Playing the Billionaire (International Temptation)

by MK Meredith

  London walked toward him in the lobby wearing short black dress shorts and a tailored blouse left unbuttoned so far he questioned his ability to make eye contact. At the sight of her XXX-rated black strappy heels, all thoughts went south.

  The woman’s shoes were going to be the death of him if the tempting mounds of her breasts weren’t his downfall first. Her lips had already proven to be too great of a challenge. She’d left her long hair down in soft waves, and she’d lined her eyes in such a way their green seemed brighter somehow.

  “You do love your heels, don’t you?”

  She turned her ankle to the side with a sigh. “I absolutely do.”

  He shouldn’t notice any of it at all. He had no right. And the guilt sitting heavy on the back of his neck shouted it loud and clear.

  One way or another he needed to get control of his baser instincts and focus on the issue at hand—easing his parents’ burden before his dad got hurt or his health worsened. To do that, he had to make sure London had the most amazing time at Huntington Barcelona as possible, and he couldn’t do that if they weren’t in the hotel. Every moment they’d spent at the museum yesterday was an opportunity missed to show off what the hotel had to offer. It wasn’t just the amenities that he wanted her to see, but every aspect of customer care. It mattered a great deal to him and was something they excelled at, especially since he’d pulled his staff together since the hotel’s mismanagement.

  “Bona nit, bonica.”

  She dipped her chin with an accusing, teasing glare. “Catalan?”

  “Very good. I said, good evening, beautiful.”

  “Always so complimentary.”

  She took his offered hand, settling it perfectly into her own. “It’s a pleasure when my new friend is both very attractive and intelligent. It isn’t always easy to find a combination that suits, all in one person.”

  “Not easy? In my experience, it’s damn near impossible.”

  With a hand to his chest, he said, “You’re too young to be so cynical.”

  “Age has nothing to do with it. Experience does. For example, I have to add kissing a Spaniard back to my list.”

  The teasing glint in her eyes did nothing to ease the tension drawing tight between his shoulder blades. “Or not. Just make an amendment and consider it met.”

  “Catalan. Spanish. Aren’t they the same?”

  He sniffed. “Absolutely not. And if you don’t want to offend either side, you’ll clear any confusion right now.”

  She tilted her head. “Everyone feels that passionately about it? Really?”

  “Catalans have been fighting for their autonomy for hundreds of years, finally regaining it fully in 1978. The ongoing struggle resulted in a strong sense of local identity. The Catalan language and culture are unique, not a dialect or knockoff of Spanish as some people think.” He narrowed his eyes at her knowingly.

  She considered what he’d said, then pressed her lips together. “I’d assumed I was checking another experience off my list.”

  “That kiss had nothing to do with your list, and you know it. You wanted me to kiss you as much as I wanted to kiss you. You can’t deny that kind of passion.”

  She nailed him with a look that would melt Abano’s chocolate. “It can’t happen again.” Her voice was low and ended on a succinct note.

  He opened his mouth to deny it but caught himself. She was right. It couldn’t happen again, not if he was going to see this thing through.

  As they approached Huntington Place Barcelona’s indoor-outdoor bar and eatery, she put up her hand. “Aren’t we going out? This is supposed to be a barhop.”

  “We will, but we’ll start with the best.” The vermouth his hotel served was indeed the most sought-after in the city, and his strategy was to have her experience it while still sober.

  “You better be right.” She rubbed her hands together. “My white-glove vermouth tasting is about to begin. This is going to be fantastic.”

  They were seated at a bistro table in a large open-air section surrounded by centuries-old partial stone walls and manicured potted trees. Mateu moved the stools to one side, leaving them both with a great view of the activities outside. The front wall of the bar had large windows that swung open like an old-time garage door, letting in the light, the scent, and the sounds of the beaches of the Balearic Sea. The bar boasted antique mirrors and chandeliers as if salvaged from the Titanic and brought back to life.

  He couldn’t help but get caught up in her excitement, but his focus needed to stay on fulfilling her agenda inside the hotel as much as possible. She’d made the plans for the evening, besides their first stop, and then had sent him the reservations and information to confirm.

  An image of his ex-fiancée surfaced along with a swirling in his gut. But London’s bright eyes and big grin spoke of nothing but sincere enjoyment, so he shoved down the unwelcome sensation with the ruthless determination of lessons learned.

  As it was, he had only about a week left with her, and he’d barely been able to show her the hotel. Pressure squeezed at the base of his skull. In three days, they’d taken part in only the cooking class. And only part of that was within the Huntington.

  He cleared his throat. “You look beautiful.”

  “You already said that, but thank you.” She angled toward him just a bit, making him want to pull her in closer. “You use the word ‘beautiful’ so easily. Is everything really so beautiful to you?”

  With the tip of his finger, he traced the Huntington logo branded into the tabletop while holding her gaze. “Barcelona is a city with an extraordinary culture for art. I grew up going to the Picasso Museum and studying the architecture in the Gothic Quarter all while surrounded by some of the most beautiful people in the world. I know beauty when I see it, and I’m not afraid to express it.”

  A wave of satisfaction rushed along his shoulders as her pupils dilated. She felt the pull just as he did. Good. If he had to suffer, he didn’t want to suffer alone. “You agree that you’re beautiful, don’t you?”

  She waved away his question. “You can’t ask me that. There are many standards of beauty. I’m sure to many, I’m an everyday average. A bit too muscular, a bit too tall.”

  Who was she kidding? He didn’t believe for one minute that she didn’t see how incredible she was, and it must have shown on his face. “Before you start lecturing me on my lack of self-confidence, I know what I bring to the table. For starters, I never pretend to be someone I’m not. I’m independent, and I try to be strong. I work hard. I try to take care of myself. I’m simply saying that my definition of beautiful may be different than yours. There are many truly beautiful people in this world.”

  Never pretending to be someone she wasn’t. He wished he had that kind of freedom.

  He leaned close enough to see the yellow ring that circled the pupils of her eyes. Tiny gold flecks ran the perimeter of her green irises, and he suspected they were responsible for the illusion of sparkles when the sun hit her face. He lifted a hand to touch her soft waves. As the tendrils rose then fell, he was teased by a light fruity scent and a wash of something warm and sensual. It made him think of Sunday morning coffee in bed and late-night drinks in front of a fireplace. Two kinds of heat, two kinds of love, but both integral parts of a whole. Why had she kissed him last night? The idea that she might be drawn to him wrestled with his guilt. Even if he was drawn to her, too, he could never act on it.

  “You’re everything soft and strong.” He dropped his hand to the table and closed it to keep from touching her again. “You’re cream and honey but with an iron will that would make many men run.”

  Her chest rose and fell with his words. He enjoyed how expressive she was. There was no facade of shyness or uncertainty. She was sweet and direct. A combination that emboldened his heart to call his brain a liar. He had to get these damn inconvenient feelings under control.

  Her lips parted, then she licked them. “I don’t see you running.”

  The wai
ter walked up to introduce himself, saving Mateu from having to answer.

  “Are you ready to order?”

  “Yes, I think I’m ready for a drink.” London cleared her throat.

  Mateu gave the order, trying not to overthink the tightness in her voice. Wanting to break the tension, he pulled a package from inside his suit jacket. “I have something for you.”

  A slight shake of her head made her hair swing. “You didn’t have to get me anything.” The discomfort that shone from her eyes warred with her curiosity, making it difficult for him not to smile.

  He slid the package along the table.

  Releasing the lime green twine, she slid it from the brown paper to reveal a long, thin box. “What is this?”

  “Well, since I couldn’t take you to the chocolate, I thought I’d better bring the chocolate to you.”

  She carefully lifted the lid and placed a hand over her lips in wonder.

  “A chocolatier from the 1980s made edible renditions of Mae West’s lips. But Abano, the Huntington’s chocolatier, his specialty is painting portraits.”

  Using only a few colors, he’d painted Picasso as the artist might paint himself.

  “His artistry is nothing short of genius.” She ran her fingers over the delicate lines.

  The fact that she saw it warmed him. “The history of chocolate in Barcelona is in our roots, our families, and dates back to 1797 when the first chocolate factory opened by Casa Amatller. Two centuries later, we have everything from old-fashioned chocolate shops that use a mill to grind the beans, like Fargas, to international superstars like Oriol Blaguer and Enric Rovira. Business in Barcelona is local and intimate first.”

  “But how can he do such intricate work only for it to be eaten?”

  “To hear him say it, it’s the chocolate. It is life. It is love. For you to take it within you means that he is filling you with both. Understand?”

  “I understand it, but it’s not what I’ve seen when it comes to love. Not where I’m concerned anyway.” She wrapped the box as she spoke then tucked it into her bag, taking great care. “Thank you. It is exquisite.”

  Mateu’s fist tightened under the table. What kind of sorry excuses for men had she dated? And what made him think he was any better? He shifted in his chair.

  It was time to move on to safer territory. He’d done damage control as much as he could, and there was no doubt she’d been impressed, so all was not lost as far as spending time in the hotel went. “So vermouth, or vermut as the locals call it, is often started around midday as a pre-lunch aperitif, but in reality, we sip on it at all hours.”

  She listened intently, leaning close. “I didn’t even know this existed before booking my trip. In the U.S., vermouth is used to make a martini or Manhattan, but that’s all I’ve ever seen.”

  “Señor, señorita.” The waiter returned with linens.

  Mateu discussed a few specifics with the young man as she looked around the bar. Barcelona called to so many tourists casually dressed to see the sights, it sometimes reminded him of walking the streets in the States when he’d visited versus the sleek sophistication he’d expect in Rome or Paris.

  Within minutes, a sampler was presented in crystal-clear glasses that showed off the rich dark color of the vermouth.

  She ran a finger down one side of a glass, then, picking it up, studied it from every angle. “I also thought vermouth was white.”

  “Ahhhh, but it’s the red, with its herbs and sweetness, that plays so well on the tongue. Here we have the house vermouth, which is a must at each bar. For every place we visit, the house vermouth will have something unique and special.” He continued down the line, warming further to the subject of the evening. He loved to share the histories of his town. “Then we have vermut rojo, red vermouth, and vermut negro, the black vermouth.”

  She grinned and pulled the tray in front of her. “Okay, so here’s mine. Where’s yours?”

  He hesitated, then laughed. “This is the first of many stops. You don’t want me to have to carry you back here at the end of the night, do you?”

  “I bet you’d give the town car a run for its money,” she teased.

  His lips quirked up, something that seemed to be a usual occurrence around her. Who would have thought a job could be so entertaining? That was one thing he had to remember. She was his job, no matter how often he thought of her when she wasn’t with him.

  The waiter delivered a small plate of tapas, including mussels, olives, and clams.

  Mateu speared an olive and held it to her lips. She accepted his gift, then chewed with a satisfied sigh.

  “The trick to surviving a vermouth barhop is to pace yourself, drink plenty of water, and eat.”

  “Oh please. I can handle my liquor.” She snorted as if he’d laid down a challenge.

  Grabbing her hand, he kissed the back of her knuckles. “I’m sure you can, but if you do it right, there’s nothing to handle.”

  He picked up the first glass and gave it a swirl. “This is the house vermouth. See how dark and rich the color is? Now breathe it in.” Holding the glass just under her nose, he smiled as she breathed in and closed her eyes. “Vermouth is wine that is aromatized and fortified and flavored by botanicals such as herbs, spices, roots, barks, flowers, or seeds. And the combination of such is what allows for such interesting differences among the brands.”

  “My mother would love the science of it all. The scent of it makes my mouth water.”

  He nodded, moving the speared orange wedge and olive to the side. “Now taste it.”

  London did as he asked. After two more sips, she said, “It’s strong and sweet. The feel of it is smooth, and after I swallow, the flavor that’s left makes me want more.”

  “Si. Exactly.” He sipped from the glass himself, enjoying the sweet herb flavor and holding it on his tongue for a few seconds before swallowing. “Each vermouth has a slightly different botanical experience, a different intensity of sweetness. In some, the herbs play a stronger part, in others it’s more of the fruit.”

  She tried a mussel, closing her eyes in pleasure. And once again, he shifted in his seat, reminding himself of a hundred reasons why nothing could happen between them.

  They continued to taste from each glass, noting the differences of sweet to savory. “Your mom is in the States?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Chicago. I need to make sure I call her when we get back.”

  “And she didn’t want to come with you?”

  A small flicker of light went out in London’s eyes as she stared down into her glass. “No. She would have loved to come. But we couldn’t make it happen this year. Someday, maybe.”

  “You said you were close?”

  “It’s always been the two of us. My father disappeared before I was born, and she worked hard to give me a wonderful childhood. Now we take care of each other. She’s my best friend. I’d do anything for her.”

  His chest tightened. “I understand. My parents have worked their whole lives to build my brother and sister and me a legacy. We learned so much from them, and they encouraged us to pursue our own passions. But now our parents need a little more help, so I’m trying to make that happen.”

  This time, she offered him a clam.

  “I love a man who loves his parents.” Then, as if caught swearing, she straightened in her seat and pushed the clam into his hand.

  He couldn’t deny that the way she spoke of her mother settled in his own heart. The older generations were the only reason the younger ones were possible. They deserved respect and gratitude, and so often he saw too much of the opposite.

  “What passions have you pursued? You said your parents needed you. But aren’t you already there?” she asked.

  He picked up the third glass of vermouth and threw back a bigger swallow than he’d intended. As the burn subsided, he handed the glass to her. “Here, this is the vermut negro. I think you’ll find it has a sweeter intensity.” He never talked much about his family
at work, but she wasn’t supposed to know he was working. He had to be more careful.

  Though he was surprised by how much he wanted to tell her the truth. “Remember I said that Catalans are very proud, and they are not Spaniards? Well, my parents take it very seriously. As they are getting older, they need more help on the orchard, but they refuse to hire anyone who isn’t family. I’m afraid Dad’s going to hurt himself.”

  She placed her hand over his with a concerned look softening her features. “But you’re already there. I don’t understand.”

  And wasn’t that the statement of the century?

  Because he should be.

  “It isn’t enough to get him to slow down. He’s not quite ready for me to take over.” It was everything he could do to keep from choking on the lie.

  All his life, he’d been groomed to run the orchard, but he’d always had to find his own way. His parents were entrepreneurs; they had a few different businesses and invested well. He’d gone away to university for a reason; he’d branched out from the family business to prove he could be a success on his own, and he had done it. The call back to the orchard was strong, and he loved his family, but he didn’t want to throw away years of long hours and demanding work now that he’d finally achieved what he’d set out to do.

  Which was why working from Barcelona was so important. He’d be able to do both. Help run the orchard while still overseeing the hotel for the Huntington franchise. There wouldn’t be much time for sleeping, but he could always sleep when he retired.

  And that was why he needed to get this beautiful, dynamic woman, who got him to say too much, to give him what he needed.

  Chapter Nine

  Mateu would have bet his whole European portfolio that London would not have made it through all five bars still standing, and he would have lost.

  She giggled as he settled her into the limo, and he couldn’t help his own chuckle from spilling out at the sweet sound of it. With a quick look at the driver, he clamped his mouth shut, but not before he saw the man’s mustache twitch in good humor.