The only issue Holly had was with her clothes. They didn’t feel right for her surroundings. All this high-end luxury made the clothes she’d brought with her look even dowdier than usual. She had never been financially stable enough to follow fashion. Fashion was something other people followed. Shopping was a pastime other people indulged in. Rich people, people who had money, security and the safety net of family. Holly had taught herself not to want things she could never afford. She had deadened her desire for nice feminine things. It was pointless to wish she could dress like the women she saw about town. Smart women; educated, sophisticated, polished and poised, with hair, make-up and nails done like models and movie stars. She could never compete with that. It was so far out of her reach, she didn’t bother trying.
But right now she would have loved a nice dress to put on and some high heels to go with it. Some classy underwear—not cheap, faded cotton but some slinky, cobwebby lace. She would have liked some make-up—not much, just enough to highlight her features, to put some colour on her eyelids and some tinted gloss on her lips. She would have liked to get a decent haircut, perhaps get some professional foils done to cover the pink streaks she’d done with a home kit that hadn’t turned out quite the way she’d planned. Maybe a bit of jewellery—pearls, perhaps—to give her a touch of elegance.
But what was the point of wishing she could dress like a glamour girl when all her life she had been the girl with the charity shop clothes? The girl with the bad haircut, the bitten nails and the cheap shoes with the soles worn through? She had always felt like a donkey showing up at a posh dressage event.
Why should now be any different?
After her shower Holly slipped off her towel in front of the mirror. At least she had a good figure. It was her only asset. Good bones; long, slim limbs; a neat waist; nicely shaped breasts; mostly clear skin, apart from that ridiculously childish patch of freckles over the bridge of her nose.
Her gaze went to a pattern of damson-coloured marks around the tops of her arms. She reached up and touched them, her stomach doing a funny little dip and dive when she realised what they were. Julius’s fingerprints had branded her flesh with light but unmistakable bruises.
She bit her lip, looking at the grey cotton tank top she had been planning to wear with another pair of jeans—her only pair without holes in them, although they did have a frayed hem. She put on the tank top and picked up a green cardigan, even though the evening was warm, and slipped it on. It wasn’t the nicest weave—the acrylic in it always made her skin feel itchy. But it was either that or a denim jacket or a pilled woollen sweater that would have her sweating within seconds. Finally, she bunched up her hair and secured it with an elastic tie in a makeshift knot at the back of her head.
Holly drew in a breath and let it out in a long, slow sigh. Why she was trying to look half-decent for Julius Ravensdale wasn’t something she wanted to examine too closely. It wouldn’t matter if she’d been dressed in the finest designer wear; he would still look down his imperious nose at her.
Just like everyone else.
CHAPTER SIX
JULIUS HADN’T BEEN able to track down Miranda or his father. But he had fielded several calls from his mother, who was beyond hysterical. He did what he always did. He listened, he stayed calm, he bit his tongue. His mother vented, raged and fumed so much that he began to wonder if she was actually enjoying herself. It was an opportunity to play the victim, one of her favourite roles. His parents’ relationship was toxic. He hated the way they were madly in love one minute then hated each other the next. When one did something out of line, the other went into payback mode. It was childish and puerile.
The press was having a ball with this latest bombshell. He’d clicked on a couple of links Jake had sent him. The girl in question was stunning. If her mother had looked anything like Katherine Winwood, Julius could see why his father’s head had been turned. Julius only hoped no one would track him down for a comment. His life here in Argentina was his way of flying under the radar. Over here hardly anyone knew who he was and he wanted it to stay that way. But what was he going to do if the press came sniffing around? Holly was a loose cannon. There was a possibility she would deliberately mislead the press if given half a chance. Should he send her away? He looked at his phone. He had the number of her caseworker on speed dial. His finger hovered over it...but then he pushed his phone away.