Edie groaned at herself. Stop thinking about him!
She went into the office and flicked a switch, blinking a little as she got used to the brighter light.
She went over to the computer and sat down, hitting a key so that it woke up. She’d sent the emails within a couple of minutes but then, just as she was about to close it down again, she found her fingers hovering uncertainly over the keyboard.
Why did Sebastio hate Christmas so much?
That and other questions tumbled around in Edie’s head and she couldn’t resist the temptation. Not when access to information was so tantalisingly close.
She quickly typed Sebastio’s name into the search field before she lost her nerve.
The first thing that popped up was a screaming headline.
Tragic head-on collision claims life of Maya Sanchez and leaves Victor Sanchez paralysed!
Edie clicked on the link and read with mounting horror about the awful car crash that had killed the pregnant wife of one of Argentina’s top rugby players and left him paralysed from the waist down.
The driver had been Sebastio.
Apparently he’d walked away without a scratch.
The crash had happened just before Christmas almost four years ago. Not long after she’d seen him in that club.
He’d retired from rugby immediately, and the pictures of him from that time showed a man clearly traumatised. In the process of the investigation into the crash it had been discovered that the driver of the other car, who had also died, had had a blood alcohol level three times over the limit.
Sebastio had been cleared of any responsibility. And yet Edie didn’t think it was that simple.
There had been moments when she’d seen something dark cross his face. Did this explain his antipathy for the time of year?
There was a link to a video clip, and Edie clicked on it and watched as Sebastio appeared on-screen, looking drawn and haggard. The interview was in Spanish, with subtitles.
Sebastio was saying, ‘I was the driver that night and I take full responsibility for what happened—’
‘Heard enough?’
Edie almost jumped out of her skin when she registered that the same voice she was listening to was coming from behind her. She quickly shut down the video link and stood up, turning around to see Sebastio leaning against an adjoining door behind her—not the main door.
This door blended into the wall, so he’d had a clear view of what she’d been looking at. She had the vague realisation that this room must adjoin his own private study, which she knew was also on the ground floor.
He was wearing what Edie assumed had been a pristine tuxedo, except now his bow-tie was dangling loose and the top button of his shirt was open. The top few buttons, actually. She could see the dark shadow of chest hair and her breath hitched.
He was holding a heavy crystal glass containing a dark golden liquid and there was a dangerous energy reaching out between them, making her skin prickle. Not with fear. Nothing remotely like that. With awareness. And need. Desperate, awful need.
Her face was so hot she couldn’t even pretend to be blasé. All she could do was say, ‘I didn’t come in here intending to pry—really. I was sending some emails.’
He arched a brow. ‘After midnight? That’s taking industriousness to a whole new level.’
She ignored his sarcastic tone. ‘I couldn’t sleep, actually, and I remembered that they should have been sent earlier.’
But as Edie looked at him now she wasn’t thinking of her emails. She couldn’t get the awful image of the remains of those cars after the crash out of her head. How had he walked away from that? Like some kind of immortal being? And why had he said he was responsible when the other driver had been over the limit?
He pushed himself off the door frame and came into the room. ‘You just couldn’t help yourself,’ he said coldly, stopping a few feet away. ‘Everyone wants to know the gory details—even you, apparently.’
Edie was shocked at the bitter cynicism in his voice—and something more indefinable. Hurt?
She was about to try and defend herself, but realised she couldn’t. She had been prying. Wanting to know more about him.
Her innate sense of honesty forced her to say, ‘I’m sorry. I was curious about why you dislike Christmas so much. I shouldn’t have been so nosy.’