Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to speak calmly. ‘I hadn’t forgotten, Papá,’ he said slowly. ‘I just didn’t connect the dots.’ He frowned. ‘I get that the anniversary is a big deal, but Banco Osorio’s reputation is built on our discretion. We never talk to the media. So why go public now?’
‘It was my idea.’ His mother looked up at him, her face suddenly anxious. ‘Do you think I made a mistake, Luis?’
Damn right he did. He didn’t trust any journalists or photographers.
But he could hardly explain the reason for that to his parents.
His spine stiffened, his body tensing as memories filled his head. Memories of the night his brother had died.
He hadn’t even wanted to go to that party, only Bas had insisted and his mother had backed him up. She knew that Luis needed his big brother in order to socialise, and Bas needed Luis to rein in his excesses.
But the party had been so not his style. Wall-to-wall trust fund brats, drinking and whining about their parents.
Watching Bas work the party, Luis had felt one of his occasional twinges of envy. His brother was so charming. With Bas there he always felt like a spare part—particularly around women. Then, out of nowhere, he’d spotted her. And she had been looking at him.
Unlike all the other women in the room, she’d looked at ease with herself. Jeans, boots, hair loose to her shoulders. They had talked and talked, shouting at first, over the noise of the party, and then later more quietly out on the balcony. She had liked the same artists he did, hated parties, and had had an older sister who was much cooler than she was.
He had felt as though she knew him inside out.
It was only later that he’d realised why that was.
Much later.
After he’d slept with her.
After he’d learnt that she was a paparazza and after he’d accidentally let slip where Bas was going to be staying that night.
After her colleagues had chased his brother to his death.
Striving for calm, he looked up at his mother. ‘So when is this photo shoot happening?’
‘Next week. The day after you go back to California.’ Sofia bit her lip. ‘Your father wasn’t sure, but he’s worked so hard and I wanted to do something—’
He squeezed his mother’s hand gently. ‘It’s a lovely idea.’
He felt a fist of tension curl inside his stomach.
He couldn’t stay. It would be unbearable, and unfair to his parents, for he knew they would begin to talk wistfully of his moving back to Spain.
But how could he leave them to face some unscrupulous photographer alone? They were so otherworldly, so trusting.
‘I know you don’t like the press,’ his mother said tentatively. ‘But we’ll have final say over the photos. And your father made it clear that we won’t be answering personal questions.’
There was a knock on the door. It was Soledad.
‘The photographer is here, Señor Osorio. She’s waiting in the salón azul.’
‘Thank you, Soledad.’
Taking his mother’s hand, Luis helped her to her feet. ‘I feel bad about making such a fuss, Mamá. Let me come with you—please. I might even be some help. I deal with the media a lot back in California, so I’m pretty sure I can handle anything they throw at me.’
His words were still reverberating around his head as he followed his father into the salón azul and came face to face with Cristina.
*
He stared at her in silence, his heartbeat deafeningly loud, a thousand questions bombarding his brain.
Had he just looked at her clothes he might not have recognised her. Gone were the denim shorts and that insane transparent top. Instead she was wearing tailored navy trousers and a blue-and-white-striped matelot top. Only her hair was the same—still tumbling over her shoulders in a mass of glossy red waves.
Slowly the events of the night before began to whirl in front of his eyes, spinning over and over until finally they lined up alongside one another like fruit on a slot machine.
Drink. Bike. Kiss.
Jackpot.
His breath felt sharp in his throat as he realised that it had all been a set-up. Right from the moment he’d walked into that club he’d been played. Everything that had felt so random, so spontaneous—their eyes meeting in the mirror, her banging into him and spilling his drink, even her having that stupid can of oil in her bag—all of it had been planned.
Flipping open the folder his mother had given him, he read swiftly through her CV, his stomach knotting with fury both with her and himself.
What was wrong with him? After what had happened with Bas did he really need another opportunity to prove how naive and complacent he was?
Apparently he did.
Apparently he had already forgotten that a beautiful woman always had an agenda of her own.
He was on the verge of striding across the room and dragging her lying, manipulative little body out of the building, when his mother stepped past him, smiling.
‘You must be Cristina. Welcome to our home.’
*
Sliding to her feet, Cristina held out her hand.
Her editor, Grace, had warned her that the Osorios were old-school and preferred to keep things on a formal footing, so she’d tried to dress in a way that implied she was professional, yet creative. But her heart was still beating like a startled horse as the beautiful grey-haired woman crossed the room towards her.
‘Señora Osorio. Thank you so much for meeting me today.’
‘Please…’ Sofia smiled. ‘You must call me Sofia. This is my husband, Agusto, and my son, Luis. He’s over on a visit from California. Flew in this morning.’
Cristina shook Agusto’s hand, and then, finally registering the second, taller, darker-haired man, she turned to Luis.
She smiled. Or tried to. But her lips wouldn’t work. Her whole body seemed to be numb. Around her the room was dissolving into a mist the same grey as his eyes—Lucho’s eyes—as silently she racked what was left of her brain for some kind of practical response to what was happening.
Only Grace’s notes had said nothing about coming face to face with your one-night stand. Or finding out he was the son of the people you were meant to photograph.
As he held out his hand she took it mechanically.
It couldn’t be.
Except that it was, and suddenly she thought she might faint.
Sofia was staring at her. ‘Are you all right, my dear? You look pale.’
‘I’m fine.’ She smiled stiffly. ‘Too much coffee, I’m afraid. I should probably try decaffeinated, but it’s so disgusting. I prefer a simple espresso—Arabica bean, black, no sugar.’
Agusto beamed at her. ‘Ah, a coffee connoisseur. I’m trying to cut back too, but it’s hard when the alternatives are such poor substitutes.’
Cristina nodded, and then, sensing Luis’s cool, dismissive gaze, she felt a rush of anger. ‘I agree. I hate things that aren’t what they appear to be.’
A warning flag of anger flared in his grey eyes, but she didn’t care.
Lucho—Luis—whatever he called himself—was a phony, happy to offer different versions of himself in order to get what he wanted.
In this case her.
He was just like her father—and she should have known that.
A familiar feeling of doubt and panic was slipping over her skin. She felt her eyes tugged towards the door and escape.
Her pulse jerked. Escape from what? She had come here to put the past behind her. It was why she’d fought so hard to win this assignment. To make the world, and more particularly her father, sit up and take notice. And that was what would happen when she sent him a copy of the magazine with her byline beneath the photographs. Lifting her chin, she smiled at Agusto.
‘I’m sure you didn’t invite me here to discuss coffee. How about I talk you through the production process for the shoot? And then if you have any questions I’ll try and answer them.’
/> ‘I have some questions.’
Luis’s voice cut through her smile.
‘You do?’ She forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘That’s great,’ she said stiffly.
‘You seem very young. I’m just wondering about your experience.’
His mother frowned at him. ‘I gave you Cristina’s CV, cariño.’
‘And I read it. It seems very light. Does it cover all your talents?’
He watched her beautiful light brown eyes widen.
‘No, not all of them.’ She looked at him calmly. ‘I worked in a cake shop when I was fifteen, so I can make a mean crème pâtissière if you’re tempted.’
‘I’m not.’ He held her gaze. ‘Not any more, anyway.’
*
After the interview was over, and Cristina had left the room, Sofia glanced at her husband and son and said quickly, ‘Well, I thought that went well. I know she’s young, but she seemed very genuine—and quite charming.’
Luis felt his stomach twist. Oh, she was charming, all right—but genuine?
Breathing in, he said as calmly as he could manage, ‘She did seem charming. But wouldn’t you prefer someone with a little more gravitas?’
He was speaking to his mother, but it was his father who answered the question.
‘Not really. Unless you have a particular reason to doubt this young women?’
Luis hesitated. Say it, he ordered himself. Tell the truth.
But how? He could hardly tell his mother that he’d had sex with Cristina. For a start, she thought he’d flown in that morning. Nor could he reveal that his fears lay rooted in a mistake he’d made five years ago—a mistake that had cost his brother his life and his parents a son.
Looking at their faces, he made up his mind. He didn’t trust Cristina, but he didn’t need to admit that or explain why. He just needed to be around to keep tabs on her.
Slowly, he shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. All that matters to me is that you’re happy. And besides, I can help. You know how much I love photography.’
His mother looked at him in confusion. ‘But, cariño, you won’t be here—’
Luis picked up his mother’s hand and pressed it to his mouth. ‘I can be, Mamá. And I want to be.’
His mother’s tears of happiness made him feel guiltier than ever. But he would do whatever it took to protect his parents. Even lie to them.
‘I think it would be a good idea if we did the photo shoot on the island,’ he said firmly.
La Isla de los Halcones had belonged to the Osorio family for over one hundred years. It was isolated—only accessible by motorboat—and best of all communication with the mainland was limited to a landline.
It’s completely private, and much more relaxed.’ He smiled reassuringly at both of them. ‘It’ll be perfect, and I’ll be there to supervise the whole thing.’
And if that meant keeping a close eye on Cristina then so be it.
CHAPTER THREE
‘IS THERE ANYTHING else I can get you, Ms Shephard? More coffee?’
Closing her laptop, Cristina smiled up at the air stewardess and shook her head. ‘No, thank you. I’m good.’
The stewardess smiled back at her. ‘Okay, but just let me know if you need anything.’
Watching the woman move gracefully away down the cabin, she resisted the urge to pinch herself again, and instead gazed out of the window at the cloudless blue sky.
She’d never flown business class before, and frankly it would probably be a long time before she did so again. But the Osorios had insisted, and it was a treat to have the extra legroom and a lunch that was actually edible.
The Osorio name had helped in other ways too. She’d been fast-tracked through baggage and security, and a limousine would be waiting at Valencia airport to take her to the marina.
It was all very civilised. But then people like Agusto and Sofia didn’t queue for taxis or hang around waiting for luggage. The rich and the powerful valued their time almost as much as their privacy, and unlike normal people they only did what they wanted to do.
As she knew from experience.
She felt her face stiffen, the muscles tightening involuntarily, and, reaching down, she picked up her cup—china, not cardboard—and took a sip of coffee.
What other reason could there be for her father never bothering to get in touch with her?
Still gazing listlessly out of the window, she thought about how at the beginning she’d tried to make sense of his actions. Husbands divorced wives, not children, so why didn’t he want to see her?
At first she’d made excuses for him, and then she’d blamed her mother. Later, though, there had been only one explanation. Her father didn’t love her and he probably never had.
Frowning, Cristina flipped open her laptop and gazed determinedly down at the screen. She wasn’t going to let her father’s rejection ruin this moment for her. This was her last chance to do her final preparation before the photo shoot, and she wasn’t going to waste it brooding about the past.
She began scrolling through the background notes that Grace had emailed to her. It didn’t take long. It was mostly historical facts about the Osorio banking dynasty. Personal, biographical details about the family were frustratingly sparse.
Her heart gave a lurch. Panic was beginning to uncoil inside her stomach. It wasn’t the first portrait that she’d taken—Grace wasn’t that trusting. But it was the most important to date, and she wanted it to work. Not just for the magazine but for herself. She so badly wanted to prove that she could do this.
Her fingers shook slightly above the keyboard.
No, that wasn’t true. She wanted more than that. She wanted to matter, to be somebody, to be noticed. And not just by her peers.
Only how could she do that if she couldn’t find the key to their story?
She felt her stomach clench.
It was her job as a photographer to seek the truth—that was why she’d so foolishly become a paparazza. But with portraits the truth was elusive. In the intimacy of a studio-style setting people grew guarded, and of course there was always an obstacle between her camera and the sitter. It wasn’t just a matter of point and click; the shutter was like a tiny little door that she needed to open.
And that required a key.
She had hoped to find one, talking to Agusto and Sofia. But although they had been polite, and helpful, they had fairly conservative ideas about what they wanted from the photo shoot—and, looking down at the pictures that Grace had sent her, she could see why.
To her photography was magic. But the Osorios were clearly intensely private people who simply wanted a record of a particular moment.
She needed to see beyond the staged poses. She needed to do a little supplementary research of her own. But as she typed in the Osorio name she felt heat spread over her cheeks as the screen filled not only with photos of Agusto and Sofia, but Luis too.
She stared at them greedily.
There were a couple of him as dark-eyed teenager, watching the polo at Sotogrande with his parents and brother. Another as a student in America, rowing at Harvard. And then, leaping forward several years, there were several more of the adult Luis. Publicity shots of him in his role as CEO of the quantitative hedge fund he’d founded.
Clearly turning his back on one fortune had been no obstacle to amassing another. His business was less than three years old but it had already made him a billionaire.
The thought of Luis behind a desk, with some glossy PA hovering over his shoulder, made her feel as if she was pressing on a bruise. But now that she knew the truth about him his career choice made perfect sense.
He enjoyed taking risks, was able to keep his emotions in check, and clearly didn’t mull over the consequences of his actions. Crucial qualities not just for succeeding in the high-stress, high-reward culture of the stock market, but for managing multiple lives.
So what if he was rich? Money wasn’t everything.
Except when you didn’t have
it.
She gritted her teeth, familiar nausea cramping her stomach as she remembered the years of struggle after her father had deserted them.
He had left them penniless, and that had not been all. With no money coming into the house, and a terrifying number of bills to pay, there had been no time to deal with their shock and grief and anger.
But he’d probably never even given them or their feelings a thought. Why would he? After all, he’d relocated to America and just carried on as if nothing had happened.
As if she had never happened.
She had felt so unimportant. So insignificant.
Until last week, when Luis had walked into his parents’ palatial living room and the expression on his face had confused and frightened her so much that she had forgotten to breathe.
She’d thought the shard of misery inside her chest would split her in two.
Luis Osorio was a liar. And a fake.
But—and it was an important ‘but’—he also lived in California. And, despite barely managing to hold all the pieces of herself together during that awkward interview in Segovia, her brain had registered the fact that he was returning to the States at the end of the week—today, in fact.
Her shoulders straightened. She’d been right about him the first time in that club. He was a mistake. But now he was in her past. Here, in the present, it was just her and her camera.
Half an hour later the plane landed in Valencia. Feeling like a minor celebrity, she was whisked through the airport to the promised limousine, and then twenty minutes later was stepping onto a sleek, white motorboat.
Inside, the decor was all smooth, pale wood, cream leather upholstery and discreetly tinted glass. As she sat down in one of the armchairs she suddenly remembered that Agusto had referred to the boat as a ‘dinghy’. Suppressing a smile, she was just about to pull out her camera when her phone rang.
‘Chrissie, darling? It’s not a bad time, is it?’
As usual, the tentative note in her mother’s voice made her heart beat faster with love—and remorse.
Over the years she had been such a brat. More than anything she wanted to make amends, to show her mother how much she loved her. And if she did well with this assignment then finally it might be possible to do that with more than words. She might actually be able to give her mum the security of a home instead of just a couple of rooms that went with her job.
Surrender to the Ruthless Billionaire Page 4