Surrender to the Ruthless Billionaire

by Louise Fuller

  That he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  That even now part of his brain seemed intent on imagining all the different ways they could be making love on this table.

  Heat rushed across his skin and he felt his muscles—all of them—tighten.

  ‘Are those boats racing?’

  Luis blinked as Cristina’s voice broke into his heated thoughts and he turned towards where she was pointing. Out on the sea five small yachts, some with brightly coloured sails and fancy graphics, were chasing one another. It was a regular occurrence over the summer, and something he and his brother had frequently done using their own dinghy.

  A memory of the excitement and the intensity of those races popped into his head and suddenly he was pushing his chair back and walking round the table to where the stone parapet edged the balcony.

  Leaning forward, he gazed intently at the little boats. ‘Yes, they are. It happens most weekends here in the summer. A bunch of local kids take their boats and race round the island. It’s what me and my brother used to do when we were old enough to sail on our own. When were little we used to make bets on which boat would win.’

  Cristina edged forward, drawn in by this sudden shift in conversation, and by the unexpected softness in his voice.

  ‘How did you choose?’

  She tensed as he turned towards her, fearing that she’d somehow spoilt the moment and that her casual question would be enough to make him retreat back into his anger and contempt.

  But after a couple of seconds he shrugged. ‘Bas just picked his favourite colours. So basically red or yellow sails, or best of all a combination of both.’

  Taking a sip of her drink, she frowned. ‘Why red and yellow?’

  ‘They’re our family colours.’

  Remembering the crest on the side of the limousine, she gave a nod of understanding.

  ‘Right—so what about you? I suppose you did some incredibly complicated mathematical equation to work out the odds?’

  She stared at him curiously, but she wasn’t really expecting him to reply. Judging by the way he was managing the conversation, the chances of him answering a direct question with a straight answer were remote to non-existent. Just like her father, he knew the risk of sharing too much personal information. It was safer by far to guide the conversation into more neutral territory, or better still talk about other people.

  He held her gaze. ‘Actually, I used to choose the shabbiest-looking boat.’

  ‘You did?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ve always had a soft spot for the underdog.’

  Her pulse twitched, and she felt a flush of colour warm her cheeks. Unsettled by the effect his words were having on her, she stared past him at the boats.

  ‘So prove it.’ The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them. ‘Pick a boat.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Fine. The boat with the white sails is mine. You can have all the rest.’ Taking a step forward, he held out his hand. ‘Deal?’

  It was more than a wager. It was a dare.

  She shook his hand, almost forgetting to breathe as his warm fingers curled around hers. ‘Deal.’

  He tightened his grip. ‘So, will you stop jumping to conclusions about me if I win?’

  She lifted her chin. ‘Only if you do the same with me. But let’s just see what happens.’

  To Cristina’s amazement, Luis won.

  ‘How did you know that would happen?’

  Luis shrugged. ‘Simple. Whoever’s crewing that boat doesn’t care about showy sails, just about sailing.’

  ‘That’s it?’ She stared at him in disbelief.

  Watching her eyes widen and soften, he felt a sudden rush of longing like a punch to the chest.

  ‘Well, that and the way they were hugging the coast. It meant they didn’t have to fight the winds when they got past the headland.’

  His smile curved up, and Cristina breathed in sharply as it hooked her somewhere low in her stomach.

  Unsmiling, Luis was stupidly handsome. But when he smiled his beauty was like the sun itself—impossible to ignore, mesmerising, dazzling. It made her forget his lies and his accusations.

  She was still thinking about that smile when she excused herself to check her phone. After Laura’s call she had been too scared to answer it, choosing instead to leave it on silent. But she’d checked her phone at various intervals in the day, and each time there had been several missed calls and messages from Laura.

  Her hands trembled as she deleted the messages without listening to them.

  She would deal with it when she was back home. Or maybe she wouldn’t. All she knew was that she couldn’t cope with it now.

  She heard voices in the sitting room. Agusto and Sofia had returned, and from the snatches of conversation she concluded they had decided to have an after-dinner digestif.

  She was just about to join them when she remembered that she’d forgotten to switch on the volume on her phone.

  Stopping outside the door to the beautiful living room, she reached into her pocket just as she heard Sofia say quietly, ‘I showed your father Cristina’s photos—he thought they were wonderful. Did you look at them, Luis?

  Body stilling, Cristina held her breath. She knew she should alert them to her presence—eavesdropping was wrong in so many ways—but her legs wouldn’t move.

  ‘Yes, Mamá, you know I did.’

  Despite her nervousness, she couldn’t help smiling. She liked the way Luis spoke to his mother. He was so gentle with her.

  ‘I must have forgotten—’

  ‘Well, I did.’ She heard Luis sigh. ‘And I know you don’t want to hear it, but I haven’t changed my mind. I think she’s inexperienced and that shows in her work—which is competent but unremarkable.’

  Cristina flinched, and then as the full impact of his words hit her the phone slipped from her hand. She watched it fall, her heart tumbling after it in her chest.

  It wasn’t just that he found her work lacking, it was that he had looked at her photos—personal photos that it had hurt her to take—and dismissed them as ‘unremarkable’.

  ‘But, Luis—’ Sofia’s voice.

  ‘Mamá, we already discussed this, and I told you if having Cristina makes you happy then I’m happy to overlook her limitations.’

  Her phone smashed onto the tiles.

  Crouching down, she picked it up.

  ‘Cristina?’

  There was nowhere to hide. Standing up, she met Luis’s gaze. It had been painful enough hearing her life, her talent, her hopes damned with such brutal precision, but watching Luis’s face as he realised that she’d heard what he’d said was worse—for her humiliation was no longer just hers.

  ‘I think I’m going to go to bed now—please say goodnight to your parents for me.’

  And, turning, she walked blindly in the direction of her room.

  But it didn’t matter where she went, she realised as the tears began to roll down her cheeks. There was nowhere to hide from the truth.

  She was a disappointment. A let-down. Easily dismissed and effortlessly forgotten.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IT SEEMED TO take for ever to get back to her bedroom.

  Her legs wouldn’t stop wobbling and she couldn’t shake off the fear that Luis was going to come after her.

  Not that there was any reason for him to do so, she thought dully as finally she reached the sanctuary of her room. He didn’t like her. And now it appeared that he’d didn’t respect her either.

  Her stomach swayed.

  Just like her father.

  And she was so pathetic that she’d still let her head fill with fantasies of recreating that night they’d spent together. Still allowed herself to believe that there was something between them.

  Her cheeks burned and, yanking open her wardrobe, she swiped at the tears filling the corners of her eyes. Well, now she knew the truth, she thought savagely, pulling out her suitcase.

  Normally she hated pack
ing. It reminded her too much of all the times she’d had to move home after her father had left, each time to somewhere smaller and more depressing and further away from the family life she’d taken for granted. Now, though, she didn’t care. She just wanted to leave. To get as far away as possible from yet another man who had judged her and found her unsatisfactory.

  Dumping her case on the bed, she began haphazardly stuffing clothes into it.

  She had come here to turn her life around. To prove that she was worthy of recognition. That she deserved to belong.

  Only once again she had been found lacking.

  Her mouth trembled and she clamped it tighter.

  So now what?

  Stay and know that she was there not on the basis of merit but because the Osorios felt sorry for her?

  No, thank you.

  She was done with people feeling sorry for her. At school, her classmates’ curiosity about her father’s disappearance had been bad enough. But it had been her teachers’ sympathy—the carefully worded letters home to her mother, offering counselling and access to the hardship fund—that she’d found almost impossible to endure.

  Then she’d had no option. Aged thirteen, there had been no escape from their pity. But she wasn’t a teenager now. She was an independent adult with freedom to make choices, and she was choosing to leave with some of her dignity intact.

  Panic was prickling her skin. For years now she’d hidden her fears behind several coats of mascara and a couldn’t-care-less pout. But now she could feel them all seeping out of her pores—for Luis had tapped into the worst fear of all. That once someone got beneath the surface and saw the real Cristina they would find her a disappointment, a failure, a fraud—

  ‘Cristina.’

  She hadn’t heard him come in. She’d been too lost in the mental fog of her misery and anger. But it didn’t matter anyway, for she had nothing to say to him.

  ‘Cristina?’

  He had crossed the room and was standing behind her.

  She ignored him. No doubt his mother had sent him after her. What other reason could there be? From the moment she’d stepped on to the island Luis had made it perfectly clear that he didn’t want her there.

  ‘You can’t just pretend I’m not here—’

  No, she probably couldn’t. But she wanted to.

  Ever since her father had climbed into that taxi and simply not returned she’d felt abandoned, rejected. And yet for some reason she couldn’t quite explain Luis’s careless dismissal of her hurt more than anything else. Probably because it wasn’t just her photographs he’d rejected. It was her and that night they’d spent together. That beautiful, extraordinary night they’d spent in Segovia.

  A night when he’d renewed her faith in men and more importantly in herself. When he’d made her feel beautiful and extraordinary. Her mouth twisted. Only of course none of it had been real. He’d been acting, playing a part. Just as her father had liked to do.

  And she’d fallen for it.

  Just as her mother had done.

  And just like her mother, even though she’d had no reason to trust him, she’d let her guard down again. Tonight she’d stood beside him in the fading light, trying to concentrate on the flotilla of little boats racing around the island. But when he’d turned that dark grey gaze to her, his eyes slowly unpicking the buttons on the front of her blouse, she’d forgotten all about the boats. Forgotten too about his lies and the vile accusations he made.

  The urge to reach out and run her finger along the length of his jaw had been so strong, so sharp it had hurt.

  Her breathing was suddenly staccato.

  But not as much as it hurt now, to realise that it had all been in her head. That was what men like him did. They made you feel, they made you care about them, so that like some stupid moth you kept banging into the flame even though you knew that it would burn you.

  She’d known all this and yet she’d still let herself believe that the way he looked at her, the way his hand brushed against hers, had meant something.

  Gritting her teeth, she tossed a jumper into the suitcase—what a complete and utter fool!

  A hand reached past her and flipped the suitcase shut.

  ‘Will you stop for one moment?’

  It was the first time she’d ever heard him raise his voice, and it was that as much as his sudden intervention that caused her finally to turn and face him, to change her misery into anger.

  ‘Why? So you can gloat about me leaving?’

  Luis stared at her, his dark eyes narrowing in on her face, and she let her gaze rest on his beautiful curving mouth and the clean-cut lines of his jaw and cheekbones until she could bear it no more.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s fine.’ She held up her hand. ‘We both know you never wanted me here in the first place—’ she gestured towards the suitcase ‘—so you really don’t have to pretend that you’re sorry I’m leaving.’

  ‘You can’t leave.’

  The expression on his face was difficult to place. It should be relief—triumph, even—and yet it didn’t look like either. Not that it mattered what he was feeling. It didn’t change the fact that she wanted to get as far away as possible from him.

  Slowly, she shook her head. ‘There’s a lot of things I can’t do, Luis. Like algebra, and baking cakes, and apparently taking anything more than a “competent” photograph. But I can leave—and that’s what I’m doing to do.’

  Gritting his teeth, Luis watched as she turned back to the bed and began throwing more clothes into her suitcase. Despite the force and energy with which she was moving he could sense the numbness of despair spreading through her.

  It was a numbness he knew only too well, for he had felt it too.

  His mind looped back to the moment when he’d heard her phone smash to the floor. He’d known instantly that she’d heard his remark about her portfolio.

  She might not have said as much, but the hurt expression on her face coupled with her swift, desperate retreat conveyed the truth as effectively as any words could have done.

  And of course he’d felt bad—he had upset her, and he didn’t like the way that made him feel. But he hadn’t trusted himself enough to follow her.

  Then he’d spoken to his mother.

  His shoulders stiffened, and he closed his eyes.

  What was it about Cristina that got under his skin?

  For five years now his life had been orderly and meticulously planned. After his brother’s death he had sworn never again to lose control. His days started with a workout and ended with sleep, and in between there was work. There were no spur-of-the-moment decisions, no acting on impulse.

  Until Cristina.

  And since then, for some reason, he’d ignored every rule he’d ever made, every instinct he had for self-preservation. From the moment he’d watched her walk past him in that square he’d been hooked.

  At first he’d blamed his singular behaviour on his return. Even before he’d stepped onto the plane, he had known that coming back to Spain—to Segovia—was always going to be hard, unsettling, and sleeping with Cristina was surely demonstrative of that fact—one-night stands with sexy strangers were not his style and never had been.

  Finding out she had deceived him—and, worse, that she had once been a paparazza—had been humiliating. But he had told himself that it was a testament to his unbalanced state of mind.

  He’d arrived at the island confident that he knew the ‘real’ Cristina—deceitful, unscrupulous, manipulative—and determined to expose her for what she was.

  Only just when he’d thought he had proof—finding her snooping around his brother’s bedroom—he’d had to revise his opinion of her. Not only had his mother given her permission to be there, but Cristina had been respectful and sensitive—not qualities he would have associated with the paparazzi.

  His brain was still processing that thought as she slammed her suitcase shut.

  Picking up the bag t
hat held all her cameras, she swung round towards him. ‘I’ll go and say goodbye to your parents.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said quietly.

  Her eyes widened with shock, and then her mouth curved into a contemptuous smile. ‘Of course not. And you’re right. You should be the one to tell them. You’re so much better at twisting the facts than I am.’

  Reaching down, he grabbed the suitcase from her hand and flung it on the bed.

  ‘Nobody is telling my parents anything because there’s no need. You’re not leaving.’

  Cristina stared at him. Her anger felt like a living thing, pulsing beneath her skin. She’d always known he was a control freak. Not just because of the way he’d insisted on overseeing the photo shoot, but because men like Luis and her father could only lead double lives by micro-managing every detail.

  So, even though he’d wanted her to leave before she’d even arrived, it had to be on his terms.

  Her face felt hot as she lifted her gaze to his face. ‘Yes, I am.’

  She didn’t want to leave. But it was better that she went now. Better to leave with what was left of her pride intact, given that Luis’s opinion wasn’t about to change and any reprieve would only be temporary. If she left now maybe she might be able to persuade Grace that it had been her choice—for what was the alternative? Being made to feel like a hopeless fraud until someone—probably Grace—finally put her out of her misery?

  ‘I’m going home.’

  He stared at her intently. ‘I thought you didn’t have a home.’

  She frowned, caught off guard by his words. How had he remembered what she’d said that night?

  ‘I—I don’t.’ Her heart gave a jolt as she pictured her mother’s rooms in the staff quarters where she worked. ‘But I’d rather sleep on a park bench than stay here.’

  Her voice sounded too high—and thin, as though it were about to fray—and she glanced away, furiously fighting the tears that were building in her throat.

  ‘Please don’t do that,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t want you to do that.’

  ‘I don’t care what you want,’ she snapped.

  Luis took a deep breath. His chest felt tight as his gaze dropped from her small, pale face to the bag she was holding in front of herself like a buffer between them. ‘Do you care that I’m sorry?’