by MK Meredith
“But I did remember to add the Spaniard,” she teased.
Something flared in his eyes. He swung her around in front of him and kissed her hard on the mouth with such thoroughness, her knees threatened to buckle. After holding back every time she wanted to touch him over the past couple of days, the feel was both a shock and a salve. She sunk into his warmth, but as soon as she did, he pulled back.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” He shoved his hand through his hair, then stepped aside, leaving room for her to walk ahead to the elevator.
Her heart sunk as they made their way through the lobby. He regretted the kiss. She’d try not to read too much into it, but…
She slid into the car with a concealed sigh.
His driver took them past the Gothic Quarter with its darkly romantic architecture and atmosphere that made you want to believe in vampires. She stared out the window as they moved farther into the city, trying to remember every detail as they went. Old churches popped up out of nowhere with open green parks adjacent to each one. She could picture the children running through with ice creams after Sunday morning mass. The architecture that Gaudi introduced to the city was everywhere, even in the elegant boulevards and fountains with their sculpted lines and masculine curves. They took her breath away—as did the man sitting next to her.
The driver dropped them off on Carrer de Rossend Arús. The narrow, gray brick road was packed with people strolling along the few storefronts and graffiti-covered garage-like doors. A combination of businesses and homes flowed from stone to granite to stucco buildings without missing a beat. Large potted planters, streetlights, and bumper poles lined each side of the road, acting as a division for a sidewalk.
Mateu helped her from the car, and on an inhale, she was hit with mouthwatering aromas, a combination of sweet and savory. Her stomach grumbled. Maybe one more gourmet meal was exactly what she needed—seemed kind of fitting since it very well could be their last one together. She pressed her fingers to her temples.
Warm hands embraced her as he pulled her back against him. With his mouth close to her ear, he asked, “Are you okay? You seem a little tense.”
Turning in his arms, she slinked her fingers around his neck. “I’m fine. I’ll never forget this night.”
He dragged his hands down her sides and over her hips. His voice took on a gravelly edge. “I have the hardest time keeping my hands to myself around you. This is becoming a habit. One that will only hurt when you leave.”
A light of possibility shone out from her heart. “Is that why you’ve kept your distance since picking me up?”
“You’ve done the same,” he answered. “It hasn’t been easy, but it’s probably for the best. Right?”
Her nod was jerky with indecision. “Of course.”
Their host opened an opaque stained-glass door, and she twirled away with a little extra swing of her hips.
“You’re trying to kill me.” Mateu’s lips pulled up in a wicked grin as he fell in step beside her.
“Bienvenida,” said the host. “We’re so happy to have you this evening.”
They were led into a small space reminiscent of an art gallery with white walls that allowed for the prints and eclectic furniture to be the focal points of the room. Only five intimate tables filled the space.
The large front window was treated the same as the door, allowing a soft glowing light to enter but keeping out the activities on the streets.
“This is beautiful.” It would have been so lovely to come to this place without the weight of guilt riding on her shoulders.
The restaurant catered a very select menu that changed with the season and the whim of the chef. They watched him work in the kitchen while sipping Cava. It was like watching an artist paint. Such colors and textures were created using the ingredients of their dinner. The resulting plate seemed almost too beautiful to eat.
She breathed in. “This is too good to be true.”
The chef smiled. “Wait until you taste it.”
The host set them up at their table, lit a few candles, then stood alongside a bamboo candelabra with his arms tucked behind his back.
Mateu turned his hand over on the table and she slipped hers into it. “I’ve been waiting to see you since dropping you off this morning. But I had business, and you were all set up at the spa.”
“It was quite the experience. Thank you.”
He cleared his throat. “I’ve been wanting to speak with you. It isn’t easy for me to open up, but with you so many things seem possible.”
She had to tell him now. If he was going to confess, she needed to as well. Maybe telling each other together would ease the blow. “I feel the same way.” She gripped his hand. “Which is why I need to tell you something, too. I should go first.”
He tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
Blood rushed in her head so loud, she could barely hear what he’d said.
“So, my mother’s been very sick. She has MS and had to quit her research and development lab job. Science is her passion. The day I arrived, I found out our insurance no longer covers the medication that works for her, not to mention the additional expense of a recent hospital stay, so I had to work while I was here.” She pulled in a breath, smoothing her linen napkin over her lap. Lifting her chin, she held his gaze. “I’m a hotel reviewer. Which I love, but isn’t known for high salaries. With everything going on with my mom, the money earned from the review had to go toward our bills, and that meant letting go of my whole plan for my dream vacation.”
His face showed no signs of his scheme, no knowledge of her job. He simply covered her hand with his other one, giving a gentle squeeze. “Estimata, I had no idea about your mother.”
A surge of hope pushed her to continue. Just maybe he’d understand after all. “I know we all have our struggles, but I haven’t had a single thing for myself in years, and I’ve been walking a tightrope with landing in the hospital due to stress. I needed this vacation. Needed a break.” She wanted to tell him the game she played was a reaction to finding out about his scheme, but if she did, if she broke it all out into the open instead of him confessing to her, she’d never really know if he would have told her the truth.
She’d never be able to trust him.
“It sounds like a vacation is just what you needed.”
“It was, until I got the call from my mother. It had been like having a bombshell dropped on me. All of my plans up in smoke.” She glanced away from the concern in his eyes. “You and I had such a nice ride to the hotel, and you seemed so willing to show me your city. So I let you.”
The stillness in his body and the hollow look in his eyes finally registered. She squeezed his hand. “Mateu.”
Slowly, he released her, then slid back from the table.
“You were purposefully using me to fund your vacation.” His statement was spoken in a flat, cold tone.
“Yes, but I found out you were—” Panic clawed up her spine as he slammed his fist to the table, cutting her off.
Surely he’d see that with his own actions, letting the hotel fund her excursions was completely justified.
A look settled on his face that she had never seen before. He pushed up from his chair, and his tone was one of barely controlled rage. “You used me for my money? Even after I told you about my ex-fiancée, after I took you to my home? Why am I surprised? Why would I think one woman would be any different than another?”
The waiter stepped forward, but Mateu stopped him with a look before he could speak.
She reached for him with her heart splitting in two. “Mateu.”
He pulled away. “No, don’t touch me. You know what? It doesn’t matter, anyway; it was all part of the plan. You are the one who got played, Miss Montgomery. What better way to guarantee a high review from a top hotel inspector than by knowing exactly who L.M. Cipriano really is. And I know, better than anyone. Don’t I?”
She flinched at the implication in his tone. He�
��d finally admitted to his part in the deceit, and he didn’t seem to care. Her hopes for the healing properties of honesty crashed around her like dry timber in a forest fire. She wanted to cry, to make him listen, but the cold, furious look in his eyes was one she didn’t recognize.
Taking his wallet from his suit jacket pocket, he opened it and withdrew fifty-euro notes one by one.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
The euro notes fell to the surface like confetti around their glasses of Cava, but this wasn’t a celebration, it was devastation. “Isn’t this what you want? My money? Well, here you go, London. Take it. Take all of it.”
A tear slipped down her cheek, her lungs burned, and her throat ached, as she watched the man she’d foolishly fallen in love with toss their future aside like garbage. “Mateu, stop. Let’s talk about this. Please. I was angry, and—”
With a look of complete betrayal, he opened his mouth to speak, but then his face hardened. He stilled, glancing at the waiter and chef standing mutely by the kitchen door. Slowly, he found her eyes again, then pushed his chair in with slow, measured movements.
“Don’t worry, caryino,” he said, coating the endearment in quiet sarcasm. “The night is all paid for. Every expense taken care of just as you’d planned all along.” He pointed at her. “Why would you wait to tell me until now? Why wouldn’t you have told me at the hotel where we could have found some privacy, instead of being reality-show-level entertainment during one of the most expensive dining experiences in Barcelona?” He jerked his chin toward the restaurant staff.
“I could ask you the same question.” She held the edge of the table for balance. Why was he acting like he’d been the only one hurt? “I don’t understand. You—”
“Well, by all means, let me make it easy for you. I am leaving,” he said, keeping his voice low and glancing back at the waiter. “Have a safe trip back to the States.” Then, with a stiff dip of his chin, he walked out of the restaurant.
London stood frozen. Reality returned with a snap, and she hurried through the front door, looking up and down the road for Mateu. His car was there, but he was nowhere to be seen.
And all her hopes disappeared with him.
She’d been a fool to think he’d cared for her beyond a little fun and sex. That she’d ever meant anything more to him than a five-star rating.
She made her way back inside to the table and lowered into the chair, using every ounce of self-control she possessed to hold back the waterfall of tears threatening. She didn’t need to add abject humiliation to her Barcelona agenda.
“Señorita?”
With a small shake of her head, the host retreated to his position.
The remains of her dinner mocked her with its beauty. She’d never eaten anything so beautiful, but now the idea of it in her stomach made it turn.
Mateu had refused to admit that the bigger deceit was his.
She should have stuck with kissing a Spaniard.
In the end, she’d been nothing but a job.
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning, London made her way down the sidewalk through the Saturday crowd with lead feet and a heavy heart. She hadn’t been able to sleep with their disaster of a dinner playing on repeat in her head. She couldn’t stay another second inside the hotel room, either—or she wouldn’t leave it until it was time to step on her plane.
In the past few days, she’d mastered authentic Spanish dishes, drank herself into a vermouth oblivion, made mud pies on a romantic family orchard, and had nude pictures taken on the streets of Barcelona, but she couldn’t get one damn man to admit that he, too, had been wrong.
After he’d disappeared last night, she’d sat alone in the restaurant, playing back every moment, every word. And cursed herself for every time she’d been a fool and started believing the lies he wove so beautifully.
His eyes had told her he’d felt something, his touch had told her he’d felt something, but his continued deceit as an orchard worker instead of a CEO told her the truth loud and clear.
Why then did her damned heart keep hoping something would change?
She shifted toward the edge of the sidewalk, avoiding a group of college students, when her cell rang. “Hey, Mom. How’re you feeling?” She’d been released from the hospital, and London crossed her fingers that her respiratory infection wouldn’t trigger an MS flare-up.
“I’m good, baby.” A muffled cough followed the words.
“Mom?”
“No, really. I am. This is just a lingering irritation, nothing more. How’s Barcelona and that millionaire?” The tone of her voice was a combination of teasing and misguided maternal hope.
London forced her voice to be light and upbeat as her throat thickened. “Barcelona is gorgeous. Have you been taking your medication?”
“Yes, even though every pill stresses me out.”
“Well, that’s not going to help at all, Mom. Don’t worry. I’ve got this. I took the job while I’m here. I’ll be able to cover the medication at least for the next few months. Then when I get home I’ll figure out what we’ll do after that.” Her stomach turned at the impossibility of it all. “But no matter what, you are staying on that medication. Though nothing’s going to come of my millionaire Catalan, maybe something will with a billionaire Spaniard. I still have a couple days. Anything is possible.” The joke sat heavy in her chest.
“London.” It was good to hear her mother laugh. Her voice came across the line in a curious whisper. “Is there really a difference?”
“Well, I can’t speak for any Spaniards, but let me say that I have a whole new respect for the Catalans.” The thought of Mateu caused the heavy beating of her heart to pick up its pace. Why did a broken heart actually have to feel so broken? “Mom, I have to go. I’ll call you later, okay? I love you.”
She lifted her chin and forced the tight vise on her neck to relax. After last night, all she wanted to do was go home, but changing her flight had a price she couldn’t afford to pay. How ironic. She couldn’t afford her vacation, but she couldn’t afford to go home even more. The insult of it all bubbled up in her chest.
She still had three more days, and though the idea of spending them in her hotel room with a bottle of wine and eighties love ballads sounded like the perfect plan, she had to honor her mother by doing the rest of the once-in-a-lifetime experiences on her list. Well, as many as she could, anyway. It would be a long time before she ever went on another vacation, and even though it felt like an industrial-size rubber band was crushing her chest, she had to keep putting one foot in front of the other until it was time to go home.
She almost had her documentation completed for the review. Huntington Place Barcelona was one of the most beautifully run hotels she’d ever visited. The staff was attentive and intuitive, a winning combination hands down. What had happened between her and Mateu would have no bearing on the outcome. Once she pressed send, she could close the door on that particular Catalan and figure out how to move forward.
But today would be all about Picasso and a tour of the museum. It wouldn’t be a private tour, but she couldn’t go home without seeing it. She’d always been fascinated by the man and his art. And he’d been no stranger to breaking hearts, so it seemed fitting.
She walked through the large stone archways leading to the museum entrance and was greeted by the tour guide. A small group had gathered, but London kept to herself on the edge of the crowd. It was a weird sensation to be so alone in a room full of people.
A beautiful woman with ebony hair swept back in a low chignon and the highest cheekbones London had ever seen stepped to the front of the group.
“Welcome, my name is Maria Espasa. Please, follow me.”
The conversation she’d had with Mateu the first day they’d met surfaced with a swift kick to her stomach. “My cousin Maria works at the Picasso Museum. I’ll have to tell her to look for you.”
The woman’s striking good looks boasted the relation; she looke
d a lot like his mother Agueda. Heat rose in London’s cheeks. She could only hope Maria hadn’t heard about last night.
The group followed the statuesque woman along a pristine hallway. The museum itself was incredibly interesting. The original building was full of wide stone archways the color of a gently roasted marshmallow. Then an annex was introduced with clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows that stretched two stories and overlooked some sort of courtyard. As much as she wanted to see the art, the building was impressive, too.
“Wow.” London’s breathy whisper was magnified in the big open space as she trailed the woman into a large white room made with the sole purpose of showing off the art. And did it ever.
“I’ll give you a few minutes to take it all in. Let me know if you have questions.”
Most of the group lingered together, but London stayed back, needing the time alone.
She stood in front of the first painting and froze with her hands in a tight I-can’t-believe-this-is-real grip at her waist. It was from Picasso’s Rose Period, and she’d always loved the red flower in the model’s hair. It was Profile of a Young Girl, the very same print Mateu had left her after the night they’d made love.
She couldn’t even get away from him when she was trying to get away from him. Emotion clogged her throat as the night washed over her in a bittersweet deluge of memories. The anger and betrayal in his eyes when she’d told him the truth had been real, but couldn’t the care she’d felt in his arms, the thoughtfulness of such a gift be real, too? Her heart wanted it to be true, but her mind reminded her that he was used to wining and dining. Making people feel special was a part of his job.
She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled in a breath.
She was in Barcelona at the Picasso Museum. All she had to do was reach out, and she’d practically be touching Picasso himself.
Keeping her hands behind her back, she tilted her head to the side in consideration.
