Had she encouraged him?
Pain arced through his jaw and he realised his teeth were clenched. Relaxing his expression, he sat against the edge of his desk and crossed his ankles. Good manners would normally dictate that he offer the lady a chair, but he wasn’t feeling especially chivalrous just then.
And he rather liked having her standing there in the centre of his antique Persian rug where he could see her.
All of her.
He could tell it made her uncomfortable and he enjoyed that—perhaps a little too much.
Maybe he was that cruel.
He folded his arms loosely over his chest. ‘I’m not accustomed to finding my house guests fraternising with the staff.’
Her chin came up. ‘Perhaps your staff wouldn’t have had to entertain your house guest if their employer hadn’t been an absentee host. If anything, you should be thanking them. Rosa has been wonderful—and Alfonso. They’ve very generously shown me some of that Catalan hospitality you promised.’
‘And Delmar?’ he couldn’t resist asking.
Just how generous had his hospitality been?
Her brow scrunched. ‘Of course. Delmar, too. They’ve all been exceptionally kind. I hope you know how lucky you are to have them,’ she added, her tone implying that she considered him entirely unworthy of his employees’ services.
Well, well... It seemed his little nurse from Down Under was a zealous defender of others.
Xav stilled.
His little nurse...?
His jaw tightened again.
Jordan Walsh was not his anything.
He unfolded his arms and pushed away from the desk. Time to end this conversation. He’d already derived too much enjoyment from their exchange. There was a reason he wanted her here and it wasn’t for fun.
The fact that this brief exchange had not only aroused his libido but stirred a gut-deep feeling within him that Jordan Walsh was a woman of candour, who lacked the guile to harbour any sort of hidden, materialistic agenda, however, was an irony not lost on him.
Which left him...where, exactly? Saddled with a house guest he couldn’t turn out—not without having to wage a battle against his conscience. He didn’t deny he could be ruthless when a situation demanded it, but he never compromised his principles. Never took any action he couldn’t justify unreservedly.
Righteous was what his younger brother had called him many times over the years—usually when Xav was taking him to task over some louche, ill-disciplined behaviour.
But Ramon would never understand. How could he? His veins ran with the blood of their parents. The blood of generations of Spanish aristocracy and even royalty. He’d never had to endure those sideways looks. The snide, disrespectful comments.
Admittedly when they were teenagers Ramon had beaten the living daylights out of their cousin Diego, after overhearing him call Xav a mongrel, but Ramon had been just as furious at Xav for refusing to engage.
And that was what Ramon failed to understand. That Xav couldn’t afford to lower himself to his tormentors’ level. He had to be better. In every way possible. Maintaining a solid moral compass, ensuring his reputation was unimpeachable—that was what gave him the ability to rise above his detractors and prove to himself as much as to anyone else that he was the better man.
Yesterday he’d used the pretext of regret to coax Jordan Walsh into accepting his offer of hospitality. It had stretched his moral boundaries to do so, but he’d acted without compunction and would do it again. She’d been an unknown quantity, which had made his actions both justifiable and necessary.
And it wasn’t as if she could claim mistreatment or hardship. He had done her a favour, surely, plucking her out of that hostel and installing her in the luxury of his home. The only reason she had her pretty nose out of joint now was because she felt neglected.
‘It is unfortunate that I could not be here last night,’ he said, the words as close to an apology as he was willing to offer. ‘I am sure you can appreciate I have a company to run and there are times when work must take priority. You are right,’ he added. ‘I am fortunate to have good employees. I knew Rosa would make you comfortable in my absence.’
Deciding that now was not the ideal time to present her with the nondisclosure agreement, he walked to the door and opened it.
‘I look forward to seeing you at dinner this evening, Ms Walsh. In the meantime, I have more work to do. So if you’ll excuse me...?’
She gave him a long, silent look, and for a few seconds he had the unwelcome sensation of being laid bare. As if those extraordinary hazel eyes could cut to the core of him and see all the flaws and defects that he’d secretly feared existed ever since he was a boy.
Then she blinked, and the strange sensation was gone, and in the next breath so was she, breezing past him and out of the room without a word.
As he closed the door a bitter taste formed on his tongue and his throat caught on a dry swallow.
It had been a long time—ten years, to be exact—since a woman had looked at him in a way that made him feel inadequate. The feeling, he discovered, was no less unpalatable now than it had been then.
* * *
That evening Jordan devoted more time and effort to her appearance than she had the night before, showering early so she had plenty of time to wash and blow-dry her hair, then putting on the only dressy outfit she’d brought: gold silk palazzo pants and a black satin halter-neck top. She even applied some make-up, blending her freckles with light foundation, darkening her lashes with mascara and adding a touch of cherry gloss to her mouth.
She didn’t do any of it to impress Mr High-and-Mighty. It was all for her: to boost her confidence, give her an extra layer of protection—like armour—so she wouldn’t feel as bare and vulnerable as she had today, when he’d made her stand in his office like a naughty schoolgirl hauled in front of the headmaster for a telling-off.
He’d been so arrogant. So unbearable. And so infuriatingly, breathtakingly handsome in his pressed trousers and crisp shirt while everyone else had looked hot and ragged, herself included.
His only concession to it being the weekend had been the rolled-up shirtsleeves, the absent tie and the five o’clock shadow—and even that had somehow looked immaculate.
Xavier de la Vega might have been born to the daughter of a humble farmer, but he was in every way that mattered besides blood an aristocrat.
And a jackass. At least he had been today—having a go at her for fraternising with his staff. She refused to believe he was such a snob that he considered the people who worked for him too lowly to socialise with. It didn’t fit at all with how Rosa and Alfonso spoke of him. The few times they’d mentioned him in conversation their comments had always reflected an unwavering loyalty and a deep respect for their employer.
No. Something else must have triggered his animus. She just didn’t understand what.
Sighing, she slipped her bare feet into a pair of strappy black heels.
Maybe it was just her. Maybe they were destined to rub each other the wrong way.
Which made her heart clench on a pang of regret. She hadn’t imagined her relationship with Camila’s son would be so...antagonistic.
Or so incendiary.
Because, even knowing her pride was at serious risk, she couldn’t pretend those little detonations of heat that occurred beneath her skin when she was near him weren’t disturbingly real.
It was all very well trying to ignore her body’s response to him, but today, as she’d stood in his office and found herself on the receiving end of a very frank, very masculine appraisal, the inevitable flash of heat and awareness had been so overpowering she’d feared he would see some evidence of it.
Even more disturbing had been the trick her imagination had played on her. Or maybe it had been a trick of the light reflecting in those cool grey eyes that had, fo
r a brief moment, made them look blisteringly hot and molten.
Then, to unbalance her completely, there’d been moments when his hostility and surliness had abated and a kind of dry, reluctant amusement had surfaced.
It was all terribly confusing.
And overwhelming.
No wonder her stomach was jumping with nerves as she made her way downstairs.
At least she didn’t make any wrong turns on her way to the formal dining room tonight, having finally got the layout of the villa successfully memorised. She paused in the hallway, as she had last night, and touched a nervous hand to her hair, then walked into the room—and pulled up short.
It was empty.
She looked at the long, polished dining table. There were no place settings tonight.
‘I thought you might like to dine outdoors.’
The deep voice came from behind her and she spun round, a hand splayed over her startled heart.
‘Apologies,’ Xavier said, one side of his mouth tilting up. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
She smiled and shook her head, even though her heart continued to race. In a silk shirt the same shade of steel-grey as his eyes, and dark trousers that hugged narrow hips and long, powerful legs, he looked devastatingly attractive. Again. His dark hair was swept off his forehead and he’d shaved since she’d last seen him, leaving his tanned jaw hard and smooth.
‘It’s fine,’ she said, feeling a little breathless. ‘And, yes, outdoors sounds great.’
He guided her through a set of French doors at the far end of the dining room and onto the terrace, where a table was beautifully set for two. The summer sun had begun its descent towards the horizon and the warmth of the evening was tempered by a light breeze off the ocean.
He held out a chair for her. ‘Rosa mentioned that you’d chosen to eat out here last night, so I thought you might like to do the same this evening.’
She sat down, her awareness of him behind her manifesting itself as a hot, tingling sensation feathering down her spine. As he moved away to take his own seat she caught the same scents of sandalwood and citrus that she’d picked up on yesterday, in the back of the car.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, feeling surprised and a little bit wary that he was being so...nice. She cleared her throat. ‘Did you get all your work done this afternoon?’ she asked politely.
‘My work is never done.’
She discerned a wry note in his voice, but no hint of resentment or self-pity. He simply sounded matter-of-fact.
He lifted a bottle from a silver ice bucket on the table. ‘Wine?’
‘Yes, please.’ She waited until he’d filled their glasses and returned the bottle before speaking again. ‘Is that why you work six days a week?’
‘Seven sometimes.’
He grabbed his napkin, snapped it loose and placed it over his lap, performing the simple task with the same precision she imagined he applied to every task he undertook.
He looked at her and paused, one dark eyebrow angling up. ‘I take it from your expression you disapprove?’
Hot colour bloomed in her cheeks. Was she so easy to read? ‘I don’t disapprove of hard work,’ she said, sorting out her own napkin and then picking up her knife and fork.
Their starters were already on the table: dainty salads of dark green arugula, with melon, pistachios, crumbled goat’s cheese and thin, delicate strips of a cured meat. She speared a cube of melon.
‘But...?’
She glanced up, straight into his piercing grey eyes, and felt her pulse kick. ‘Focusing on work to the exclusion of all else isn’t very healthy,’ she ventured. ‘Life should ideally be a balance of things—work, leisure, relationships, family...’ She paused. ‘You must want a family of your own one day?’
She winced inwardly as soon as the question was out. What on earth had made her ask that? It was too personal. She braced herself, waiting for him to suggest she mind her own business.
He surprised her. ‘Sí. And when I have a wife and children it will be my responsibility to provide for them.’
His words immediately conjured an image in her head of a brood of beautiful dark-haired little children, romping through the hallways of this enormous house.
Camila’s grandchildren.
‘Of course,’ she said, putting down her fork and reaching for her wine, conscious of a sharp, painful pang in her chest. ‘But once you’ve got kids you won’t want to work all the time, will you?’
‘I’m CEO of a multinational corporation with a multibillion-dollar turnover,’ he said, in that very matter-of-fact tone again. ‘I will never have the luxury of a mere forty-hour working week. Which is why I will select a wife who’ll be content to focus on my needs and our children’s.’
The quintessential corporate wife. Of course. Jordan could just picture her, too. She’d be elegant, poised, well-dressed and well-bred—because an impeccable pedigree would be a must—and, of course, stunningly beautiful. Oh, and she’d be the consummate hostess, handing off the children to the nanny while she hosted lavish dinner parties for her husband’s friends and associates, naturally at ease in these sumptuous surroundings and never once getting lost in the sprawling maze of marble-tiled corridors and rooms.
Jordan swallowed a large sip of wine. The very thought of the future Mrs Xavier de la Vega made her feel horribly, utterly inferior.
‘You might fall in love with a career woman,’ she couldn’t resist suggesting.
‘If my future wife has a career she will need to juggle her priorities and ensure our children come first.’ He picked up his own wine and savoured a mouthful before continuing. ‘And when I marry it will be for compatibility, not love,’ he said, sounding about as passionate as if he were discussing the purchase of a fridge.
The hopeless romantic in Jordan balked. Not marry for love? Love was the only thing she would marry for. She knew what a loving, committed relationship looked like. It was what her dad and Camila had had, and she wanted the same for herself. And children, of course. What could be more rewarding, more satisfying, than surrounding yourself with people to love and nurture? People who needed you?
As for expecting his future wife to prioritise her children over her career—Jordan would be hard pressed to argue the flipside of that coin. Maybe because she remembered what it was like to be the child of a workaholic parent. Knew the deep, long-lasting hurt and eroded self-worth that resulted from being abandoned by a mother who’d been more interested in climbing the corporate ladder than raising and loving her child.
No...the idea of a woman devoting herself to her children, making them a priority, didn’t sound terrible at all.
‘You disapprove of this too?’
She put her wine glass down. ‘How can you say you won’t marry for love?’
He shrugged a broad shoulder. ‘Marriage is a union between two parties—not unlike a business partnership—and the success of any partnership relies on common goals and values, not whimsical emotion.’
So cold and clinical. And so wrong! Love wasn’t whimsical. Love and true emotional commitment were the only things strong enough to weather the inevitable ups and downs of life.
His attitude to the contrary cast a chill over her skin.
She turned her attention to her salad, as did he. Which was good. Safe. Subjects they disagreed upon were best left alone.
Except Jordan just couldn’t help herself. ‘So...if you’re always working...and you’re not interested in taking the time to look for a love match...how exactly will you find a wife? Pay someone to do it for you?’ she said, half jokingly—and then she saw the flare of dull red across his cheekbones.
Uh-oh.
He reached for his wine, took a sip, then set the glass back down, each movement unhurried. Controlled. He would have looked utterly imperturbable if not for the tiny muscle flickering
in his jaw.
‘Do you find that concept strange, Ms Walsh?’ he said at last. ‘The idea of hiring a proven professional who can handpick a shortlist of candidates whose needs, goals and desires perfectly align with your own?’
She flushed. ‘No, I don’t think it’s strange. I know there’s plenty of matchmaking services out there, and that plenty of people avail themselves of such a service. I’m just not convinced it really works. Or that it’s the best way to find your life partner.’
‘Is there a better way?’ he challenged smoothly. ‘Or do you prefer to leave your relationships to chance?’
She felt the flush spread down her neck. Just because that approach hadn’t worked out so great for her so far, it didn’t mean it never would. ‘I prefer to think the right guy is out there somewhere, and that when the time is right I’ll meet him.’
‘Ah.’ His lips gave a cynical twist. ‘Destiny?’
‘Something like that,’ she said, sounding a bit prickly and hating it that she did. ‘But I’d prefer that to choosing someone based on a clinical checklist of goals and attributes.’ She sipped her wine, the crispness of the Sauvignon mingling with the sudden bitterness on her tongue. ‘And if you have children?’ she asked. ‘If you don’t love their mother will you love them?’
Xavier went very still all of a sudden. ‘What sort of question is that?’
A perfectly valid one, she thought defensively, given that he’d declared his idea of a successful marriage was one devoid of love! His children would be her stepmom’s grandchildren, and a part of Camila would live on in them. Was it unreasonable for her to want to know if those children would grow up happy and loved?
Just then Rosa appeared, interrupting the awkward moment to deliver a main course of chargrilled peppers and slow-roasted lamb. She cleared their first course plates and set out new ones, giving no indication of whether she sensed the tension between her boss and his guest.
‘Gràcies.’ Jordan managed a smile for the housekeeper. ‘That salad was delicious, Rosa.’
A Mistress, a Scandal, a Ring Page 5