Playing the Billionaire (International Temptation)

by MK Meredith

  Why didn’t it ever work out that a good man, a fun man, someone who entertained her and challenged her, was what he seemed? Instead it was always games, lies, or some sort of deceit. This whole situation was just another example of that.

  She was better off on her own.

  As long as Mateu kept up his game, she’d keep up hers.

  Chapter Ten

  Mateu had never suffered from so many incidences of blue balls in such a short time in all his life. But he was willing to tolerate the pain to get the job done. If only he didn’t find the job quite so enticing.

  His attraction challenged his focus, but more so was this new urgency to give her something real of himself. Something true. She’d be leaving in a matter of days, and, though nothing would change that, he wanted her to know him.

  Even if he shouldn’t.

  London’s surprise was a visit to his family orchard. When she’d first mentioned it to him, it had caught him off guard. He never took women to his home. Not to mention one to whom he’d have to make sure his parents didn’t give away his true identity. And that was exactly what he’d have to keep in mind. She wasn’t a woman, she was a job.

  Unfortunately, the more time he spent with her, the worse his deception tasted. When she’d turned to him in her sleep, something had shifted in him, something he wasn’t ready to face. He simply had to remember that though he’d manipulated her time, she was getting what she wanted in the end. The vacation of her dreams. And that counted for a lot. She deserved the indulgence.

  Handing her into his town car, he let his eyes enjoy the long length of her toned thighs encased in a pair of fitted navy dress shorts.

  He’d told her to dress casually and was pleasantly surprised to find her interpretation so simple and sexy. Her striped, nautical themed T-shirt and loafers were as alluring as her barely there night-out-on-the-town dresses or her sexy tailored dress shirts that never seemed to button all the way up. But with those thighs, she could never make a wrong choice.

  What was hard to understand was the self-conscious way she smoothed her hair and tugged at her top. How could the woman not see what he saw?

  “I’m so curious.” She smiled up at him, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Something was bothering her, and he meant to find out what. Why he wanted to was the problem. To protect himself or to try to protect her?

  “Is everything okay?”

  She waved her hand. “Oh, fine. Nothing to worry about. Where are we going?”

  But he didn’t buy it. Sliding in beside her, he clenched his teeth as she moved to the far side of the bench seat. It might be petty, but it soothed him to know she was affected by his nearness. So much so that she’d run from him this morning, even though he’d only been teasing. There was something growing between them, but he had to keep it in check.

  “You’ll have to wait and see. Just enjoy the adventure.”

  She narrowed her eyes but settled in with a contented sigh.

  The limo was stocked with a full bar along one side. Sliding to the edge of his seat, he pressed a button illuminating the small alcove in a soft glow. “I think a toast is in order.”

  “A toast?”

  He turned over two champagne glasses, then filled each halfway with a sparkling wine. “This is my favorite Cava.”

  She accepted a glass. “Oh, I’ve been wanting to try it. So, if this is Cava, then it’s made in Catalonia, right?”

  He grinned, absurdly happy that she knew there was a difference between Cava and Spanish sparkling wines. “Very good. To be Cava, it has to be produced in the traditional method, and most are produced in Catalonia, like this Macabeu.”

  She accepted the glass, then leaned back in her seat. “What shall we toast to?”

  He settled in next to her, enjoying the heat of her leg against his.

  “Nunca es tarde cuando la dicha es buena.” He raised his glass, and she met it with her own.

  “That’s beautiful. What does it mean?”

  He took his first sip. “It’s one of the rare Spanish sayings that my mother always told us when we were growing up. It loosely translates to, it is never too late for joy.”

  “It’s never too late for joy.”

  She studied his face intently with her head tilted to the side, repeating the words and letting them roll slowly around her tongue as if sampling something she’d never tasted before. “It is never too late for joy.” She continued to stare at him, but it was with a faraway look. Her mind always seemed to be on fast forward, analyzing, assessing. It was impressive she could still operate as she did. When his brain was taxed for too long it felt as though a wrecking ball had swung through. In fact, it was exactly how he felt every time he sat down to both strategize and justify his plan for the remaining days London was in Barcelona.

  Mateu drained his glass, watching the long line of her neck as she tipped her head back for a sip while she took in the countryside through the side window. The damage of last year’s mismanagement could be focused on Mateu’s involvement with the family orchard rather than administrative directives if he didn’t get this job done. He clenched his hands, leaving his shoulders straining and his head pounding.

  But in her nearness, everything eased, as if a weight lifted.

  Which didn’t make him feel comfortable at all.

  “I really love the quote. How many times do you hear stories in life of people struggling to reach some goal, some place, some thing, and then when they do only bemoaning how long it took to get there?” She drained her glass, then held it toward him for a little more. “I mean, take my mom, for example. That woman knows what struggle really is, the kind of no turning back, this is the hand you were dealt forever kind of struggle, but she still always finds the joy.”

  Pain filled her eyes, causing a wave of protectiveness to wash over him.

  “Your mother? What happened?”

  Sipping from the glass, she gave a noncommittal grunt and waved the words away. “Oh no. I just meant…my dad…leaving her and everything. He put a whole new meaning to the word deceit. Whew, the Cava’s going right to my head.”

  He was missing something, but the car pulled through the large vine-covered archway of his home that led down a long gravel lane.

  She scooted closer trying to read the iron sign bordered in skinny entwined branches. “Hort de Espasa 1870.” Leaning over him, she craned her neck for a better view out his window, curiosity bright in her green eyes. “Where are we?”

  With her hand so high on his thigh and her sweet scent muddling his head, it took him a moment to answer. “Espasa Orchards. My family home. I told you it was real.” His voice sounded like gravel to his ears.

  She turned her face toward him, then froze looking at his lips that were mere inches away. He licked them without thinking, acutely aware of her sweet breath. Her eyes dilated and, with an indrawn breath, she retreated to her seat, focusing her attention on smoothing the front of her shirt.

  He let out a slow, silent breath of his own.

  The Cava was going to both of their heads.

  Aiming for a casual tone he didn’t feel, he said, “We’re just about there. My parents will be out any minute.”

  The mention of his parents had her fussing with her hair again. She cleared her throat, her eyes darting down the long shrub-bordered drive then over her shoulder out the back window. “I guess I owe you.” Her voice held a slight nervous tremble to it. For some reason, that she would be nervous to meet his family warmed his heart. It mattered to her.

  He winked. “I like the idea of you being in my debt.”

  She stuck out her tongue playfully, but then her eyes held his. “I can’t believe you actually brought me to your family home.”

  He couldn’t, either. He’d only ever brought one other, and he regretted it to this day. But London didn’t need to know that or the fact it had left his heart inside out and bleeding.

  He was single for a reason.

  But with London, he felt a cer
tain joy in intimacy again—in just being with someone. Which surely had everything to do with the fact that she was off-limits.

  There was no forever with a woman when pretending to be someone else.

  “You wanted to experience Barcelona.” The town car rolled to a stop in front of his home. He assisted her from the car, not waiting for the driver, spreading his arm out to encompass the large house and sprawling lush lands that always reminded him of the quilts his grandmother made. “This is the real Barcelona.”

  She turned a full circle, then tilted up her head to take in his family home.

  “This is the original cottage built when the orchard was established back in 1870.”

  “Cottage?” She laughed. “You’re kidding, right? This is what Americans would call a mansion.”

  He looked back at the stucco walls, the dark, intricately designed arched window coverings that looked like something the chocolatier Abano would make, the matching Spanish tiled roof with its peaks, and catwalk-like railings that surrounded the perimeter. He’d always loved the place, and coming home was his favorite thing to do.

  Now all he had to do was keep the conversation in check.

  The front door burst open, and his mother darted through with her sister, Margarida, close on her heels. “Estimat, estimat.” His mother’s old-fashioned endearment hit his ears like soothing music, and he opened his arms wide.

  “Mare.” He pulled her in for a hug. She smelled of lemons and his childhood.

  Margarida patted his back. “Carinyo, it is so good to see you. How’s work?”

  Turning toward London, he grabbed her hand and pulled her to his side. Distracting his mother shouldn’t be too hard when said distraction was a woman. His mother’s eyes lit in delight, and she stepped forward. “This is friend?”

  Her English was spotty at best, but one of the things he adored about his mother was her fearlessness. Many of the older generations wouldn’t even consider speaking English, much less try it on someone they’d never met.

  “London Montgomery, I’d like you to meet my mother, Agueda Espasa.”

  “Agueda, what a lovely name.”

  Mateu tucked his mother against his side. “It means good-hearted. You’ll never find anyone better.”

  London smiled warmly. “It is a pleasure. I can’t believe Mateu brought me to your beautiful home.” Though she spoke slowly, he translated just to make sure his mother and Margarida understood.

  The ladies flanked London on either side, slipped their arms through hers, and took her through the heavy double front doors.

  It moved something in him to see her go so willingly with two of the most important women in his life. “Mama, where is Papa?”

  She threw him a narrowed look over her shoulder and said in Catalan, “Where do you think? Out in the fields. Like you at the hotel, he never comes up for air.”

  He cringed at the mention of the hotel, a heavy knot twisting in his gut.

  They walked into the large open area of the great room and adjoining kitchen with their high textured walls and dark wood ceiling beams. The savory aroma of pa amb tomàquet wafted over him like a worn-just-right blanket, and it was everything he could do not to run up to his room and dive onto his bed like he’d done when he was young.

  “What’s baking? That smells amazing,” London asked.

  He nodded as his mother and Margarida stepped to the oven. “It is very Catalan. Bread that is toasted a few times, rubbed with garlic, then tomato, and finally seasoned with olive oil and salt. You will never want your bread any other way.”

  She smiled. “I won’t argue with that.”

  Just as she was seated at the long butcher’s block counter in the kitchen, his brother, Antoni, and his six-year-old nephew, Felip, came bursting through the opened archways from the arbor-covered backyard. The boy’s mother had fallen in love with a Frenchmen and preferred a small apartment in the French Quarter than a family in Barcelona so the Espasas did their best to make up for the loss. The smile on Felip’s face broadened the one already on Mateu’s. So far so good.

  “Tiet Mateu!” Felip launched at him from five feet away, bringing the smell of the outdoors with him.

  “Hola, carinyo.” He caught the young boy in midair, then squeezed him tight with a chuckle. “I’ve missed you.”

  Felip grinned up at him with a gap from two missing teeth along his bottom row.

  “What’s this?” Mateu grabbed his chin.

  The little boy grinned and jumped down from his arms excitedly. “Ratoli Parez left me an airplane. I’ll go get it!” Without waiting for a reply, his nephew took off toward the back stairs.

  London was grinning from ear to ear. “Ratolí Parez?”

  Mateu stepped close and whispered. “Mouse Parez, he collects the lost teeth and leaves a present behind.”

  “A mouse?” She giggled.

  Mateu raised a brow at his brother. “Can you believe these Americans? They laugh at our mouse, then sell their children on the existence of a fairy?”

  She tapped her chin. “Point taken.”

  His brother stepped to her side and said in smooth English, “Please forgive my older brother’s bad manners. I am Antoni. My pleasure to meet you.” He lifted her hand, then pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

  Mateu stepped between them, taking the stool next to London. “My manners are impeccable, and I was going to make the introductions, but you are notorious for shooting off too soon.”

  London had just sipped from a glass of Casera his mother had poured and choked on the swallow. Covering her mouth with her hand, her eyes watered as she attempted to clear her lungs.

  Both men clapped her on the back, but Margarida shooed them away and spoke in Catalan. “Let her breathe. You big oafs will break her.”

  London put up her hands. “I’m okay.” She exhaled slowly.

  Antoni couldn’t seem to take his eyes from her, and Mateu smacked him in the shoulder in reflex.

  “What?” His brother shrugged, then brushed past him to grab a piece of the pa amb tomàquet.

  Margarida placed a small plate in front of London, then slid a warm piece of the toast onto it. “You try. Better than hotel, yes?”

  He winced.

  “Gràcies,” London replied in Catalan, making him more proud than he should be, before taking a healthy bite. Her eyes closed, and he’d be damned if it didn’t remind him of the look on her face when they kissed. Once they opened, she looked about the room until she found him, then pointed at the bread. “You were right. This is amazing. Do you think I can make this at home?”

  Now he knew she found kissing him amazing. He flashed her a grin.

  His mother nodded. “Sí, sí. Very simple.”

  “Come, let’s go find my stubborn papa. I’ll show you the orchards,” he said, offering her his hand.

  Sliding from the stool, she finished her toast, and he loved the fact she was unwilling to leave any on her plate. A pleasure glowed from his mother’s eyes that he recognized all too well. He’d have to manage her expectations—or better yet, dash any hopes her romantic brain might be cooking up.

  Taking London’s hand, he led her through the arched opening into the backyard.

  “Wait for me!” Felip came running up to them, flying a large passenger airplane in the air as he went.

  “Felip, this is my friend senyoreta London.”

  Felip smiled shyly at her from around Mateu’s thigh. “Hola.”

  London stopped, then bent to his eye level. “May I see your plane?”

  His nephew held it out to her with interest in his eyes.

  “Oh, how cool.” She tipped the plane from side to side inspecting it very closely. “You are a very lucky boy.”

  Felip beamed then ran ahead down the lane, his plane flying next to him all the way.

  “He speaks English very well.”

  Mateu nodded. “Antoni gets all the credit. He was adamant that Felip learn English along with Catalan and Spanish
from the time he started talking. Our older sister did it with her children, too. It helps so much once they start their formal studies of English in school.”

  “Well, I feel completely inadequate. A six-year-old knows three languages. I barely know one.” She laughed.

  “It’s the area. You don’t need more than English in your everyday life, here…” He swept his hand through the air, taking in the grounds bubbling with conversations and activities of the orchard workers. “There are some people who will refuse to speak Spanish in honor of their Catalan heritage. So if we want to work together, we have to know both.”

  “It is very important to them. I can see that now.”

  “Sometimes to their detriment.” As he spoke his father came into view, and the need to stay in Barcelona became all the more apparent.

  His father had grown old in the years since Mateu had left home. The man he’d always seen as a superhero slowly stood after checking the roots of a lemon tree, pausing halfway with his hand at his lower back, then with each tentative step, slowly straightened.

  Too much work and not enough rest were taking their toll. And the stubborn man refused to hire outside of the family. Family heritage was everything to him.

  Mateu shook his head. He understood, but that didn’t help anything.

  “London, I’d like you to meet my father, Nicolau Espasa.”

  She stared at Mateu a moment as if waiting for him to say something else, then hastily stepped forward with her hand outstretched. “Very nice to meet you. You have a very beautiful home.”

  His dad’s grin stretched wide. “So happy Mateu brings you.”

  From the small rise where they stood, Mateu could see all the way to the rolling hills that indicated the end of the property. The trees were thick and green with hearty bursts of yellow and the beginnings of little mandarins, some just showing their first hint of orange. The different sections of the orchard were planted in alternating patterns, and Felip disappeared into a long walkway topped by a lemon-tree-covered arbor that led back around the house.