Playing the Billionaire (International Temptation)

by MK Meredith

  “Beautiful painting, isn’t it?”

  London turned toward the soft voice of the museum tour guide. “One of my favorites.”

  “You’re American?”

  London smiled. “I am. Here on vacation. For another couple days, anyway. I leave on Tuesday.”

  “So what do you think of our fine city, Miss…?”

  “Montgomery. But please call me London.”

  Recognition lit in Maria’s eyes. “You are London Montgomery.” She clasped London’s hands in a warm grip. “I’ve been expecting you, but I thought you’d be coming with my cousin Mateu Espasa. He called me about a private tour earlier in the week.”

  “He’s been very helpful, but our plans changed.”

  Maria gave London a conspiratorial wink. “I have to admit, I haven’t heard him so excited about a woman before, and he took you out to Espasa Orchards? None of us ever thought we’d see the day.”

  Surprise kept London mute. Apparently, word spread fast but not overnight. At least she could breathe a sigh of relief that Maria didn’t yet know about their argument.

  She moved toward the next painting, and his cousin remained in step. She was trying to be helpful, but help always came at a price. Help with her mother meant not seeing her as often when she was home, and help from Mateu had meant falling in love with a man who could never love her back. In this instance, it meant an intrusion when all London wanted was to be alone with the paintings.

  “How did you become such a fan of Picasso?” Maria asked.

  “Art appreciation in high school,” London forced herself to answer. “We studied his work, and I was intrigued by the way he portrayed emotion whether it was humor or pain or sensuality. And it doesn’t matter if it is during his Cubism Period or his Rose Period. It’s all there. Every time.”

  Memories of Mateu’s fresh heady scent made her wish she could turn in to his arms and have him kiss her as she imagined Picasso would one of his many mistresses. But he wasn’t with her, and wouldn’t be. She broke away from studying Picasso’s self-portrait. He, too, had a penchant for using people to get what he wanted.

  Maria smoothed her hair along her temple, giving London a thoughtful once-over. “Ah, yes. You were introduced to Picasso during a very impressionable time in your life. I’m not surprised that he has stuck with you.”

  She nodded toward the strangers amongst them and continued, “Certain people do, you know. They stick with you. Sometimes it is the way they look at life, sometimes it is the way they go after life. None of them will be perfect.” She chuckled in a charming way that made London suddenly happy to have her near. “Picasso certainly wasn’t. But he was a dreamer, and he was never satisfied with himself first. Sometimes understanding what motivates a person helps us accept the decisions they’ve made.”

  “Do you think that is why so many of his mistresses still longed for him even after they’d been treated so badly?”

  Her perfectly lined lips pulled up at the corners. “I do. I think those who loved him the most, knew him the best, and wanted him…flaws and all.”

  London crossed her arms at her waist as they continued exploring the grounds. Is that why she hurt so much? Because maybe she did know Mateu. If the man he’d let her see was at all real, his motivation to be there for his family would certainly hold a lot of weight toward understanding why he’d been so horrible to her.

  And that was the truth of it all. He’d been an awful ass.

  His words hadn’t just hurt, they’d struck too close to home. The idea of him thinking she’d used him for his money was abhorrent. She’d been a very hard worker her whole life, taking pride in every penny earned. But he hadn’t been wrong, either. She’d happily allowed Huntington, him, to foot the bill for all her activities, even outside of the hotel.

  Considering what happened between him and his ex-fiancée, she was beginning to see just how much of a blow her admission had been.

  Maria caught her attention with another group of paintings. They discussed the intricacies of neo-Expressionism and sighed over the romanticism and the differences found in both Picasso’s Blue and Rose Periods.

  “You are so well-read on Picasso; you might have missed your calling.”

  London stared at the woman for a moment, allowing herself to dream. It hadn’t occurred to her when she was young to make a living off her passion. What an intriguing thought. Kind of like regular vacations. “Maybe I have.”

  Mateu’s cousin trailed her fingers along the wall next to Picasso’s painting, The Old Guitarist, from his blue period. “That is a shame.”

  As they stepped back through the stone archways to the still-busy streets outside, London turned back with a sigh. “This has been a dream come true. Thank you.”

  Maria smiled. “It’s never too late for joy.”

  London was left to stare at the empty doorway, the woman’s words echoing in her head with steady persistence.

  She wanted to believe the saying was true, but with what had happened between her and Mateu, she was afraid she’d found the one instance in which it wasn’t.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mateu visualized his fist smashing right through the conference room door. Perfect way to spend a Sunday morning, if anybody had bothered asking him.

  He’d barely slept since London had ripped out his heart. Her betrayal warred with the threat to his family’s orchard for priority in his head, making it pound like a bass drum. Resisting the urge to inform Huntington himself exactly how he felt about the way the regional management team had executed business was a battle he was quickly losing. In any other situation, he’d have flown to Malibu, California to meet with the man at the very beginning. But he had to think smart, not like a hothead. It was imperative he secured the five-star review before he made any move at all.

  London was his ticket to finally being able to be there for his family.

  Which made what she had done so devastating. He’d thought she was different. That maybe he’d found a woman who cared for him.

  When he’d woken with his nose buried in the sweetness of her hair and her body tucked tight against his own in the early morning after they’d made love, he’d imagined a future that held many more mornings exactly the same way. In that moment, he’d known he had to do something, find some way to make things right. She’d wrapped him around her finger with such ease, he worried about how badly it would hurt to be ripped off. Continuing with the whole review manipulation had no longer seemed justified, and he’d planned on confessing everything to her over dinner.

  But then she’d shown him she was no different than all the other women in his past. Money was her first love, not him, not being with him.

  He’d totally fucked up. Having sex with her had put the whole situation, the hotel itself, in a precarious situation.

  What in the hell had he done?

  Mateu curled his hand into a tight fist as he watched the second hand of the large wall clock tick away valuable time. Huntington would have Mateu’s job when he found out what he’d done.

  His cell rang, and he answered it with a swipe of his finger. “Hola, Antoni.”

  “We need to get home right away. Dad fell, and Mom is a wreck.”

  All the blood rushed from Mateu’s head. “Tell me what happened.”

  Pushing away from the table, he rushed toward the front of the hotel, seeing nothing but his father sprawled out on the green of the orchard and trying not to think the worst as his brother described the fall. “Have you called the ambulance?” His brother cleared his throat.

  “Let me guess, Dad won’t let you in case it’s a doctor he doesn’t know. His pride will be the death of him. Call Dr. Borrell.”

  “He’s on his way.”

  “So am I. And when I get there, I’m going to have a word or two with our old man.” Fear and frustration tangled deep in his gut.

  “Mateu, what’s wrong?” A small but firm hand grabbed his arm, stopping him from stepping through the rotati
ng door.

  London. The pounding in his head increased. “What are you doing here?”

  She winced. “I don’t leave until Tuesday, but I saw you rushing out and got worried.”

  He wanted to yank her to his chest and bury his nose in her hair in sweet relief, but then reality returned with a fierce blow. He gave her a hard stare instead. She didn’t care about him. Not really, and he had no idea why she’d pretend to now. “It’s my father. He’s had a fall. They’re not sure how bad it is but the doctor is on his way. Nothing you need to worry yourself with—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m coming with you.” She reached for him, but he pulled away from her.

  “That’s not necessary,” he said as he made his way to his car.

  But as his driver opened the door, she stepped around him and slid in first. With his hands fisted at his side, he clenched his teeth, quickly assessing how much of a scene he’d make if he dragged her out and tossed her on the street.

  “Sir?” his driver asked.

  With a low growl, he got in behind her.

  London sat as close to the opposite door as she could. She opened her mouth to say something, but he threw his hand up to stop her. “Not a word. This changes nothing.”

  The drive to the orchard was quiet. London didn’t beat him up with questions about his father’s fall. She simply stared out the window at the passing countryside.

  His eyes roamed over the profile of her face. He wanted to say thank you but he also wanted to say fuck you. The confusion of it all was exhausting.

  She glanced over, searching for something unspoken. “I know you don’t want me here, but your father needs help. Your mother will need to be comforted, and there’s little Felip. I might be able to distract him if nothing else.” She twisted her fingers together in her lap. “And I don’t want you to be alone.”

  Turning her attention back out the window, she absently patted his hand.

  He pulled it away, but not before the action touched his heart. No one had ever shown a modicum of concern for his well-being outside of his family. Not like this. Not without some other agenda attached to the generosity. But he couldn’t trust it, couldn’t trust her. She’d shown the other side of her true colors, and that side wasn’t pretty.

  Merda! What was the matter with him?

  The driver let them off at the front door, then pulled the car around the other side of the drive. Mateu strode into the kitchen with London at his heels. “Mare!”

  He turned back to London. “They don’t know something has happened between us, and I’d like to keep it that way. So if you’re here to help, then help.”

  Her face blanched, but she remained silent.

  Antoni called to him from the courtyard. “We’re here.”

  He didn’t know how many prayers he’d said, how many positive requests he’d made from the universe, how many negotiations he tried to maneuver on the way over to ensure the health of his father, but he said one more just to be safe.

  “Where’s Dad?” He wrapped his mother in his arms, kissing the top of her head.

  “He’s in the orchard with your cousins. We were afraid to move him before Dr. Borrell got here.” She glanced up at London, and a slow smile lit her face. “Estimata.”

  Mateu stilled as he watched the two women embrace. His mother had called him estimat his whole life, but he’d never heard her use the feminine form of the endearment, not with Antoni’s ex-wife, his own ex-fiancée, or any of his girlfriends. He hated it. London didn’t deserve the sentiment.

  “I’m so sorry, Señyoreta.”

  His mother grabbed London’s face. “You call me Agueda or Mare, no need for senyoreta. Yes?”

  London nodded, her eyes bright, and quickly glanced his way before turning back to his mother. “Where’s Felip? I thought I could help distract him while you all figure out what is best for Senyor Espasa. I imagine your daughter has enough on her hands with the pregnancy.”

  Mateu translated London’s generosity to his mother, and she held his gaze with one of her own that said I told you so.

  But she didn’t know. And now was not the time.

  She made a swift sign of the cross. “So nice. I fear he is scared.”

  London looked to Mateu. “I’ll go find him. You take care of your father.”

  He nodded, and they watched her disappear in the direction of the lemon arbor.

  “She’s a good woman, Mateu.”

  He kissed his mother’s cheek but ignored her comment. “Come, let’s go find out what Dr. Borrell thinks of my stubborn father.”

  A few hours later, after the painful debacle of carrying their father back to the house, they got him resting comfortably in the main floor guest room. Through the grumbling, swearing, and bellyaching, he and Antoni had looked at each other over their father’s head. How many times had they been warned not to whine or complain about help as kids? Too many, and they both found their father’s current disposition quite ridiculous.

  “Dad, you need to listen to Dr. Borrell.”

  His father pushed himself farther up against the headboard. “I have the last row of trees to tend to so I can send a shipment off to our local market for tomorrow.”

  Mateu used every ounce of strength to keep from throttling his father. The lemons, the mandarins, all of it could wait. If they missed one market, the world would not end. But the Espasas without Nicolau? Mateu couldn’t even consider it.

  But Catalans don’t miss commitments; they don’t go back on promises. Hell, to hear his father speak, Catalans were perfect.

  His eyes followed the sound of quiet laughter out of the guest room door to the living room where London played with Felip and his plane. He’d crawled into her lap, reclining quite comfortably against her chest while making engine noises. Mateu recognized the contented look on his nephew’s face.

  If perfection existed, it had been in the moments Mateu had held London.

  Merda. What a joke. He was Catalan, and he was nowhere close to being the poster child of perfection. Maybe they were made for each other.

  “Look, we’ll take care of the shipment. You need to rest. It’s going to be a long night. We have to wake you up every couple of hours. You might keep a pretty bad headache for a while. Concussions aren’t to be taken lightly, especially since this isn’t your first. And you’re old.”

  His father’s jaw dropped, and Mateu smiled. That’s all he wanted to see to ease some of his worry. The man had spunk, but it was hard not to get scared at his pale complexion and the slight tremble in his hands.

  “I’ll show you old.” He struggled to sit up.

  “Oh no you don’t, you old goat.” Agueda came into the room with Dr. Borrell alongside her. She looked to Mateu. “I’m staying with your father in here tonight. Stubborn fool just can’t see when to stop.”

  Dr. Borrell handed her a sheet of instructions. “Keep an eye out for his pain level. If his headache gets worse or he has repeated vomiting, weakness, numbness, or decreased coordination, call me.”

  “Well, he’s already proven he has decreased coordination. And if he doesn’t slow down, I’ll give him a headache he’ll never get over,” his mother threatened, even as she kissed the top of his head.

  His father crossed his arms with a harrumph, but there was no mistaking the twinkle in the old man’s eyes.

  Mateu left the room to give his parents a little privacy, then joined London and Felip in the living room. “How is he?” He should try to disguise the anger in his voice, but with all the stress the day brought with it, he couldn’t find the energy.

  Felip yawned, snuggling deeper into her chest. Mateu had never been jealous of his nephew before. First time for everything.

  “I found him in the arbor, crying. Just scared for his avi.”

  He lowered onto the couch at the opposite end. She moved to touch his arm but pulled back at the look he sent her. He didn’t want her to touch him. He was too raw, too exposed.

  Sh
e cleared her throat. “Is he going to be okay?”

  “A mild concussion this time, but with his age, and it not being his first, my mother has to keep a close eye on him.” He brushed a shock of her hair away from Felip’s face. “Thank you for watching over Felip. It helped a lot, not having to worry. Mother and Margarida have their hands full with Father. Antoni is trying to keep up with Father’s schedule, and you know my sister—”

  She kissed the little boy’s head. “It’s my pleasure. He’s such a sweet kid. He and I are buddies, I’ll have you know. He told me himself.”

  Mateu pressed his lips into a thin line, resisting the pull she had on him.

  “Mateu,” she whispered.

  “This doesn’t change anything.”

  Antoni came into the room. “There he is. You’re so kind. I’ll take him now.”

  Felip’s father picked him up, and the boy wrapped around his dad on instinct. It was beautiful to see.

  “Thank you, London. He’s really taken a liking to you,” Antoni said.

  “It’s mutual.”

  He headed toward the stairs with his son.

  She’d been so natural holding his nephew in her arms. No uncomfortable comments about how to care for him, no awkward hugs or pats on the head, just natural, loving attention. “Do you want kids someday?” The question was out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

  With a surprised look on her face, she pulled her legs up underneath her and rested her arm on the back of the couch. “I do. But I want my children to be in a loving home with two parents. My mother did an amazing job all on her own. She was always there for me, always made me feel loved even when I wasn’t lovable. But a part of me always ached from the rejection of my father. Even knowing it was his problem, not ours.”

  She brushed at the top of the couch as if she’d found a piece of lint. “But in the end, my options are limited. Most men I meet are on my travels for work. I’m rarely out on the town in my own city. That makes meeting a local man a bit more unlikely. My mother needs me, and I’ll always be there for her. There’s just no other way.” She studied him with a wary gaze. “And I think this trip has proven that.”