upper lip – but her head kept reminding her of the ingratitude and the insults that she’d thrown at him following his heroics . . . And, well, why on earth
wouldn’t
he have acted like that towards her? He’d been quite right to hate her.

It left just one question going round and round in her head: now that they both knew the truth about each other’s actions, did he hate her still?

Pia walked up the path through the resplendent gardens. Coloured paper lanterns swung from every tree and hundreds of floating lanterns were weighted down on the grass, ready
to be lit and cast up into the night sky. A band was playing on the verandah of the house and the sound of laughter and dancing met her ears before the spectacle reached her eyes.

She stopped and stared. This was the Brazil she loved. The Brazil of her childhood. Colour, music, laughter, vivacity, life, celebration. Brazilians were always thankful, even those who had
nothing – like her family. This family, though? They had everything: land, wealth, status. All of São Paolo’s finest were here. Many were international jet-setters, and
acquaintances from the yacht-hopping scene off Cannes every August.

‘Pia! You are here!’ squealed a thin brunette in leopard-print Cavalli.

Pia winced and fixed her smile.

‘Seems so. How are you, Alegria?’ Pia smiled, kissing the air next to her, her eyes expertly sweeping the grounds for familiar faces. She clocked Paolo, in his pale blue suit,
flirting with a group of teenage girls.

‘Is there a reward for finding you?’

‘Why? Are things that difficult for Eduardo now?’ Pia teased, taking a mojito from a waitress.

‘
Aaiiee!
’ Alegria sighed, rolling her eyes. ‘You joke but . . . the hedge-fund market now? Not going to keep me in Manolos for more than a month, I can tell
you.’ She narrowed her eyes and appraised Pia more closely. ‘But you look different. What have you had done?’

‘You mean apart from my ankle?’

Alegria screeched with laughter. ‘You always are so funny. Seriously, though, you look good. Relaxed, I think.’

Pia shrugged. ‘Thanks. I guess that’s what skipping the international-tour circuit does for a girl.’

Alegria sipped her drink. ‘So who are you here with? Or should we all be keeping closer watch on our husbands tonight?’

Pia looked back at her sharply, but Alegria was smiling. ‘I’m only joking, Pia. It’s my way of saying you look sensational. No one can compare.’

‘Actually I’m here with Paolo.’

There was a brief pause. ‘Paolo Almerida?’ Alegria’s eyes fitted briefly in the direction of Paolo and the girls.

‘Yes. Why?’ Pia asked, completely unfazed.

Alegria shook her head quickly. ‘Nothing, nothing.’ She took another sip of her drink. ‘Is it serious?’

‘Not remotely. It’s just sex.’ She liked to be blunt at ‘society dos’. It stopped her getting bored.

Alegria lifted an eyebrow as much as her Botox would allow.

‘Oh, there’s Paolo’s mother,’ Pia said, putting a hand lightly on her arm. ‘Look, I’d better go and talk to her. I’ve scarcely said more than two words
to her since getting here. I’ll catch you later.’

‘Sure, Pia, see you later,’ Alegria nodded, watching her go and coveting the vintage Alaia broderie anglaise dress, which was scarcely up to the job of containing Pia’s
curves.

Pia moved through the crowd, acknowledging the admiring stares – which were as much for the excitement of being present at her first public appearance since the dance-off, as for her
bombshell figure.

‘
Senhora
,’ Pia smiled. ‘I’m so sorry I have not had a chance to thank you yet for your great kindness in inviting me here this weekend.’

‘The pleasure is all ours,’ Izadora replied, taking Pia’s hands in hers. ‘It makes us so happy to see our son so contented.’ Pia knew full well that Paolo’s
current contentment was in his mother’s direct line of sight. Pia smiled.

‘Well, you’ve created a wonderful setting for the festa. Everything looks so beautiful. And there’re so many people here. There must be three hundred at least.’

‘Well, this was always Paolo’s favourite festival. He was such a . . . pious boy in his youth.’ She paused, and her eyes twinkled. ‘Pity it didn’t last.’

Both women laughed at the playboy’s incongruous past and Pia realized the older woman was more clued up about her son’s – and no doubt her husband’s – wayward
antics than she let on.

‘Ah, here comes our guest of honour. Senhor Ludgrove,’ Izadora smiled, reaching up to kiss him on each cheek. ‘My son said you were tired from the trek today, but you look
especially handsome this evening.’

Tanner nodded awkwardly at the compliment, shooting a furtive look at Pia. She took in the sight of him in his cream linen suit and pink linen shirt. He’d caught a bit of sun too.

‘You certainly know how to throw a party, Senhora Velasquez,’ he said politely.

‘How do you say it?’ Izadora replied, shrugging her shoulders modestly. ‘High days and holidays, no?’

Tanner nodded. ‘So what does this festival celebrate, then?’

‘The Festa do Divino Espirito Santo is one of the highlights of our year. It reminds us all to help those less fortunate than ourselves and to remember that we show God’s love
through serving others.’

There was a brief pause. ‘I see,’ Tanner said. ‘Does that mean the waiters will beat us all to St Peter’s gates?’

The two women laughed. He clearly wasn’t Catholic. ‘There’s a very sweet story attached to it,’ Pia smiled. ‘Would you like to hear it?’

Tanner reluctantly looked at her. He most certainly did not want to hear it. Manners would dictate that he’d have to look at her and, frankly, the sight of her in that tiny flippy dress,
with all those cut-out bits . . .

‘Go ahead,’ he said, gripping his drink and looking casually around the gardens.

‘It’s based on the legend of Queen Saint Isabel.’

‘A queen and a saint? Isn’t that a bit greedy?’ Tanner said archly.

Pia tipped her head to the side patiently. She was determined to win him over and show him there was more to her than tantrums and tutus.

‘Go on, then,’ he said finally. Izadora tapped his arm lightly and left them while she went to greet her other guests.

‘She was a very kind queen. So kind, in fact, that she used to save bread from her own table and give it to the poor.’

‘Would she approve, then, this benevolent queen, of the excesses of tonight?’ He looked around at the scene of opulence. The paths and lawns were strewn with petals and huge antique
urns were filled with thick, tumescent sprays of orchids. ‘The flower bill for tonight alone could probably feed a village for a year.’

‘It’s symbolic.’

‘And I expect you know why,’ Tanner said, taking in the change from horseback seducer to devout convent girl.

‘Of course. Every good Catholic girl knows the story.’

Tanner stared at her steadily, biting back the obvious riposte.

‘Please enlighten me.’

‘Well, good Queen Saint Isabel would hide her food in her cloak, which enraged the king. One day he demanded to see what she was hiding in her cloak so she offered up a prayer and when she
opened her cloak, red roses tumbled out.’

Tanner smiled at the fable. ‘Nice story,’ he said, defying the gravity that was dragging his eyes to her uplifted cleavage. Goddam peripheral vision. It was obvious what tumbled out
when she opened
her
cloak. ‘But since when did you become a good Catholic girl?’

She bit her lip. ‘You really do think very poorly of me, don’t you?’

Tanner paused, then shrugged. He knew he was being unnecessarily defensive. He just couldn’t stop thinking about their unfinished seduction. It was almost more than he could bear not to
reach out and touch her. He was desperately holding on – waiting for her usual arrogance to assert itself, to pique his anger and subvert the urge to kiss her. Where the hell was it?

‘I guess old habits die hard,’ he sniffed. ‘I apologize.’

‘Hmm, that sounds suspiciously like a truce. Does this mean we’re going to be friends, then?’ she asked lightly.

He hoped to God not. If he couldn’t hate her . . .

‘I don’t know . . . does it?’ he replied casually.

There was a weighty silence. ‘Well, I guess unless we can think of any other reasons to keep hating each other, we’ll have to be.’ She took a sip of her drink and looked around
the party. Paolo’s posse had swelled impressively.

‘I guess so,’ he replied, tracing her profile with his eyes. She eclipsed every woman there. She turned back to face him and caught him out. He gave a short, bland smile and looked
away.

‘So when did you find God?’ he asked sarcastically, determined to get them back into their old habits, after all. This playing nice was too difficult.

She stiffened at his tone. He clearly couldn’t do it – couldn’t treat her with anything other than disdain. Whatever the reasons they’d had for hating each other to begin
with, it had become a habit that he just couldn’t break now. Or didn’t want to. ‘When did I lose him, you mean,’ she said quietly.

Tanner frowned at her. ‘Okay, when did you lose him?’ he echoed. ‘Bottom of one of your handbags?’

‘Actually it was the day my family was stolen from me,’ she said flatly. She kept her eyes on Paolo’s back.

Jesus! ‘What do you m—’

‘I was ten. My father was a violent alcoholic,’ she said. ‘He used to beat my mother . . . He’d begun to hit us too – my brother and me. We all knew it was going to
get worse. But we were poor. We had nothing, no money, nowhere to go. We lived in a tiny
favela
outside Salvador. My mother would work out in the
cerrados
for fourteen hours a day
in the blazing sun while he sat around, drinking. So she started saving to get us out of there, to take us to Rio. She thought we would be safer there, away from him. But it was taking too long.
The beatings were happening every day. He was going to kill her if we stayed there much longer. So I came up with another idea.’