by Cherry Kay
A BILLIONAIRE
IN BARCELONA
INTERNATIONAL ALPHAS BOOK 8
CHERRY KAY
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Summary
Iesha Thompson was heartbroken. After discovering that the man she was hoping to marry was cheating on her she wanted to get as far away from home as possible.
So she ended up in Europe. Barcelona to be exact.
And after a chance meeting with a handsome man named Alex Gonzalez sparks began to fly.
It was clear that Alex wanted to get to know her more intimately and Iesha was very tempted.
After all, the best way to get over someone is by getting under someone else right?
This is a steamy billionaire romance set in Europe. Scroll up and start reading this right away!
Copyright Notice
A Billionaire In Barcelona © 2018, Cherry Kay
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
Contents
Chapter1
Chapter2
Chapter3
Chapter4
Chapter5
Chapter6
Chapter7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
Chapter1
Her stomach was churning, knowing she was making a decision that she had contemplated for quite a while now. Moving halfway across the world for a few weeks, well, a month and a half, specifically, was going to be good for her. Iesha Thompson was twenty-five years old, recently single (well, since six months ago), and traveling for the first time in twenty long years to her mother’s home country.
Barcelona wasn’t her mother’s hometown, but she was here for something else. It called out to her, this whole flamenco dance. She had always loved dancing, and her mother nurtured that talent, while her father had his reservations about his only child leaving for Spain, especially in the midst of healing her broken heart.
It’s not broken, she told herself as she disembarked from the plane. The airport was simple, steel and glass, giving her no inkling of what it was like outside of the building. A blast of cold air hit her as soon as she got out of the airport. A row of taxis were waiting for the multitude of passengers. She walked for the train stations, determined to budget her way into Barcelona.
She had a map on her phone, directions to her long-term apartment lease. The morning was bright, and the sun shone pitilessly on her. She found herself beginning to sweat, despite the dropping temperatures. Her luggage rolled on behind her, and a mere ten minutes later, she wondered if she should have taken a taxi instead, as she realized she had taken the wrong way. She sighed and turned back.
Moments later, she was in front of the train station. It was going to be a twenty-five-minute ride to the city proper, and Iesha was glad she could converse and read Spanish—that part, her mother had insisted on. The train was full, and her phone battery was draining, so she entertained herself by translating the train poster advertisements in her head. It wasn’t such a packed ride, and she enjoyed looking out as the cityscape’s windows glinted in the sun.
It had been a terrible revelation, and every time she remembered the moment she found out he had gotten someone pregnant so near their wedding… she shuddered, closing her eyes. She was here to heal, and flamenco could be a way to do that. Heck, she wanted to try anything and everything—the pain still being fresh. Barcelona was a breather of sorts, far from American soil, far from prying relatives and friends. It was the empathy she couldn’t stand. Some meant well, she knew, but it suffocated her.
She wanted to grieve alone. What was she grieving for? The dress she had designed herself? The invitations they had poured nights into, just to get the right number of people to attend their supposedly special day? She had gotten the down payment back, thankfully. They had told each other they would be fair in expenses, and she had done her part.
It was a sigh of relief, taking back the money she had worked hard for. She was glad that she’d shouldered half of the wedding costs, that—despite her father’s insistence. The dress was still in her closet, back in her childhood home. As soon as she had canceled the wedding, she’d wasted no time in moving out of their shared apartment. They had shared everything together, and it was time that she could never get back. Her things were easily movable. He didn’t invest much in furniture, so Iesha had taken it all, and had stored it, buried it like she had been trying to bury the memory of everything.
Had it really been six months ago? It still felt like it happened yesterday. I feel too much, she had told herself; I feel too much, and I need to get away. It was a sudden idea, and while she had a fledgling boutique, she decided to pack her bags and leave for Spain, entrusting the store temporarily to her mother. Her mother happily obliged, a free spirit as always. The budget was going to be less than her wedding for sure, and she was determined to live on frugal terms, if she could. Barcelona had a flourishing fashion scene, and she wanted to immerse herself in that, apart from the dancing that was to come her way.
The train came to a stop, and she gathered her suitcase and slung her backpack over her shoulder, filtering out of the vehicle with the rest of the passengers. Ride a bus that leaves in fifteen minutes, she made a mental note. After walking two blocks, she found the bus stop that was filled with people. She could feel the city calling out to her, begging to be explored. She had two hours to kill before siesta, Spain’s national pastime and something her mother took pride in in America, even now.
The apartment was a long ride away, but she began sightseeing as soon as she sat down, making mental notes for interesting cafés and restaurants, even clothing boutiques for further inspiration. It was an uneventful but enjoyable ride overall, and she was in high spirits by the time she got to the beachfront apartment. She hadn’t expected it to be that beautiful and modern.
Iesha smiled to herself as she opened the apartment, using the key left in the lobby’s safety deposit box. There was a note in Spanish, and the owner apologized for being unable to meet her in person as he was busy. At thirty square meters, it was a steal for its price. There was a large bedroom, with a small balcony overlooking the beach across from the building, and she was ten stories up. Iesha felt like the decision she’d made had turned out to be a good one, a really good one.
Dumping her luggage and changing into comfier clothes and sneakers, she set off for the bus stop, keen on seeing the Sagrada Familia church. Perhaps, it wasn’t as ugly and confusing
in person, as it was in pictures. The day was still hot, and she almost looked like a local, except for the camera that slung on her neck; a dead giveaway, she knew, but she didn’t want to miss out on anything inspiring or curious to say the least.
As soon as she got to the Sagrada Familia, she found herself overwhelmed by the number of tourists queuing to get in, and it wasn’t even one in the afternoon. She knew siesta was about to start soon. Iesha sighed, hoping that siesta wasn’t as severe as she’d imagined it to be. Her grandmother had spoken fondly of it, but that would mean that her leisurely tour would be momentarily cut short. Flamenco lessons were going to start in two days, giving her just enough time to familiarize herself with the city.
Iesha refused to line up for tickets, deciding to take photos of what she could on the outside, instead. Well, that was a complete letdown, she thought. She zoomed in on various corners of the edifice, wondering what she could make out of it if she decided to use any of the weird designs as inspiration.
The more she looked at it, the uglier she found the church. It was fascinating because of its history. It was fascinating because it took years upon years to build, and it was older than her grandparents. Despite her limited knowledge, her senses dictated which architectural elements were Gaudi’s, and which ones were fairly recent. It was disappointing to see the cranes and the construction still ongoing, obstructing some of her photos and the overall aesthetic.
She knew this was in honor of the Holy Family, but here she was criticizing the building, for crying out loud, and criticizing it alone. This wasn’t how her vacation was supposed to feel. It felt like her ex-fiancé for some reason: a letdown. Iesha shook her head and took a deep breath, taking off the camera strap from her neck. Was she the only one who wasn’t fascinated by the building?
She massaged her neck, intent on not letting the afternoon go to waste. She took a step back to avoid a tourist, whose child was crying, and as she did, someone else bumped into her.
There was the clatter of metal on the pavement, and Iesha looked down, horrified. Her camera was on the ground, its lens and body cracked from the impact.
No, no, no, she thought.
Was this her punishment for thinking of the building as ugly? It was a two-year-old, mirrorless camera, but she loved it nonetheless! Without thinking twice, her knees dropped to the ground. She looked up to see a suntanned man wearing a white button down shirt, slim fit pants, and brown oxfords. She saw red.
*
A lot was on his mind that day, but he chose to take a leisurely walk near the church, just a few blocks away from his office. It was a warm day, but he thought some sunshine would do him good. It was better than just being cooped up inside glass and steel. Deadlines were easy; it was dating that wasn’t. Twenty-eight-year-old Alex Gonzalez almost laughed to himself, wondering how it had come to this. They had been happy. He had been happy, with just one girl, a girl that had become a woman, a woman he had wanted to marry since high school.
He looked at the tourists strolling about, eager to get inside the Sagrada. He hadn’t been inside the church in a while, and he wondered if the head architect was in. The man was a friend of his father’s, and while his aesthetics differed from his own, he still admired the work put in. It wasn’t easy, and the 2026 target was in full force, something he supported. He knew the people would celebrate once it capped off, and he would too. The church was older than his grandparents, for crying out loud. It was high time it was finished.
He bumped into someone, and then he saw something metallic and black fall to the ground. He had never heard the sound a camera made when it hit the pavement, but this time, he had, and he didn’t like it. He couldn’t even stretch out to grab it. He watched as the woman who owned it gasped, quickly kneeling to the ground, holding the camera in her hands, her mouth still agape.
“No, no, no,” she whispered, holding it in her palms. He saw the cracks on it, and he knew the camera was done for.
“Mira adonde vas—” he began. Then he stopped, seeing the look in her eyes. She looked like she was about to murder him. A frickin’ tourist, who didn’t watch where she was going, an attractive tourist at that—
“¡Eh, gilipollas!” she blurted out, her chest heaving up and down. “Oh my god, you—”
“You are American?” he said in perfect, albeit accented English.
She didn’t say anything at first, surprised, probably that he spoke English. Of course he spoke it well; his mother had put him in an international school. He eyed her, and noted she was wearing a striped blue and white ankle-length day dress and white sneakers. She looked chic, surprisingly, and he saw the lovely hazel color of her eyes, which suited her curly, shoulder-length hair. Her nose was narrow and fine, and she had lips that looked plump and luscious. Well, her lips weren’t the only luscious part of her body…
“You broke my camera, idiota,” she said, interrupting his observation.
“Well, you didn’t watch where you were going,” Alex began, enjoying the look of frustration in her eyes.
“What the hell are you going to do about it?” she demanded.
“Careful, you’re near a church,” he said with a smile.
“You really are an idiot.”
“I know that camera is expensive, and you’re obviously a tourist.”
“You ruined my vacation for me,” she snapped at him.
He sighed. “Apologies, señorita,” he began, “perhaps it was my fault as well.”
“Perhaps?” her eyebrow rose. “You bumped into me—”
“I didn’t see you, honestly,” he said. “And I’m sorry about your camera, I really am—”
“That’s it?” she interrupted him.
Well, there was only one way to resolve this, he knew. “And please, let me buy you a new camera,” he said. “I understand this means a lot to you.”
He saw the stranger blink in rapid succession. Yeah, you heard me right, he thought with triumph. He wasn’t going to be bullied by some American tourist; however, it was only right that he offered to get her a new one. She was on a vacation, after all. Her phone probably wasn’t enough. Or was the camera of sentimental value? It was an afterthought, and he should have thought of that at first, before he said those things.
No matter, Alex thought. His offer stood. He waited for her response. He knew that she was wondering whether he was insane or not, pulling her leg, or not. No man in his right mind would immediately buy a stranger a new, mirrorless camera right away, even if it was his fault. People would try to weasel their way out of it, or worse, they would run. He didn’t, of course. He was a man of his word, just like his morally uptight father.
“Sorry, what?” she finally uttered out.
“Let me buy you a new camera. Am I the one who speaks English here or what?” he said. “I don’t think that’s hard to understand.”
“You don’t even know me,” she blurted out, cradling her broken camera in her hands.
“I didn’t get your name,” he continued.
“What?” she looked confused. It was half of his intention, though, to confuse her. Catch a lady off-guard with some nice deed, and she would be obliged to be nicer to you. It was going to work, as always. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips pursed. “I don’t—”
“Surely, you must have a name,” he murmured to her, walking closer. She backed away an inch, clearly disliking the invasion of her personal space. It didn’t bother him. He had broken her camera; it wasn’t going to get any more personal than that. “I’m Alex,” he said.
He heard her gasp a little, surprised. “I don’t need to know your name.”
“Sure, you don’t want to know the name of the person who broke your camera. You are?”
Her eyes narrowed again. “What’s it to you?”
“I’d like to apologize properly,” he replied.
She eyed him carefully, scrutinizing him like he was some sort of criminal. It sent a shiver down his spine for some reason, and that rarely happe
ned; in fact, that almost never happened. Alex decided then.
“Iesha,” she finally said.
“Iesha… ?”
“Thompson,” she said, irritably. “Look, you want my passport or something?”
“Do you want my ID?” he retorted with the smallest of smiles. He reached for his back pocket, taking out a leather wallet, pulling out an ID. It was in Spanish, of course. “See?” he said, seeing the look on her face, “I didn’t lie when I said my name was Alex.”
He looked at his watch. “I have forty minutes before I get back to work,” he told her. “Shall we get that camera?”
Chapter2
Wordlessly, Iesha found herself following him… at least for the first five minutes. Her fight and flight response was in full gear this time. Blame it on her father and his spider senses when it came to danger. James Thompson owned a private security agency for good reason. Her father was a muscular man at six feet, an ex-marine. But her father wasn’t here now to protect her from a possible hostile local. She was on her own. Perhaps, Alex was one of the reasons why her father had been cautious about the trip.
They had walked a good three blocks, and the heat of the sun was starting to get to her. So much for autumn temperatures. Iesha gripped her palm tightly as he led the way. He didn’t say much, until she paused in front of a clothing boutique window.
“You can shop later,” the guy named Alex said to her. “I only have forty minutes.”
“I just thought it was pretty,” she told him.
He shrugged. “This way. Don’t worry, I’m not out to steal your hard-earned American money, kill you, and then dump you in some sewer.”
“That sounds almost like a plan.”
“It’s a plan with flaws,” he said, grinning. “I know you still don’t trust me.”
