Read Online The Shameless Life of Ruiz Acosta by Susan Stephens - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Stephens
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it’s a case of survival of the fittest—and I have discovered that I need to have a serious rethink if I’m going to survive.
Honestly, I don’t have a clue. How was I supposed to know that the high-heeled shoes I found dumped in the hallway when I got home from work would lead to a pair of sexy hold-ups artfully draped over the handle of the living room door? Or that the woman reclining on the sofa in a bright pink Basque and a rather scary translucent thong was expecting our mutual friend to walk in rather than me?
How was I supposed to know she had a key?
I don’t know who was more surprised—me, or the blonde. Anyway, I apologised, and, on my way out of the room, managed to tumble over her shoes and snap the heel off. Needless to say, all hell broke loose. Quickly realising that neither my vocabulary nor my stumpy, bitten nails were up to a cat fight I took myself off to the bathroom and locked the door, where I proceeded to sing tunelessly with my hands over my ears until I heard our mutual friend arrive. When I removed my hands from my ears it was to hear him promise to do something about the mad woman in the flat and replace the shoes she had destroyed. Traitor, I thought.
But the promise of shoes made me think that here was a man I might be able to do business with … until I considered this more deeply and realised that a playboy would never do it for me, because I want to buy my own shoes and I’m pretty sure one pair wouldn’t be enough …
Closing the computer, Holly sat back before turning to her next task. Lifting the newspapers onto the table, she sorted and stacked them, and then started methodically trawling through the ads. She had a reassuring number of opportunities circled when she heard the front door open and a familiar stride coming her way. Her heart began to thump. It was very early in the day to have any sort of confrontation, let alone be thrown out on the street with some bimbo cheering Ruiz on. It was with enormous relief that she realised he was alone. Opening her laptop again, she pretended to be working when he came into the room.
‘Good morning, Holly.’
‘Morning,’ she said offhandedly. But she rather spoiled the effect by looking up to find Ruiz dressed immaculately in a sharp dark suit, with a crisp white shirt, and a pearl-grey tie. He looked amazing.
‘I just got in from Paris,’ he explained, dumping an exquisitely wrapped box of tiny rainbow-tinted macaroons on the table in front of her.
‘What have I done to deserve this honour?’ she enquired in the same cool tone, while hectic images of hysterical girlfriends re-enacting the ‘off with her head’ scene between the Red Queen and Alice leapt unbidden into her head. Did the Red Queen wear a translucent pink thong, perchance? ‘What?’ she said as Ruiz shrugged off his jacket, loosened his tie, freed a couple of buttons at the neck of his shirt, and stretched out on the sofa swinging a distinctive carrier bag from a well-known Parisian boutique above his head.
‘What size feet have you got?’ he asked.
‘Isn’t that a rather personal question?’ There were some things a lady never divulged. Though, to be fair, the shoes she had trashed belonging to Miss Pink Basque had been the same size Holly wore.
‘Well, if you don’t want them.’
‘If I knew what you were talking about …’
‘Why don’t you come over here and find out?’ Ruiz suggested. ‘If the shoes are the wrong size you can always take them back to the store and change them.’
‘In Paris?’
‘No need to sound so snippy,’ he said, sitting up to bait her with a stare. ‘Not jealous, are we?’ And just like that the dark, dangerous eyes were laughing again.
But after the bimbo affair Holly refused to be won over quite so easily. ‘I’m not at all jealous of you,’ she said crisply. ‘I’ve seen your friends.’
‘You’ve seen a passing acquaintance,’ Ruiz assured her, ‘who has now passed.’
‘Away? How
Honestly, I don’t have a clue. How was I supposed to know that the high-heeled shoes I found dumped in the hallway when I got home from work would lead to a pair of sexy hold-ups artfully draped over the handle of the living room door? Or that the woman reclining on the sofa in a bright pink Basque and a rather scary translucent thong was expecting our mutual friend to walk in rather than me?
How was I supposed to know she had a key?
I don’t know who was more surprised—me, or the blonde. Anyway, I apologised, and, on my way out of the room, managed to tumble over her shoes and snap the heel off. Needless to say, all hell broke loose. Quickly realising that neither my vocabulary nor my stumpy, bitten nails were up to a cat fight I took myself off to the bathroom and locked the door, where I proceeded to sing tunelessly with my hands over my ears until I heard our mutual friend arrive. When I removed my hands from my ears it was to hear him promise to do something about the mad woman in the flat and replace the shoes she had destroyed. Traitor, I thought.
But the promise of shoes made me think that here was a man I might be able to do business with … until I considered this more deeply and realised that a playboy would never do it for me, because I want to buy my own shoes and I’m pretty sure one pair wouldn’t be enough …
Closing the computer, Holly sat back before turning to her next task. Lifting the newspapers onto the table, she sorted and stacked them, and then started methodically trawling through the ads. She had a reassuring number of opportunities circled when she heard the front door open and a familiar stride coming her way. Her heart began to thump. It was very early in the day to have any sort of confrontation, let alone be thrown out on the street with some bimbo cheering Ruiz on. It was with enormous relief that she realised he was alone. Opening her laptop again, she pretended to be working when he came into the room.
‘Good morning, Holly.’
‘Morning,’ she said offhandedly. But she rather spoiled the effect by looking up to find Ruiz dressed immaculately in a sharp dark suit, with a crisp white shirt, and a pearl-grey tie. He looked amazing.
‘I just got in from Paris,’ he explained, dumping an exquisitely wrapped box of tiny rainbow-tinted macaroons on the table in front of her.
‘What have I done to deserve this honour?’ she enquired in the same cool tone, while hectic images of hysterical girlfriends re-enacting the ‘off with her head’ scene between the Red Queen and Alice leapt unbidden into her head. Did the Red Queen wear a translucent pink thong, perchance? ‘What?’ she said as Ruiz shrugged off his jacket, loosened his tie, freed a couple of buttons at the neck of his shirt, and stretched out on the sofa swinging a distinctive carrier bag from a well-known Parisian boutique above his head.
‘What size feet have you got?’ he asked.
‘Isn’t that a rather personal question?’ There were some things a lady never divulged. Though, to be fair, the shoes she had trashed belonging to Miss Pink Basque had been the same size Holly wore.
‘Well, if you don’t want them.’
‘If I knew what you were talking about …’
‘Why don’t you come over here and find out?’ Ruiz suggested. ‘If the shoes are the wrong size you can always take them back to the store and change them.’
‘In Paris?’
‘No need to sound so snippy,’ he said, sitting up to bait her with a stare. ‘Not jealous, are we?’ And just like that the dark, dangerous eyes were laughing again.
But after the bimbo affair Holly refused to be won over quite so easily. ‘I’m not at all jealous of you,’ she said crisply. ‘I’ve seen your friends.’
‘You’ve seen a passing acquaintance,’ Ruiz assured her, ‘who has now passed.’
‘Away? How
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