‘I could still play, even with a broken hand,’ Taz smoothly replied. ‘How much are we talking?’
God save her from idiotic men. He had limited use of his fingers, with only his thumb working on his broken hand. How would he control a horse and hold a mallet? It was a stupid comment, and stupidity wasn’t something she associated with Taz. Their interaction had drawn a curious crowd, suggesting that Taz and the redhead’s affair had been a topic of hot conversation amongst the polo-playing set. And Red was looking a little smug at all the attention.
‘A cool half a mil?’ Brody asked.
‘You’ll give the charity five hundred thousand if I last a chukka?’ Taz clarified.
‘But you have to take part. You can’t stay on the sidelines,’ Brody countered.
It was a huge donation, and as Taz tipped his head to the side, Millie knew he was considering his suggestion.
He gestured to his clothes. ‘I’d need proper clothes.’
Millie’s mouth dropped open. Had he lost his mind? Getting on a horse with a broken hand, to take part in one of the most competitive sports in the world, was an absurd idea.
‘And if you don’t last the chukka, you donate a half million to the charity,’ Brody suggested, a half sneer, half smile on his face.
‘Deal.’
Millie couldn’t keep quiet a minute longer. ‘You do know he’s an F1 racer, not a polo player, right?’
Everyone laughed, and Millie knew she was the butt of the joke. She swallowed the urge to remind them she was head of Taz’s PR and that she knew his sporting history. But she was here as his adoring girlfriend, not his PR representative.
The redhead sent her a pitying smile. ‘You’re obviously new on the scene, and not part of the polo set.’ Millie’s nails dug into her skin at her condescending tone. She sounded like her mum and aunt.
‘Everyone knows that Taz was one of the most promising polo players in the world when he was in his teens,’ Red said, her nose in the air.
Yes, sheknewthat. Millie forced herself to place her open hand above her heart and widen her eyes. ‘Oh, I thought he was a scratch golf player and was considering going pro.’ She looked at Taz. ‘Did I get that wrong,darling?’
He shrugged. ‘I had options.’
Many options, it seemed. But he chose racing. It was, after all, the family business.
‘Are you doing this or not, De Rossi?’
Oh, hell no, he wasn’t. Before Taz could agree to this asinine scheme, she’d clocked theChallenge acceptedin his eyes, slipped her hand into his and smiled. ‘I’m sorry, but would you excuse us for a minute?’
‘Hold on, Millie,’ Taz growled.
She dug her fingernails into the top of his hand. ‘I’m sure Mr Bertolo could give us five minutes.’
Irritation rolled off him, but he pulled her out of earshot and put his back to the group congregating around Bertolo and the redhead. His big frame shielded her, so she glared up at him. ‘What do you think you are doing?’ she hissed. ‘You cannot get up on a horse! He’s taunting you, Taz.’
‘So?’
‘So you can walk away.’
‘And look like he’s got the better of me? That’s not happening.’
‘What if you fall off?’
‘I’ve been riding since I was three. I don’t falloff horses.’
She only had one argument left. ‘The press will get wind of this. Everyone’s phone cameras are already out, waiting to film you. It will be uploaded online within five minutes of you settling into the saddle, probably less. Whether you win the bet or not, the press will slant their reports to say that you are reckless, that you are risking your recovery to one-up a polo player. They will say your ego can’t handle losing, that you aren’t taking your recovery seriously, and that if you really wanted to win the championship, you’d never risk it on such a stupid bet! You’re a target, so don’t give them bullets to shoot at you.’
She could tell he wanted to argue, and Millie waited for his scalpel-sharp response. How would she spin this when it hit the press in the morning, what excuse could she conjure? Whatever she came up with would be weak, because the most logical explanation was that he was an egotistical idiot.
What was it with this man’s need to be the best at everything all the time? Why couldn’t he back down, step away? Why was he constantly waging battles or engaging in skirmishes? It was almost as if he went out of his way to prove that he was better, stronger, the best of the best. How many people were scratch golfers, ace polo players and Formula One drivers? To be good at one was amazing, to be good at so many things took dedication and hard work and perseverance. Why would he put himself through that? What drove him to excel?
