The Flaw in His Diamond(7)

       
           



       

'Don't write her off,' Mark advised. 'Eva's a hothead and likes to  think she's one of the boys, but she's got a heart of gold-too trusting,  maybe.'

'Not in my case.'

Mark ignored this. 'She has her heart set on eco-tourism saving  Skavanga. She's terrified that our mining project will reduce the town  to a smoking pile of steel, with panhandlers drinking in the streets and  plastic tables and plastic food replacing the cultural traditions of  her Arctic home.' This much Roman already knew.

His young aide was besotted. The thought almost made him veer away from  asking the question uppermost in his mind. 'Didn't you explain that our  work will cause minimal upheaval, and that any damage done will be  repaired?' And that wasn't all of it.

Mark laughed in an admiring way as his mind turned to a woman it was  clear they were both interested in. 'Have you tried reasoning with Eva?'

'Enough.' His voice came out a roar. So much for subtlety. 'Tell me about her relationships.'

There was a silence as Mark considered this. 'There are none,' he said at last on what sounded like a very dry throat.

'Why is that?' He didn't let up the pressure. His hand tightened on the phone. 'She's an attractive woman...'

'Who has half the men of the Arctic Circle racing each other to the South Pole, rather than tangle with her.'

'I thought they bred them tough at the North Pole.'

'They do, but Eva Skavanga is a special case.'

'She has a problem with men?'

'She has an unfortunate attitude with men.'

Mark was being careful with his choice of words. 'Explain,' he insisted.

'The older sister you know-Britt is confident and a great  businesswoman. She's self-confident, decisive and married now. The  younger girl, Leila, is a bit of an unknown quantity, because she's  always been overshadowed by Britt and Eva-'

'Eva's reputation?' he pressed. 'I'm not interested in the other two. They're not out here. She is.'

'Eva's a loner. Maybe she's been hurt at some time.'

'But not so hurt and broken she couldn't turn up here, break into my house and swim in my pool-'

'She broke into your house?'

Now Mark did sound shocked. 'She terrorised me,' Roman said dryly. 'Until I agreed to speak to her about her beloved Skavanga.'

'That sounds like Eva.'

Mark's voice held the same note of admiration that had annoyed him the  first time round and that now made him snarl, 'That's enough, Mark.  She's a nuisance at best. Forget I even rang you. I'll sort her out. And  I'll get rid of her.'

There was a long pause, and then Mark said, 'She's staying with you?'

'Don't worry. She's not my type. I'm taking her to the wedding, and that's all.'

'You're taking her to the wedding?'

'Did I employ a parrot? I'm taking her so I can keep an eye on her.'

As Mark gave a nervous laugh Roman guessed his young aide was in no way  reassured as to the immediate fate of one Eva Skavanga. 'Relax, Mark. I  have no immediate plans for her.' Later perhaps, he mused.

'If you had allowed me to put her through to you when you were in Skavanga I guess she wouldn't have made the trip.'

'You sound worried, Mark. Whose side are you on?'

'Yours, of course,' Mark protested, 'but-'

'I didn't avoid Eva's earlier requests to see me. I ignored them. You  should know by now that misguided pleas from emotional women cut no ice  with me. Eva's a small shareholder with no special privileges just  because she happens to be a member of the family that gave its name to  the mine. I'll treat her the same as any other small investor, no better  no worse.'

But on a personal front?

Taming Eva Skavanga held considerable appeal.

He ended the call, having found out what he wanted to know. Eva was  unattached. And doubly intriguing. His thoughts turned to having her  passion pinned beneath him. He shrugged and smiled faintly as he ditched  the towel. There were sound business reasons for keeping her close.  While she was here she couldn't disrupt work at the mine. Any damage  caused by the drilling would be made good, which Eva would have known if  she had attended the meetings he'd held in Skavanga instead of  picketing them. Now she was trapped on an island with a ferry that  operated at his command and he'd send her home when it suited him.                       
       
           



       

Slinging on a pair of chinos and a clean shirt, he thought about  shaving then parked the idea. As an image of Eva's body flashed into his  mind he reached into a cupboard to find a bottle of suncream. This was  no godly act on his part. She lived in the Arctic and the sun was strong  here. He didn't want her too sore to have sex with. Giving his thick  black hair one final run-through, he glanced in the mirror and imagined  Eva's defiant face glaring back at him. If there was anything he enjoyed  more than a tussle with a hot-blooded woman, he couldn't think what it  was. Eva would be his guest at the wedding, and then, just as she had  requested, he would give her his undivided attention.

* * *

She had found the door with the lion's head handle. Thank goodness.  This place was like a city. The door was heavy, silky cream, and as she  closed her hand around the lion's head it was a surprising degree of  pleasure. Would everything be so tactile here? Including the count?

Stop with the fantasies. She had around fifteen minutes to shower,  change and meet him downstairs. All of which might have been fine if she  could only stop gazing round like a country yokel. She had opened a  door onto a wonderland of art and luxury, functionality and extravagance  combined. Like the rest of the palazzo, the decor was discreet yet  obviously expensive. Taupe, ecru, ivory and chalky-white, with a couple  of showpiece ornaments and a huge unframed painting, picked up the tints  of the throw on the bed-

Okay...that unframed piece? The homage to Picasso? On closer inspection  she discovered it was a Picasso. The last time she'd seen the painting  it had been hanging in a gallery in Stockholm, labelled 'on loan' from  an unnamed benefactor.

Roman Quisvada lived in quite some style. And grudgingly, she had to  admit she liked it. It did surprise her that such a powerful brute of a  man lived like this in the home of a discerning connoisseur. The count  was an interesting man-in more ways than one.

Dropping her backpack on what was probably an extremely expensive rug,  she tried not to draw unnecessary comparisons between the count's  seductive lifestyle and the seductive count. She scrunched her toes  appreciatively in the soft wool as she crossed the room to inspect the  balcony overlooking the placid azure sea. The scent of blossom was heavy  and intoxicating, and she wished she could remain dreaming a little  longer as she leaned over the stone balustrades, but the clock was  ticking and she still had to shower and dress.

Four doors faced her in the room. The first turned out to be a dressing  room, for the guest who had everything, and who was only used to the  best. Not Eva Skavanga, that was for sure. The second door revealed a  gym. The third, a marble-lined bathroom. Her jaw dropped. And stuck.  With its sunken bath and shower big enough for two, the bathroom could  best be described as sumptuous. There were enough white fluffy towels  for an army, and the water pressure was fierce enough to fill a lake.  She wandered back into the bedroom, where she couldn't resist a few  bounces on the mega-sized bed where inviting crisp white sheets still  held the faint scent of sunshine, and the throw, with its tints echoing  those of the fabulous painting on the wall, reminded her of a fading  summer sky. How was she ever going to drag herself away from this?

A sharp rap on the door gave her that answer.

'Eva?'

She hadn't even showered yet! 'Five minutes?' she yelled back.

'Not a minute more.' Roman sounded less than amused.

How would he punish her if she was late?

She absolutely had to stop thinking like that. Even as a joke! She  might forget herself and come on to him. She could act tough back in  Skavanga, but she was playing well out of her league here.

Drying off after her shower, she twisted her hair into a messy up-do on  top of her head, securing it with the single hairclip she had retrieved  from the bottom of her pack. It was just a boring old plastic thing  that came in a pack of six, but there was no time to dry her hair  properly. And right on cue the hammering on the door started again. If  she left Roman hanging much longer he'd crash the room.

She was a campaigner not a stylist, so what was she worried about? Eva  thought as she viewed her reflection in the cheval mirror in the  bedroom. So what if Roman was clad in the finest couture, while the best  that could be said for her was that she was clad? He'd asked for this.  She wasn't a fashion guru, either.