Cristina smiled. ‘You deserve one. Most people find photo shoots exhausting and very stressful.’
‘Pilar will be happy to show you around.’ Sofia smiled.
‘Or Luis could show you?’ Agusto took a sip of his coffee. ‘He knows all there is to know. He was even born here.’
‘Oh, no, please—your son is a very busy man,’ she said quickly. ‘He doesn’t need me interrupting his work.’
Her head was spinning. There was no way she was going to be stuck with Luis on her own.
Agusto shook his head. ‘What my son needs is to realise that work isn’t everything. That other things matter more.’
Catching sight of the pleading expression on his wife’s face, he frowned.
‘Just ignore me, Cristina. As usual, my wife is right. Pilar is the best person to show you around.’
Pilar would have made an excellent tour guide, Cristina thought an hour later. She was very knowledgeable, patient, and obviously passionate about her subject matter.
‘So, did the family buy the island or the fortress first?’
‘The island.’
They were climbing the steps to the tower. There were one hundred and twelve, which hadn’t sounded like a lot until they’d reached just over halfway and the backs of Cristina’s calves had started to burn.
‘This is like a workout,’ she said breathlessly on step ninety-one.
They finally reached the top.
‘It is.’ Pilar smiled. ‘But you don’t get this view with a normal workout.’
Turning slowly, Cristina gazed in silence at the view. ‘It’s incredible,’ she murmured. ‘You can see for miles.’
The housekeeper nodded. ‘That’s why the tower was built. To spot pirate ships.’
‘Pirates? I thought they were from the Caribbean.’
Pilar laughed. ‘Some were. But we had our own pirates here. From Africa. They were very determined, and ruthless. The fortress was built to keep them out.’
Cristina nodded. Determined and ruthless. Unprompted, a picture of Luis’s beautiful, masculine face came into her head. Instantly she felt a tingling heat travel slowly over her skin, her body responding with indecent speed to the idea of Luis gazing out to sea, his grey eyes dark with predatory intent.
Yes, he would probably make a great pirate, she thought irritably. And you would be the first person he’d make walk the plank.
Downstairs were the family’s private rooms.
‘I don’t need to see those,’ Cristina said quickly.
‘But you would like to see Baltasar’s room.’ It was a statement not a question.
Baltasar.
The son who had died in a car crash.
Grace had given her biographies of all the family members, but the information on Luis and his older brother had been basic—probably because her editor had believed it to be irrelevant for a photo shoot on Banco Osorio’s four-hundredth anniversary.
Walking into the bedroom, Cristina realised that Grace had been wrong. Realised, too, why nothing had worked that morning. And why Agusto was so tense and Sofia so desolate.
There were many beautiful objects downstairs, but it what was missing that really mattered. Like negative space in a sketch, or silence in a piece of music, it told the hidden story.
In her house it had been her father’s possessions. The shirts and suits left hanging in the wardrobe, never to be worn again. His precious vintage motorbike in the garage. And of course the letters addressed to him that kept on coming…
In Baltasar’s room the shutters were half open and the room was cool and dark and quiet, and yet it seemed to hum with memories of the boy who’d lived there.
Her throat felt tight; the feelings she tried so hard to contain were swamping her. Her legs felt so rigid she thought they would snap—and then she saw it on the wall. A painting of two boys. Brothers. The older was smiling, clearly enjoying the attention. Loving it, in fact. And suddenly she found she was smiling too, for even on canvas his smile was infectious. He was blue-eyed, like his mother, and handsome. His grey-eyed younger brother seemed less at ease, more serious.
What held her gaze, though, was not the brothers but the gap between them. Or rather the lack of it. Turning, she gazed at the collection of photographs on a beautiful inlaid chest of drawers. Some were of the two boys, some included their parents—she frowned—and grandparents, maybe an aunt and uncle. But in each photo there was that same closeness.
Her earlier panic was fading. Maybe she would be able to take these photographs after all…
*
Sofia was sitting on the balcony, basking in the late-afternoon sun. Beside her Agusto dozed peacefully. Looking up, she smiled at Cristina. A book lay in her lap—a thriller that promised a ‘breathtakingly brilliant and compulsive read’. But Cristina knew that it would be a miraculous book that could compete with Sofia’s memories of her son.
‘Was Pilar helpful?’
Striving for an appropriate level of enthusiasm, Cristina nodded eagerly.
‘Yes, and I have an idea for the photographs. But…’
She hesitated. In her head, it seemed such a good idea. But what if she couldn’t explain it properly? She had always been so bad at expressing herself—especially if it came to anything personal.
As though sensing the reason for her hesitation, Sofia patted the chair beside her. ‘Start at the beginning. I find that usually works for me.’
Cristina felt some of the ache inside her chest ease.
‘I was supposed to go to art college at eighteen, but I messed up.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘I was a bit of rebel at school, so I didn’t end up going until a couple of years ago.’
Sofia nodded. ‘That was a brave decision.’
Cristina shrugged. She hadn’t felt brave. More like terrified. But she had wanted it so badly.
Glancing down at the cover of the book, she felt her heart start to race. Her need to learn, to improve, to be a good photographer had been compulsive.
She met Sofia’s gentle blue eyes. ‘I loved it,’ she said simply. ‘All of it except this one thing. We had to do a final project. The theme was “Legacy”, and I couldn’t make it work.’
Remembering her growing sense of panic, her hands tightened around the portfolio she was holding.
‘Everything I tried felt fake. And then I was at home one afternoon and the post came, and there was a letter for my dad.’ She hesitated. ‘He was gone by then.’ Gone was easier to say than left.
Sofia held her gaze, then nodded. ‘And it inspired you?’
Cristina stared at her in silence.
In a way, yes. It had come almost nine years after he’d left. Nine years of silence—except that one time at the hotel, and then she had been the one doing the talking, or rather shouting.
They had probably moved six or seven times over those years. And yet there it had been, on the doormat. Her father’s legacy to her—a letter from a clothing storage company, requesting payment for the two fur coats they had in cold storage.
She felt a tug on her heart. She hadn’t shown her vegetarian mother the letter. But she had found inspiration for her project—a project that had been seen by Grace.
‘Yes. It inspired me to take these photographs.’ She held out the portfolio. ‘I’d really like you to have a look at them.’
She sat with Sofia while she looked through the photographs.
Finally, the older woman closed the portfolio.
‘Thank you, Cristina, for sharing these with me. I think I understand what you want to do, and I believe it will work beautifully.’ Brushing a tear away from her cheek, she smiled. ‘You’re a very talented young woman, and your father would have been very proud of you.’
Cristina swallowed past the ache in her throat. Understandably, Sofia had thought that the photos were a memorial to her father. How could she reveal the truth?
That he had been a ghost in her life only this portfolio was not a record of his death but his absenc
e.
That not only had he never been proud of her but he had judged her unworthy of his love and support.
She fixed a smile on her face.
‘Thank you. I’ll let you get back to your book.’ She hesitated. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to photograph one of the paintings in your elder son’s bedroom.’
For a moment Sofia didn’t reply, and then, slowly, she nodded. ‘Of course. And would you mind if I held on to this for a little longer?’ Her mouth twitched. ‘Like most men, Agusto responds so much better to show than tell.’
Upstairs, Cristina worked quickly. She felt excited—elated, almost—and desperate to explain her concept to the Osorios. Sofia, she was sure, would understand. Hopefully Agusto would too, and then—
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
The voice was familiar, but the anger rippling through it exceeded anything she had ever experienced. Turning she felt alarm shiver down her spine.
Luis was more than angry. In the gloom of the room his features were almost luminous with fury.
She felt her whole body turn to stone, her mind blanking as his gaze locked onto the camera in her hand.
‘I was just—’ She croaked.
‘Just what? Snooping? Stealing a little private shot?’
‘No!’ She shook her head, knowing exactly how it must look to him. But if knew the whole story… ‘If you’d just let me speak—’
‘You mean lie.’
‘You’re not giving me a chance—’
Luis stared at her in disbelief. ‘A chance?’ He repeated the word with distaste. ‘I gave you a chance to prove me wrong. I let you stay. And look how well that turned out.’
‘You just want to think the worst of me.’
There was a shaken note to her voice, but he told himself that he didn’t care.
‘And you make it almost pathetically easy for me to do so.’
Shivering, Cristina backed away. His voice was cold. But not as cold as his eyes.
‘I can explain—’ she began.
But her words dried to dust in her mouth as he strode across the room towards her.
‘No—stop!’
She held up her hand but he just kept on walking, as though she hadn’t even spoken.
‘Please. Just let me explain.’
Her body bumped against the wall and she stopped moving. Her thoughts were racing. Had she imagined this situation she would have supposed that she would be scared. And she was scared—but not of him…not physically, anyway.
What scared her was the way he was looking at her—as though he’d seen who she really was. A boring, mousy little girl who didn’t belong anywhere but especially not in his gilded world.
He stopped in front of her and the ferocity in his eyes sucked the breath from her lungs.
‘You don’t need to.’ His lips were curling with contempt and the hostility of his gaze was giving her skin trauma. ‘Your actions speak for themselves. I read your CV, remember? Once paparazzi always paparazzi.’
‘No, you don’t understand—’
It was the wrong thing to say. She knew that instantly as his expression hardened to stone.
‘Oh, I understand. I understand that you’re a leech. A parasite. You latch on to people and bleed them dry. Well, not this time. And not with my parents.’
Before she had a chance to register what he was doing his fingers had curled around her camera, tugged it out of her hand.
‘First I’m going to wipe this clean—’
‘You can’t do that. It’s my camera.’
‘And this is my home.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And I want you gone from it. So first I’m going to wipe this clean, and then you’re leaving—
‘That’s not your decision to make.’
She made a grab for the camera but he held it out of reach, his other hand capturing hers. Then he jerked her against him.
‘And yet I’m making it. So I suggest you lose that martyred expression or—’
‘Or what?’ She struggled against his grip, her fingers splaying ineffectually against the muscles of his chest. ‘Oh, let me guess. This is where I get to choose between the hard way and the easy way?’
His grey eyes bored into her. ‘You’re wrong twice over. You don’t get to choose. And there is no easy way.’
She jerked her hand free, her throat tightening. ‘Oh, I know that. Believe me, I know there’s no easy way. There never is.’
And before he had a chance to respond she ducked past him and walked swiftly out of the room.
Luis stared after her. For a moment he just stood there, too distracted by what she’d just said to follow. What did she mean about there never being an easy way? It made no sense.
Some of his anger began to fade. To be honest, he hadn’t expected to get that angry with Cristina. Why would he? By nature he wasn’t given to outbursts of emotion, but seeing her in Bas’s room had been too much for him to handle and he’d lost his temper.
Only he hadn’t meant to scare her—and he didn’t like the feeling of knowing that he had.
His chest tightened and, turning, he stalked out of the room. He had to walk fast to catch up with her.
‘Cristina—’ he began.
‘Oh, there you both are! I’ve been looking for you.’
It was his mother. He felt the familiar rush of guilt, and remorse as he watched her walk slowly towards them. He had broken her, and she would never recover. But as she got closer he saw that she was smiling.
‘Mamá.You should have sent Pilar.’ He frowned. ‘Is there something wrong?’
His mother shook her head.
‘Does something have to be wrong for a mother to look for her son?’ Reaching out, she tapped the camera in his hand. ‘I thought you liked buying photographs, not taking them.’
Luis glanced down. He had forgotten the camera. Had almost forgotten why he was holding it.
As a flare of frustration kicked up inside him he turned to Cristina, just as his mother said anxiously, ‘Querida, did you get what you wanted? It was the painting of Luis and Baltasar, wasn’t it?’
He watched Cristina nod. ‘Yes. Let me show you. May I?’
She held out her hand, and as he handed her the camera their eyes met. He knew that she wanted him to be a witness to the moment. Gazing down at the screen, he watched as she clicked through the photos right to the end, so that there could be no doubt as to what she’d taken.
Stepping forward, Sofia slid her arm through his. ‘In that case I suggest we all go and have some apéritifs before supper. Agusto and I are dining out tonight,’ she said, turning to Cristina. ‘But don’t worry—Luis has promised to take good care of you.’
Cristina smiled mechanically, but inside her stomach plummeted. Given Luis’s low opinion of her character, she was pretty sure that his version of ‘taking care of her’ was not going to be quite the same as his mother’s.
Unless Sofia was also planning on dumping her into the sea at the first opportunity she had.
Dining alone with Luis would be the absolute last item on her bucket list, but there was no way she could get out of it, so at eight o’clock she found herself following Pilar out onto the terrace.
Luis had decided to eat outside, and it was difficult to find fault with his decision. The evening was warm, but not stuffy thanks to a faint breeze from the sea, and a vibrant orange sun was sinking below the horizon.
It was the most perfectly romantic setting she had ever seen. Or it would have been if the couple sitting at the table weren’t more or less ignoring one another.
At least the food was heavenly, Cristina thought, swallowing a mouthful of the most delicious yellow gazpacho she had even eaten.
The soup was followed by lamb with smoked aubergines and then, for dessert, a turrón mousse. The wine was also delicious—a rich red Rioja with a streak of spice and blackberries—although she noticed that Luis stuck to water.
Perhaps he’d forgotten he was off-duty,
she thought, her gaze drifting over his suit and tie—a mid-blue and stripe combination this time. She half expected him to hand her a memo, or start discussing the fiscal year.
In fact the absence of his laptop appeared to be his only concession to the informality of the occasion. Probably he wore a suit even when he went swimming. Or maybe he had a pair of pinstripe swim shorts…
‘Sorry—’
She felt sparks jolt over her skin as they both reached for the bottle of water at the same time and his fingers brushed against hers.
‘Please—allow me,’ he said, breaking the taut silence.
Her eyes locked onto his long, slim fingers, curling around the bottle, and she felt her heartbeat ripple. They’d curled around her waist in much the same way as she straddled him and he’d gazed up her, his grey eyes dark and intent.
She steadied her breathing as he filled her glass, then his. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’m just following orders.’
‘That must make a change from giving them,’ she said sweetly.
Luis held her gaze. ‘I’m not a monster, Cristina.’
Even though he had acted like one earlier.
He gritted his teeth. Everything she did made him question himself. Each time he thought he’d got her all worked out she did something to throw him off balance, so that his behaviour over the last few days now seemed not reasonable but over the top and unnecessarily brutal.
It didn’t help that whenever he was within her orbit his body kept overriding his brain and reminding him of just how perfectly she had fitted against him.
Breathing deeply, he forced himself to tune out his libido and concentrate on the here and now.
Tonight she looked poised and demure, in a cream blouse that showed off the pale golden skin of her arms and a pleated navy skirt that skimmed her knees. Her beauty was undeniable, but he wanted to see beneath the beauty.
Finding her in his brother’s bedroom, he had been convinced of her guilt. Or maybe he had wanted to be convinced, he admitted a moment later. To make her fit into the category he’d assigned her: sexy but unscrupulous female photographer.
So maybe she had been right. He did want to think the worst of her.
But it was easier that way.
Easier than admitting to the facts.
Surrender to the Ruthless Billionaire Page 7
