‘I’m glad you like it.’ He gestured towards the dress. ‘I was a little worried about the sizing, but…’
Her pulse skipped a beat. She gazed up at him, her eyes widening. ‘You chose it?’
The corner of his mouth slanted upwards. ‘Well, my mother’s been a valued customer of that designer for years, so they were happy to give me a little advice. But I had a kind of idea of what I wanted.’
He felt his groin harden. Not just a kind of idea. It had been more like a full-blown Technicolor fantasy, and in that she’d actually been wearing very little. His breath caught in his throat as images of Cristina spilled again in his head—her long auburn hair tumbling in disarray over a crumpled pillow, her fingers tugging at buttons and zips—
Flattening down the ache of desire rising inside him, he cleared his throat. ‘I wasn’t sure about what colour to choose, and the general consensus seemed to be that black would be the safest option.’
Her face creased, but her honey-coloured gaze was steady on his as she said slowly, ‘So you chose a green dress because…?’
He studied her face, seeing both curiosity, and vulnerability in her eyes. ‘I suppose I don’t think of you as the safe option,’ he said softly. His eyes rested on her face and the air seemed to shimmer between them. ‘Black is boring and sensible and unobtrusive, and the little black dress is a cliché. You’re an original, cariño, and you deserve to be noticed.’
Cristina stared at him, his words tugging at the armour she had built around herself. For so long she had craved attention, but most of her life she had got it for the wrong reasons. And now Luis was telling her that she was an ‘original’—not only that, she knew he meant it.
‘Thank you.’ Swallowing the emotion that was filling her chest, she lifted her chin. ‘It’s nice to know I’m not invisible to you any more.’
His eyes gleamed, the grey almost black beneath the restaurant’s low-key lighting. ‘You were never invisible to me, cariño.’
‘You didn’t notice me at the club. Or are you saying you walked into me on purpose?’
He smiled then—a long, slow, masculine smile that made her feel as though she’d drunk an entire bottle of champagne on her own.
‘If you hadn’t been wearing those shorts I might have been concentrating on where I was going.’
It was the first time he’d admitted what had really happened in the club, but it was more than just an admission of guilt. It was an olive branch.
Her heart began to thump jerkily against her ribs. ‘So…are you concentrating now?’
His gaze flicked intently over her bare shoulders and down to the slight V of her cleavage and the curve of her waist.
‘Of course I am.’
Watching his jaw tighten, she felt a jolt of heat punch her in the stomach.
‘You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,’ he said hoarsely.
Not as beautiful as you, she thought, her breath suddenly too light.
And she wasn’t the only one to think so. Across the restaurant, other female diners kept oh-so-casually glancing in his direction. But it wasn’t only the women who were aware of him. When they’d followed the maître d’ to their table there had been a sudden alertness among the men in the room, a recognition that they were in the presence of someone who commanded not just attention but respect. Why else would they all twist towards him like heliotropic flowers turning to face the sun?
She could feel herself doing it too, feel her body pulling towards him, beyond any kind of conscious control.
Their eyes met.
‘You look—’ she began, and then she frowned. ‘You’re not wearing a shirt and tie.’
Glancing down at his black polo shirt, he shrugged. ‘I felt like a change.’
This sudden switch from smart to casual was disorientating—or it would have been had Luis not chosen that moment to take her hand under the table. As she felt his fingers weave through hers it suddenly didn’t seem to matter what he was wearing.
Dry-mouthed, she stared at him mutely as Sofia and Agusto sat back down—
‘Excuse me, señorita. Would you like sparkling or still water?’
Startled, she looked up at the waiter and smiled mechanically. ‘Still, please. Just a drop,’ she added as he also went to fill up her champagne glass. ‘Are you not drinking?’ she asked Luis. She’d noticed that he was once again sticking to soft drinks.
He shrugged. ‘I’ve got a couple of conference calls tomorrow, so I need to keep a clear head.’
She nodded, intrigued. Surely his mother’s sixtieth birthday was a special enough occasion to have a glass of champagne?
His mother smiled. ‘Champagne used to give me such a headache when I was younger. Do you remember, Agusto, those cocktails your parents used to love so much?’
Taking his wife’s hand, Agusto laughed. ‘Not really, cariño, but I think that was the point.’ Turning to Cristina he said, ‘They used to mix champagne with sherry. It was absolutely lethal.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Luis?’
Beside her, Luis groaned. ‘I was young and naive—’
‘What happened?’
She twisted towards him. Her pulse was dancing, and she knew that her pleasure at hearing about his life was all over her face, but just for once she didn’t feel the need to hide her emotions.
He shook his head. ‘I must have been about sixteen. My grandparents were having a party, and all the little old ladies were drinking cocktails, one after another. Bas and I thought they must be harmless, so we had one, and then two, three—’ He grimaced. ‘Harmless! I don’t think I’ve ever felt so ill!’
‘Were you sick?’
Shuddering, he shook his head. ‘No. But neither of us could stand up, let alone speak. In the end we had to go to bed.’
His father laughed. ‘What my son is failing to mention is that they went to bed at half past eight, and the bed in question belonged to my parents’ elderly mastiffs.’
Cristina burst out laughing. ‘I can’t believe you slept in a dogs’ bed.’
‘It was only the once.’ Sofia smiled at her son affectionately. ‘Luis has always been cautious. Even when he was a little boy he liked to do things properly, to do the right thing. And nothing’s changed—has it, Agusto?’
There was a short, strained silence, and Cristina could almost feel the atmosphere around the table shift.
‘He’s a very good son,’ Agusto said stiffly. ‘But I’m not sure if deliberately living on the other side of the world from your family can ever really be described as doing “the right thing”—’
‘Agusto…’ Sofia said softly, but Luis interrupted her.
‘It’s fine, Mamá.’ He met his father’s gaze. ‘Papá, I know you’re upset with me, and I totally understand why you feel the way you do. But you have to understand and accept that my life is in California now.’
He spoke quietly, but with calm determination, and Cristina knew that this was not the first time he’d had this conversation with his father. Nor, judging by the glint in Agusto’s eyes, would it be the last.
Her hunch was quickly confirmed as the older man said stubbornly, ‘But that’s just it. I don’t understand. This is your home, Luis. Your life should be here. You have a family who loves you and needs you.’ He frowned. ‘And a legacy that has—’
Cristina felt her pulse jump as abruptly Luis pulled his hand free of hers.
‘Ah, now we’re getting to the truth.’
Luis drew a breath. He was deliberately stoking his anger, but beneath it he could already feel the old familiar guilt rising inside him.
Desperately he tried to hang on to his fury. ‘It’s not actually about family at all and it never has been. It’s about the business.’
‘They’re one and the same.’
Despite having heard them since he was old enough to understand, his father’s words still had the power to catch him off guard—but it was the sadness in Agusto’s voice that made him
grip the edges of the table.
Wincing inwardly, he shook his head. ‘Not to me.’
Watching his father’s shoulders slump, he felt a dull ache spread through his chest.
‘I’m an old man, Luis. I can’t run the business for ever.’
Hating himself, he reached over and gripped Agusto’s arm. ‘I know. But, Papá, we’ve been over this a hundred times, and each time I’ve given you my answer—’
His father shook his head. ‘No. What you’ve given me is an excuse, Luis, and I don’t understand why you feel that way. But I will accept it.’ Lifting his hand, he patted his son’s hand. ‘And your mother’s right. You are a good son, and we both love you very much. We’re proud of what you’ve achieved.’
‘I know. And I love coming to visit.’ Frowning, he turned to his mother. ‘Sorry, Mamá.’
‘I’m sorry too, cariño.’
Sofia seemed more resigned than anything else, Cristina thought. No doubt she was used to it—and, given how close Luis and his father were, it probably sounded worse that it had seemed to her.
Clearly that was true, for moments later they were all chatting easily about Luis’s ranch. But, despite the fact that conversation flowed smoothly for the rest of the evening, she couldn’t shift the feeling that Luis had been lying to his parents.
Worse, she was pretty sure he’d been lying to himself too.
*
When they returned to the island Sofia and Agusto excused themselves, and Cristina found herself alone with Luis.
Given what had happened the previous night, she had supposed he would follow his parents and turn in, so she was surprised when he turned to her and said, ‘I’m going to have a drink—would you care to join me?’
‘Oh.’ She gazed at him uncertainly. ‘Well, that—’
She broke off as he raised his hands placatingly.
‘I just meant coffee or tea.’
‘So no champagne cocktail, then?’ The urge to tease overwhelmed any caution she might have had about being alone with him.
His eyes gleamed, and she felt a tiny flicker of excitement as the corners of his mouth tugged upwards.
‘Sadly we don’t have any dogs, and the floors look awfully hard and cold.’
‘Tea would be lovely, then.’
It was the first time she’d been in the kitchen. Although it was large, it felt surprisingly homely. ‘This is lovely.’
He glanced over at her. ‘We seem to have every flavour of tea imaginable, so—’
‘Actually, builders’ would be fine.’
‘Builders’?’ He raised an eyebrow.
She laughed. ‘It’s what English people call breakfast tea. I like it strong with lots of milk. Thank you.’
After Luis had made the tea, they sat on opposite sides of the breakfast bar. She had thought she would have to do the talking, but it was Luis who spoke first.
‘Did you enjoy the meal?’
‘Yes, it was incredible. I’ve never eaten food like that.’ Remembering the tension between him and Agusto, she hesitated. Then, ‘Do you think your mother enjoyed herself?’
There was a tiny pause. Luis stared at her. ‘Of course. It’s her favourite restaurant.’
She waited for a moment, and when he didn’t say anything else, just stared pointedly past her, she felt her cheeks start to tingle. She could just back off, talk about the food, or maybe the design of this kitchen, but she was still struggling to make sense of what had happened over dinner.
Luis was fiercely protective of his parents, and yet even though his father had as good as asked him to stay he’d refused. In fact he’d shut the entire conversation down even though she knew it had hurt him to do so. She didn’t know how she knew—she just knew that it had. And that it had hurt her to feel his pain.
She bit her lip. Her heart started to race. ‘She loves having you here.’
‘I love being here.’
There was a definite warning tone in the coolness of his voice, but for some totally illogical reason that only made her more determined to talk to him about what had happened.
‘But what about when you go back to California?’
He looked over at her, his grey eyes suddenly cool and hostile, as though she was some kind of intruder.
‘I’m not sure why you think that’s any of your business, but even if it were I don’t want to talk about it.’
The expression on his face made her skin freeze to her bones. It was as though they were back on that balcony and he was that same man who had accused her of being a cold-hearted, self-serving parasite. But wasn’t that what she always did when she was upset and scared? Lashed out at people, pushed them away…
Striving to stay calm, she said, ‘I know. And I get that. But what I don’t get is why you don’t want to talk to your father about it.’ Her breath was weaving in and out of her lungs too fast, as though she’d been running. ‘I’m not judging you—it’s just that I don’t have that kind of relationship with my father, and—’
And I’d kill even to hear his voice, much less have him tell me he loves me and needs me.
She finished the sentence in her head, her stomach churning with panic at the thought of having revealed the truth, even obliquely. The truth that she hadn’t mattered to the one man whose love and protection should have been unconditional.
Luis felt his muscles tighten. He felt ashamed of the way he’d acted at dinner. Yes, maybe his father shouldn’t have brought it up, but he’d handled it badly. Or rather he hadn’t handled it at all. Instead he’d done what he always did when his parents discussed the bank, or him returning to Segovia, he’d got irritated and defensive. And tonight he’d let it get completely out of hand.
It was unforgivable. He shouldn’t have done it—and wouldn’t have except that he hadn’t been thinking straight.
And it was her fault. He glanced over to where Cristina sat watching him, and suddenly it was easier to blame her than himself.
‘You don’t need to “get” it. You’re not here to practise your amateur psychology. You’re here to photograph my parents. Allegedly, anyway.’
‘What does that mean?’ Her eyes were suddenly narrow and blazing with anger.
‘It means that just because I bought you a dress it doesn’t mean that I’ve bought that whole little-girl-lost-on-the-streets-of-Segovia act. Do you really think I believe in that kind of coincidence?’
She stood up so fast that the stool she’d been sitting on spun away from her.
‘What kind of coincidence?’ She was practically shouting now.
‘Oh, you know, Cristina—the sort where we end up in bed one night and then the next day it turns out that you just happen to be taking my parents’ photographs.’
The blood drained from her face. ‘It wasn’t like that and you know it.’ She took a step backwards, her body trembling with anger. ‘And you know something else too. You might not believe in coincidences but I don’t believe in you. I think everything that comes of your mouth is a lie. Not just about me. But about yourself. About who you are, and what you want.’
Her hands curling into fists, she picked up the stool and slammed it back under the counter.
‘And, whatever you might think of me, your parents don’t deserve that. What’s more, you don’t deserve them!’
The room fell silent.
Cristina breathed out shakily. She wanted to say more, but one look at his still, set face told her there was no point. And, really, why should she waste any more time on him? It might not have sounded like much to him but she had laid her soul bare and—
‘You’re right.’
She glanced up at him and felt her stomach lurch. His skin was no longer taut but shifting, like ice cracking on a frozen lake, as pain rippled across his face.
‘I am lying,’ he mumbled. ‘I don’t think you’re that person and I shouldn’t have said I did. You didn’t deserve it.’ He looked past her, his eyes dark with shame and unease.
But i
t was his voice as much as his words that startled her. The strain she could hear in it was heartbreaking.
‘And they don’t deserve a son like me.’
He stopped short, as though it hurt too much for him to go on, and looking across at his stricken face, Cristina felt her anger start to evaporate.
‘Look, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s nothing to do with me. Your father will find someone else to run the bank—’
His face twisted. ‘You don’t understand. It’s not just the bank.’
She stared at him, her body stiffening as though she was bracing herself for a blow. ‘What do you mean?’
His face tightened, the skin taut across his cheekbones. ‘I did something unforgivable.’
Shaken, she shook her head automatically. ‘I doubt that. Whatever it was your parents would forgive you. They would,’ she repeated as he shook his head.
‘No, they wouldn’t. They couldn’t. You see, it was my fault. Don’t you understand? None of it would have happened if—’
Only she didn’t see. Or understand any of what he was saying. But she knew instinctively that it was what he wasn’t saying that was really important.
‘If what?’
He ran his hand tiredly over his face. ‘It doesn’t matter—’
Reaching out, she grabbed his arm. ‘It does to me.’
Looking into her eyes, Luis felt his breathing trip in his throat. She was telling the truth. It did matter to her. But still he couldn’t speak.
As though sensing his silence was beyond his control, she said quietly, ‘If you’re not happy in California why do you stay there?’
He looked up at her slowly. ‘I never said I wasn’t happy there.’
‘But you did.’ Her fingers tightened on his arm. ‘You said you don’t sleep. That you have to run.’ She hesitated. ‘What is it, Luis? What are you running from?’
The directness of her question caught him off-guard. And, looking up into her eyes, he suddenly wanted to answer her—for he could see that she was worried.
About him.
And that she cared.
About him.
But… ‘I don’t know when to start,’ he said slowly.
Surrender to the Ruthless Billionaire Page 12