Luis Osorio wants two things:

Cristina’s truth—and her body!

Life has taught billionaire Luis that everyone has an ulterior motive. When the beautiful stranger he spent one scorching night with reveals herself as his famous family’s new photographer, alarm bells start ringing! He whisks Cristina away to his island fortress, determined to isolate her and uncover the truth—only to realize he’s rekindled a desire from which there is no escape!

LOUISE FULLER was a tomboy who hated pink and always wanted to be the Prince—not the Princess! Now she enjoys creating heroines who aren’t pretty pushovers but are strong, believable women. Before writing for Mills & Boon she studied literature and philosophy at university, and then worked as a reporter on her local newspaper. She lives in Tunbridge Wells with her impossibly handsome husband, Patrick, and their six children.

Also by Louise Fuller

Vows Made in Secret

A Deal Sealed by Passion

Claiming His Wedding Night

Blackmailed Down the Aisle

Kidnapped for the Tycoon’s Baby

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Surrender to the Ruthless Billionaire

Louise Fuller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07208-3

SURRENDER TO THE RUTHLESS BILLIONAIRE

© 2018 Louise Fuller

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Millie. For always smiling. Even when I’m really annoying. And for making me laugh. Love you lots.

And to Nic. For reading, rereading, reassuring me and generally being the best editor. Thank you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

DOWNSHIFTING THROUGH THE GEARS, Luis Osorio slowed his vintage Ducati motorbike to a standstill and let the engine idle in neutral. As he gazed down the hill at the city illuminated in the late afternoon sunlight his heart did a paso doble inside his chest.

Segovia. Finally he was home.

He had deliberately left the motorway some twenty minutes earlier in order to enjoy this moment—a moment of private communion with the city of his childhood.

A city he loved.

A city he’d shunned for five years.

Five years that had felt like a life sentence.

Although really he’d got off lightly...

His breath caught in his chest and he felt a twisting rush of guilt that made his hands tighten painfully around the handlebar grips.

It was the same guilt that had almost stopped him from coming home. But this time he’d had no choice. His mother’s sixtieth birthday was a celebration he couldn’t miss, whatever the consequences to himself, and so he’d reluctantly agreed to fly in the morning before her party then catch a flight back to California at the weekend.

Her actual birthday was just over a week later, and he knew that his parents had been hoping he would stay. He’d wanted to, and he would have done so only—

Only that would mean forgetting the past and trying to celebrate a present none of them had ever imagined, much less wanted. There was no way he could face that. Nor could he imagine being able to keep his emotions locked down for longer than a couple of days.

It would be better—easier and less painful—to go to the party, so that was what he’d agreed with his parents.

His jaw tightened. He knew they were disappointed but he could live with that. His mouth thinned. In fact he welcomed their disappointment, for he deserved it more than they knew.

But then without telling them he’d changed his mind and instead he’d flown to Athens a month earlier than planned, bought this bike and taken the road trip across Europe that he and his brother, Bas, had promised to do together.

It was the best, the only way he could think to honour Bas’s memory.

His head swam and he felt the same surge of guilt and loneliness that came whenever he thought about his brother. Bas—Baltasar—his best friend as well as his brother. And now he was gone.

On the flight over he’d told himself that it was the right time to come back, that five years of self-imposed exile would be long enough. Only now that he was here he knew that he’d been kidding himself. That nothing—no words, no gestures—could atone for what he’d done.

But he couldn’t just sit there, trapped in the endless maze of his thoughts. Soon enough he was going to have to face his past—but not yet. First he wanted just one last night—not of freedom but of fantasy. A chance to cheat time...to forget who he was and what he’d done.

He breathed out slowly, listening to his heartbeat, and then, twisting the throttle, he leaned forward, feeling the bike move beneath him as he accelerated down the road.

After the wide emptiness of the motorway the city streets seemed narrow and busy. Braking gently to avoid an elderly couple crossing the road, Luis glanced up at the five-star Palacio Alfonso VI hotel. It was tempting to book a room there. Despite his dishevelled appearance, he had no doubt that the roll of banknotes in his back pocket would ensure a warm welcome.

But right now he needed more than a generous-sized bed and a power shower. He wanted anonymity. And he wouldn’t get that in a hotel like the Alfonso VI.

Scooting down the side streets, he found what he was looking for twenty minutes later. This hotel only had two stars, and it was not central. But it was clean and unobtrusive, and the dueño was a keen biker himself. Not only did he have a lock-up for the bike, he offered to pressure-wash it too.

Two hours later, having showered and changed into his cleanest pair of jeans and a plain black T-shirt, Luis walked back out onto the street. The dueño had obviously kept his promise—aside from a couple of scratches to the metalwork, his bike looked just as it had when it had left the showroom and, climbing on, he set off towards the city centre.

It was warm enough for him not to need his battered leather jacket, but over the last few days he’d grown comfortable wearing it—he particularly liked the way it seemed to discourage anyone from trying to make conversation.

Although, remembering his reflection in the hotel bathroom’s small mirror, it seemed unlikely that would be a problem anyway. The dark, rough stubble shadowing his jaw and the coolness in his equally dark grey eyes would probably deter all but the most persistent or thick-skinned of people from talking to him.

Outside, the light was starting to fade as he made his way through the crowds spilling off the pavements. He had no real idea of where he was going, and yet for once he didn’t care. He was happy to drift through the streets for it felt so familiar—the warm night, the buzz of chatter and laughter, the smell of oranges and exhaust fumes.

It was as though the last five years had never happened. If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine that Bas was there beside him, that at any moment he would slap him round the shoulder and tell him to lighten up, because tonight was the night he would meet the woman of his dreams.

Lost in thought, he stared dazedly across the square.

As a child, the four years between them had felt vast. Then his big brother had been so much taller than him, handsome, sporty. The coolest person on the planet, in fact. Of course he’d got older and grown taller himself, until finally they were the same height. But in his head nothing had changed. Bas had always been his big brother, always at the centre of everything, his dark eyes pinballing across the room to whatever beautiful girl had caught his attention.

Whatever beautiful girl had caught his attention...

The words were still echoing inside his head as he sidestepped carefully through the groups of people pacing the pavements like glossy thoroughbreds in a paddock when from nowhere his gaze collided with a pair of soft brown eyes the colour of dulce de leche.

For a fraction of a second heat—unexpected and all-consuming—burned his skin. He registered traffic-stopping red hair, a husky laugh and long golden limbs. And then, just like that, she was gone, swallowed into the crowd funnelling through the doorway into a nightclub.

He stared after her, motionless, another ripple of heat that had nothing to do with the air temperature thrumming across his skin. And then moving swiftly, he did something he’d never done before. He followed her.

Inside, the club was exactly the kind of place he loathed and normally avoided. Hot, loud and crowded, with a dress code and a VIP area. The men were sleek and groomed, the women doubly so.

But he spotted her as soon as he stepped through the door.

How could he not?

Even without the warning beacons of that striking auburn hair and those matching crimson lips, the young men congregating around her like a pack of hungry coyotes made her impossible to miss.

He gritted his teeth. It was easy to see the attraction.

Her feminine curves promised the kind of pleasure that men would fight for with their fists, and she was beautiful and confident in her charms in a way that reminded him painfully of his brother. But that was where the similarity ended, for Bas had never sought the attention he’d received, whereas this woman was deliberately using her beauty and her body to seduce.

His groin tightened as his eyes swept over her.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t completely fair.

Her bright yellow top covered her arms and breasts, and her shorts were actually modest in comparison to those worn by most of the women in the club. But they still revealed an inordinate amount of long golden legs—legs that ended in some of the highest heels he’d even seen. And in fact, now that he was closer, he could see that her top was actually transparent!

His face hardened. Basically, she was sexy and she knew it.

So not his type at all—and yet he had followed her.

Still not entirely sure why he had done that, but somehow reluctant to leave, Luis shrugged off his jacket and pushed his way to the front of the bar.

‘Una sin.’

At least that was something that had changed for the better in the five years since he’d been away. Alcohol-free beer was widely available now, and an acceptable substitute for the real thing.

Not that it would have made any difference if it hadn’t been. He would drink dishwater rather than break his vow. Never again would he risk that loss of control that had ripped his world apart.

Staring straight ahead, he lifted the glass to his lips. He had deliberately chosen to sit with his back to the red-haired woman, and she should have been out of sight and out of mind. But, despite not actually being able to see her, he could still sense her every move. Could picture her hand reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear, almost hear that soft, sexy laugh that hinted not just at fun and flirtation but at a fantasy come true.

Annoyed with the direction of his thoughts, but unable to stop himself, he looked up at the mirror above the bar, his eyes fixing on her reflection. Instantly he regretted his lack of self-control, for she was laughing at something one of the men was saying, her hand brushing against his arm as she leaned in closer to him.

Luis scowled. No doubt he was her boyfriend—for now. The rest were just watching and waiting. Or maybe she was watching and waiting to see which of the men in the room were prepared to make a move.

His eyes narrowed and he felt a swirling anger mingle with his desire as he realised that he himself was included in that demographic.

Why, then, did he find her so damn desirable?

It didn’t make any sense that someone like him would be attracted to someone like her—especially not now. Tonight of all nights he needed to stay detached. Yet, like a bull mesmerised by that flash of red, he could feel himself being drawn to her.

He ran his hand wearily over his face. It must be tiredness...or the heat.

Right, he mocked himself. Or maybe, like every other man within a five-mile radius, he wanted what she was offering.

Glancing over his shoulder at the group of men, he felt his chest tighten. Even from here he could feel their longing, spilling into the dark club.

Like it or not, he was no different.

His heartbeat slowed. Except that he was.

Sure, he’d had girlfriends. No one special, though. And nor was there likely to be any time soon, for more than anything he needed to be certain—and certainty was not a part of the dating equation. Chasing women was definitely not his thing either. It was Bas who had loved the thrill of the chase.

His hand tightened involuntarily around the glass.

The thrill of the chase—even just thinking the words made him feel slightly sick and, tilting his glass, he gazed down at the swirling contents and tried to distract himself from the guilt and remorse building inside his chest.

It didn’t work. And suddenly he knew that it was time to leave. That his little adventure was over.

Keeping his eyes low, he breathed out softly, then still clutching his glass, he turned and—

The glass slammed against his chest, beer slopping down his T-shirt.

He heard a soft cry of surprise, and then the reflexes honed by years of riding motorbikes kicked in. Reaching out, he grabbed the arm flailing in front of him just as his startled brain realised that it was her—the red-haired woman.

* * *

Cristina Shephard gasped.

One moment she’d been taking a selfie on her phone—the next she was falling forward. Her one conscious thought was, I knew I shouldn’t have worn these heels, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, she was being pulled upright, strong hands curving around her wrist and waist.

She breathed out in a rush as those same hands spun her round. ‘Sorry...’

Why was she apologising? she thought dazedly, almost forgetting to breathe. He’d walked into her. But she knew why, and as her fingers curled into warm, hard muscle she gazed up at the man in front of her.

All evening she’d been aware of him. How could she not be? He dominated the whole club—and not just because he was handsome in a way that made you look twice...actually, three times. First to check you weren’t seeing things. Then to marvel at such blatant perfection. And finally just to savour his extraordinary masculine beauty.

He was just so cool. With or without the leather jacket, he had an aura of calm assurance that suggested he was bigger than the sum of his problems. Or hers.

Although obviously not hers. She might never have shared them with anyone, but she knew her problems were too much for most people to handle. Or maybe it was her that was the problem. Her last boyfriend had more or less told her that—shortly after she’d found him in bed with her flatmate.

Her stomach clenched and, pushing aside that thought, she said quickly, ‘Thank you for catching me—and sorry about your beer.’

Luis stared at her. Up close, she was more than beautiful. She was devastatingly lovely. Her huge, melting turrón-coloured eyes with their fringe of probably fake eyelashes were perfectly offset by her flushed cheeks and the scarlet bow of her mouth. He wondered just how soft the skin was on her throat, and then instantly wished that he hadn’t as his brain began tugging him on an imaginary tour beneath her clothing.

Imposing an indifference he didn’t feel onto his features, he shrugged. ‘I was leaving anyway.’

Looking down into her beautiful, curious face, he couldn’t actually remember why that was the case. In fact he appeared to be having trouble remembering how to do a lot of things—like breathing and speaking. It was her fault, though, he thought irritably. Her beauty kept catching him off guard, so that each time he looked at her he forgot what he’d been planning to say.

As the silence grew, Cristina felt her lungs contract.

What was she doing here?

Tomorrow was going to be the biggest day of her life and she should be back in her hotel room, having a quiet night in on her own—just as she’d promised her mum. Only ‘quiet and alone’ were not a great combination, for that was when the thoughts came creeping into her head—thoughts that left her breathless with misery and doubt.

And so she’d come out, bumped into some people at a bar, and ended up here.

With him.

Her mouth felt dry and her breath was suddenly scratchy in her throat. It actually hurt to look at him.

She’d been surrounded by men all evening, but none of them had felt real. They were like chameleons—constantly changing according to their environment. It had made her feel nervous and unsteady, as though the solid floor of the club was actually quicksand.

Her heart tripped in her chest.

And then there was this man.

She liked it that he had ignored the dress code. Liked it, too, that he was happy with his own company. Not that he needed to be. She wasn’t the only women in the club who’d clocked him—for obvious reasons.

He definitely ticked all the boxes in the ‘tall, dark and handsome’ category. In fact his hair was almost black, and so long it curled loosely over the collar of his now damp T-shirt. Stubble that was definitely not ‘designer’ shadowed the clean lines of his jaw, and he had a small infinity tattoo on his wrist.

How on earth had he got past the gorilas on the door? she wondered distractedly. Even she’d had trouble getting in.

But probably he’d just walked straight in. Men with his kind of aura didn’t stop for doormen.

Aware suddenly that she had been staring at him for what felt like for ever, she glanced down at his almost empty glass and said quickly, ‘Please. Have mine.’

She held out the bottle but he shook his head.

‘Okay, then let me buy you another one? To make up for spilling yours.’

Pulse racing, she reached into her bag, pulled out her purse and—

‘Oh.’

Groaning inwardly, she gazed down at the handful of coins. She’d meant to go to the cashpoint on her way out but she’d forgotten.

‘It really doesn’t matter.’

He spoke quietly, but there was a firmness to his voice that cut through his casual manner and made her breathing accelerate in time with her heartbeat.

‘It does.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Look, Tomás will buy you one. He won’t mind.’

Luis gazed at her incredulously. He could hardly believe what she’d just said.

Seriously? She was going to ask her boyfriend to buy him a drink?

His face hardened. ‘There’s no need, really,’ he said tersely.

He didn’t care about the drink. Or his T-shirt. Or the fact that she had a boyfriend. He definitely didn’t care about that, he thought angrily. So why, then, did he feel so wound up?

And then, catching sight of the phone in her hand, he felt a warm surge of relief. She’d been taking a selfie—that was why she’d bumped into him.

Wasn’t it enough that every man in the room was drooling all over her? Did she have to drool over herself too?

Reaching around her, he snatched up his leather jacket from the bar stool.

‘I don’t want another drink,’ he said quietly. ‘But just do yourself and everyone else a favour and look where you’re going next time you come over all narcissistic.’

She gazed up at him as if she couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. Probably she couldn’t. With lips and legs like hers she’d almost certainly never had to take responsibility for her actions before.

Her mouth curled. ‘I was looking where I was going because I was standing still. You walked into me.’

It was true. He had walked into her. But somehow the knowledge that he was technically in the wrong just antagonised him more.

His voice cold, and clipped with a fury he didn’t fully understand, he shrugged his arms into his jacket. ‘You were taking a selfie in the middle of a nightclub. You weren’t concentrating. And that’s how accidents happen.’

He watched her eyes darken to the colour of burnt sugar, her face stiffening with shock and then a fury that doused his.

‘Well, don’t worry—next time I spill a drink all over you I’ll make sure I do it on purpose.’

She stared at him fiercely and then, lifting her chin, turned and stalked off towards the dance floor.

For a fraction of a second Luis stared after her, his heart ricocheting inside his chest. Then, biting down on the frustration rising inside his throat, he turned and strode towards the stairs.

* * *

Out in the street, he felt his fury fade in the still night air. Gazing up at the dark sky, he breathed out slowly.

He hated conflict of any kind. Rarely lost his temper or provoked a fight. Yet tonight he’d almost done both—and with a woman. Gritting his teeth, he cursed softly. He’d been obnoxious and childish—and frankly he’d deserved everything she’d thrown at him and more.

In fact he was lucky she hadn’t thrown her own drink at him too, he thought savagely as he began walking across the square.

The pavements were empty now, almost like a ghost town, and he felt a wrench of loneliness as he unlocked his bike. He missed Bas so much. Living in California, it was easy to rationalise his brother’s absence from his life. All he had to do was pretend that back in Spain Bas was doing just what he always did—teasing their mother, eating empanadas by the plateful, partying until dawn with his friends.

Here, though, it was impossible to pretend.

And it would be even harder tomorrow—he glanced at his watch and frowned—or rather later today, with his parents. His stomach twisted with guilt and grief, and suddenly he knew that he had to move.

Straddling the bike, he pushed the key clumsily into the ignition. It would better once he was moving. On the open road, with the sound of the engine mingling with the beat of his blood, his feelings would spin away into the darkness like the dirt beneath his wheels.

He eased the bike forward and turned the ignition. Pulling in the clutch, he thumbed the starter button—and then frowned as the engine sputtered and died.

Damn it!

He tried again, and then again, over and over, feeling a tic of irritation start to pulse in his cheek. What the hell was wrong with the damn thing? It made no sense.

Trying to stay calm, he leaned forward and took a deep breath. He would check the blindingly obvious. And then...

And then nothing. For anything else he’d need pliers, a wrench, a screwdriver—

‘Do you need any help?’

He sensed movement behind him and, turning, he felt his breath catch in his throat as she took a step closer.

She was watching him warily. Her auburn hair was now tied up into some kind of messy ponytail and she’d changed her shoes. Glancing at the black military-style boots on her feet, he almost smiled. Good job she hadn’t been wearing those earlier or he might not have made it out the club.

He shook his head. ‘Not sure you can,’ he said carefully. Holding her gaze, he gestured towards the high-heeled shoes dangling from her hand. ‘Unless those transform into some kind of toolkit. Or are you planning on throwing them at me too?’

Cristina stared at him in silence.

She had hesitated before coming over. He’d been so patronising and rude to her. But then she had spilled his drink over him, so maybe that made them equal. It was a pretty lame argument, but before her brain had had a chance to object she had already been walking across the square.

‘I didn’t plan on throwing your drink over you—as you yourself pointed out. Now, do you want my help or not?’

Luis stared at her for a long moment. Her voice was husky—distractingly so. Was this some kind of trick? Or a joke.

‘You want to help me?’ he said slowly. ‘I’m—’

‘Touched?’ she suggested. ‘Grateful? Pleased?’

‘Actually, I was going to say surprised. And a little nervous maybe.’ He glanced over at her shoes.

Her mouth twitched. ‘Well, I probably would have broken my leg or my neck if you hadn’t caught me, so I guess it’s only fair.’

‘It’s more than fair. It’s magnanimous, given that I not only walked into you but then failed to apologise for doing so.’ His grey eyes were level with hers. ‘I’m sorry. I was the one who wasn’t looking where I was going.’

As his gaze held hers Cristina felt her heart thud against her ribs. Even though it had been a little awkward, she liked that he had picked up where they had left off. Liked that he was honest enough to admit that he’d been wrong.

And, although he might not say much, she liked that he meant what he said.

‘Don’t you need to get home?’

Home. The word made her breathe in sharply. She shrugged.

‘Right now, I don’t really have one. I’m just travelling.’

Feeling suddenly horribly self-conscious, she glanced down at the Ducati.

‘I don’t know this model, but I’m almost sure you don’t need a toolkit to fix it.’

Watching his mouth turn up at one corner, she felt a rush of heat tighten her skin. It was impossible not to imagine what he would look like if he smiled properly, or what it would be like to be kissed by that mouth.

Feeling his gaze on her face, and terrified that her thoughts might somehow be visible, she frowned. ‘Did I say something funny?’

‘No, I’m just tweaking my mental picture of you. I had you down as a party girl, not a back-warmer.’

She took a step towards him, her eyes narrowing. ‘Is that right? Then maybe what you need isn’t a toolkit but a little imagination. Or perhaps a little less prejudice. Women ride motorbikes on their own these days, and guess what? They don’t even do it side saddle.’

Meeting her gaze, Luis felt something soft and dark stir inside in his blood as she took another step closer and touched the fuel tank between his legs.

He sighed. ‘You’re enjoying this.’

She nodded. ‘A little. You were pretty mean to me.’

Watching her fingers stroke the warm gleaming metal, he felt his stomach tense.

‘Is this some kind of hands-on healing?’

Her fingers stilled and she cleared her throat. ‘Your bike is really clean. In comparison to your boots, I mean.’

They both looked down at his scuffed and dust-covered boots.

Despite himself, he was interested now. ‘Okay, Nancy Drew, I got my bike washed this evening. And, no, it’s not something I do very often but I have done it historically and I’ve never had a problem. And besides, it worked fine when I rode over here tonight.’

‘Was it washed by hand?’

He frowned. ‘No—pressure-wash.’

She nodded. ‘Okay...well, I could be wrong, but water might have got into the ignition switch. It probably just needs a spritz of some kind of water-displacer.’

He stared at her, his pulse jumping with excitement, his hands tightening in a gesture of pure possession. He wanted her as he had never wanted any woman. Only the fact that, however deserted it appeared to be, they were still in a public place stopped him from reaching out and—

Stomach clenching with desire, he pushed aside an image of her splayed against the gas tank and said dryly, ‘That’s good to know. But as I don’t have any—’

He broke off in disbelief as she opened up her handbag and pulled out a small spray can.

‘I know how this must look, but I don’t normally carry this stuff around with me,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s just that the window in my hotel room is so squeaky that I can’t sleep. Anyway, I complained, and when I was going out this evening the guy in reception gave me this.’ She held out the can. ‘It’s worth a try.’

Luis wanted to ask her to rewind and repeat everything she’d just said, but instead he took the can and sprayed the ignition switch. He waited a moment, and then turned the key. He grinned as the snarl of the engine punctured the silence in the square.

Cristina blinked, and then smiled too. It was impossible not to. For, even though it was a dark and starless night, his smile made her feel as though the sun was rising and it was a new dawn.

She felt her heart skip a beat.

No wonder she’d tripped earlier.

Since finding Dominic, her on-off boyfriend of several months, in bed with her flatmate, she’d sworn off men. But there were men and then there was fate.

And surely that was why she had spilt his drink over him. Why his bike had failed to start. And why she’d ended up booking the worst hotel in Segovia, possibly in Spain.

‘Thank you.’

He was holding out the can to her.

‘It’s okay. You can keep it.’

‘But your window—’

‘It’s fine. I probably won’t sleep tonight anyway. My mattress is really hard, and I think it’s going to storm later. It’s so hot and humid now.’

Luis felt his body tense. Hard. Hot. Humid. Why did every word she said make him think of sex?

Gritting his teeth, he ignored the blood pounding through his veins and forced himself to speak. ‘So how did you know what was wrong?’

Cristina hesitated. Good question. However, the completely truthful answer was not one she was about to share with a perfect stranger—no matter how tall, dark and handsome.

It would take too long, and—her skin tightened over her cheekbones—it would be too humiliating to reveal the mend-and-make-do life she and her mother had been forced to live for so many years. But, just as she always did, she would tell him one truth.

Her eyes met his. ‘My dad had a motorbike. Not like this one, but I took it over for a bit and I got to hang out with bikers—and they can’t shut up about ignitions and sparks.’

She winced inside. What was she doing, rambling on about bikers as if she was some kind of Hell’s Angel?

‘Anyway...’ She glanced up at the sky. ‘I should probably be going. It’s late, and I want to get back to my hotel before it starts to rain.’

That wasn’t true. The thought of her bedroom, dark and quiet, filled her with dread. She didn’t want to be alone. But tonight was not the night to mess up, and how could taking this handsome stranger back to her room be anything but a risk not worth taking?

She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye,’ she said woodenly.

He took it, and at the touch of his fingers heat flared inside of her—and something bittersweet. A sense of what might have been if they’d met at some other time.

‘Let me give you a lift. Please. It’s the least I can do.’

His voice jolted her back to reality and, swallowing down the ache in her throat, she shook her head.

‘No, really—it’s fine.’ She pointed at one of the side streets off the square. ‘My hotel is literally down there.’

He looked at her for the longest time, then frowned.

‘I don’t even know your name.’ He sounded surprised.

‘It’s Cristina.’

He nodded. ‘Lucho.’

There was a low rumble of thunder overhead, and as they both looked up at the sky she took a deep breath. ‘You should go or you’ll get soaked.’

He nodded and dropped her hand, and quickly, before she could change her mind, she turned and began to walk away as the rain started to fall.

At first it was soft and light like tears but then almost immediately it changed. Heavy, fat droplets hammered her head and shoulders so that in seconds she was soaked and the pavement was awash with water.

Don’t look back, she told herself. This wasn’t meant to be. Just keep walking.

But she couldn’t just walk away. And, really, what difference would it make if she took one last look?

She turned, and suddenly her heart was hammering louder than the rain.

He was still sitting there, watching her, rain running down his face.

Cristina shivered.

He was waiting.

For her.

For a moment she hesitated.

Don’t—don’t go back. It’s just because you’re nervous about tomorrow, and when you get nervous you make stupid decisions.

Her heart kicked against her ribs, and then she walking, running back across the square, and what she was feeling wasn’t nervousness but relief. And then he was pulling her against him, his mouth seeking hers, his hands sliding beneath the soaking fabric of her top.

They left the bike where it was, and ran to her hotel. Ignoring the startled glance of the receptionist, they stumbled up the stairs and into her bedroom.

He kicked the door shut and, bending his head, he took her mouth again. Rising on tiptoe, she kissed him back, her fingers tugging at his T-shirt, her mouth meeting his with urgent, frantic hunger.

‘No—’ Her eyes darkened with frustration as he broke away from her mouth and yanked his T-shirt over his head.

He was so gorgeous—all sleek, hard muscle and smooth skin, and a line of soft dark hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans.

Reaching out, she ran her fingers lightly over the hair, watching his muscles tremble, and then she breathed in sharply as he took hold of the zip on the front of her jacket and slowly pulled it down.

Leaning forward, he rested his forehead against hers, the dark grey of his eyes almost black. For an endless moment he stared at her, his breathing ragged, and then, lowering his mouth, he began to kiss her again—lips, neck, throat—each kiss leading on to the next one and the next.

As he buried his face against her neck she moaned softly, sliding her fingers up through his hair. Her head was spinning...heat was slipping over her skin as his hands slid under her top, under the bandeau she was wearing underneath and over her damp breasts, his thumbs caressing the hard peaks of her nipples.

For the second time that night her legs crumpled beneath her, and her fingers tightened in his hair.

She heard a hiss as he breathed in sharply, and then he was tugging down her shorts, lifting her up, his hands curving beneath her as he pinned her against the door with his body. She shifted against him, panting, seeking relief for the ache building inside her, until suddenly she couldn’t bear it any longer and her fingers clawed at his belt and zip, pushing his jeans down.

‘Wait...’ he muttered, and she felt her breath catch as he fumbled in his pocket and slid a condom on.

For a moment he held her gaze, and then, groaning, he forced her mouth back to his. Pushing aside the fabric of her panties, he thrust inside her. She arched against him, her nails biting into his arms, and then her muscles clenched and she cried out with pleasure as his body shuddered and slammed into her.

CHAPTER TWO

EVEN BEFORE SHE opened her eyes Cristina knew that Lucho was gone.

Shifting down beneath the duvet, she gazed up at the ceiling. From the sharpness of the light creeping beneath the curtains, and the buzz of traffic in the street, she guessed that it was probably time to get up.

And she would get up—only not just yet. For getting up would mean having to accept that what had happened last night was over, and she wasn’t quite ready to do that.

Closing her eyes, she rolled on to her side.

Her body felt pleasurably blurred at the edges, and her lips were still tingling. Lifting a hand to her mouth, she touched it lightly, feeling her lips curve into a smile as she remembered everything.

A wild, breathless happiness was swirling inside her. She could hardly believe that any of it was real. Meeting him in the club, spilling his drink, following him outside and his bike refusing to start—

Groaning, her cheeks suddenly burning, she buried her face in the pillow, remembering how she’d pulled that can from her handbag...

Her pulse stumbled.

And then the storm had started. Thunder—and rain like a monsoon.

He’d been soaked to the skin.

But he had waited for her.

The heat on her cheeks spread as another memory came to her. Of her body anchored to his...and of his dark, steady gaze watching her until the moment he’d buried his beautiful face in her neck and shuddered deep inside her.

She shivered, remembering, her thighs pressing together, pressing against the warmth and the tenderness there.

That had been the first time...

Later, after she’d lost count of the number of times and ways they’d made love, he’d pulled her against him, his eyes still dark, but soft with sleep, and kissed her gently.

She bit her lip. His intensity, his stamina, his skill hadn’t surprised her. But that kiss had. Or maybe her response to it was what was so surprising.

She’d never felt like that with any man before. She had wanted him so badly. Her need for him had been fierce and absolute and unstoppable—like a river breaking its banks. And he had needed her too. She had never felt so wanted, so desired.

Opening her eyes, she bit her lip. Or so certain.

Normally, even the thought of intimacy with a man triggered a loop of self-doubt and distrust inside her head, so that she was already questioning her behaviour and possible responses before anything had even happened.

Her mouth twisted. And for good reason.

She’d only had a handful of relationships, but they’d all ended the same way—with whatever boyfriend it had been telling her that she was too difficult, too demanding. In other words nothing like the carefree young woman they had fallen for.

After what had happened with Dominic she’d given up. It was easier that way. Easier and less exhausting than caring about someone only to be inevitably let down.

And she’d stuck to her pledge.

Until last night.

But she didn’t regret it. Lucho had been a great lover. He had made her feel desirable and sexy. Okay, he hadn’t said much, but she was glad about that for last night she hadn’t wanted to talk.

And if they had talked she would have been busy now picking over his words.

Rolling over, she pulled one of the pillows towards her and hugged it against her stomach, the faint lingering scent of his cologne making her think of night and heat and rain about to fall.

Lucho hadn’t needed to talk. To big himself up. Why would he?

He was gorgeous. All lustrous golden skin and lean muscle, and those dark eyes that had seemed to swallow her whole.

And she liked the fact that he had been happy to communicate through touch, his fingers writing poems on her body, his warm breath against her throat a wordless promise of infinite pleasure. His silence had nothing to do with laziness or shyness, but contentment. He was one of those rare people who was happy living in the moment, without expectations or regrets and with nothing to prove.

Unlike her.

Picturing the remote expression on her father’s face, the distance in his eyes, she curled her fingers into the pillow. He had not only managed to deny her existence, he’d replaced her too.

Her stomach flip-flopped as beneath her pillow the alarm buzzed on her phone. Reaching round, she switched it off, glancing at the screen. There were several missed calls, all from a number she didn’t recognise, and for one brief moment she considered calling back.

But now was not a good time. For a start, she needed to shower, pack and get dressed, and she also wanted to check in with her boss. She trusted Grace—not just professionally, but on a personal level too—and she wanted to see if she had any last-minute advice for her.

And anybody who mattered would call her back if it was important. Not that whatever he or she was calling about was likely to be life-changing.

Rolling out of bed, she grabbed a towel and walked into the bathroom.

* * *

In another bathroom, on the other side of the city, Luis stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around the taut muscles of his stomach. Ignoring the mirror on the wall, he ran his hands slowly through his hair, smoothing the tangles with his fingers.

He released a slow breath, remembering how just hours earlier Cristina had done more or less the same thing. Except her hands had been urgent, frantic. Almost as frantic as her mouth.

His lungs emptied slowly. And she’d tasted so sweet...sweeter than molasses.

It was supposed to have been just sex—a carnal union designed to delight and, more importantly, to distract him from his thoughts. Except that now he couldn’t stop thinking about her. And even though he knew she was in a hotel on the other side of the city, her presence was so strong in his memory that he kept turning to look at the bed, expecting to see her there.

Watching Cristina in the club had been one of the most confusing experiences of his life. She had dazzled him. Even just looking at her in those heels and that top, those shorts, had made a pulse of excitement beat beneath his skin. He had wanted her—and yet he’d almost hated her too. For she was too beautiful, too sexy, and an attention-seeker to boot. In other words, everything he loathed in a woman.

And so he’d got up to leave—

Gazing at his reflection, he felt his face grow warm.

She might have spilt his drink but she’d been right. It had been his fault. He’d been so desperate to leave that he hadn’t been thinking about anything but getting as far away as possible from her gravitational pull. He certainly hadn’t been looking where he was going.

Breathing in sharply, he ran his hand slowly over the stubble grazing his face.

Only instead of apologising he’d acted like a jerk.

His heartbeat slowed. He had lost her then, and that might have been the end of it—would have been if his bike hadn’t refused to start.

He stared at his reflection, steadying himself, pushing aside the thought of what might have happened, or rather not happened, if his bike hadn’t been washed or she hadn’t come outside.

But she had, and she’d rescued him.

He swallowed.

Rescued him and then kissed him.

Or were they one and the same thing?

Glancing out of the window, he felt his heartbeat accelerate. He was naturally cautious by nature, but even if he hadn’t been life had taught him in the most brutal and devastating way not to act impulsively. He didn’t do spur-of-the-moment or random.

Yet last night he’d done both. Only instead of regret or shame he could feel a kind a radiance inside his chest. It took him a moment to realise that it was happiness, and that for the first time since stepping off the plane in Athens he was ready to face his past.

Picking up his phone, he punched in a number.

‘Carlos. It’s Luis...’

Having settled his bill, he made the hotel’s owner day by giving him his bike, and then, having finally extricated himself from the man’s grateful and disbelieving embrace, he strolled down the street towards the peluquería.

It was just opening, and the old guy who ran it seemed slightly astonished to have a customer so early, but he was happy to do what Luis asked.

Thirty minutes later Luis stepped out into the sunshine, his dark hair cropped close to the head, his face smooth. Catching sight of himself in the window, he felt a flicker of panic. He looked so young. Almost as though the last five years had never happened.

Only so much had happened. So much he could never change. He ran his hand slowly over his jawline. The last time he’d been clean shaven had been for his brother’s funeral.

It hadn’t been a conscious decision to stop shaving—he’d just found it so hard to look at himself as life—his life—had carried on.

He had set up a hedge fund, a lucrative, global business. And he’d bought a house—several, actually. He’d even had the occasional girlfriend.

But none of it had mattered. None of it had felt real. Without Bas there to tease him about his tie, or drag him out at the end of a busy week, he’d felt empty, hollow.

Until last night.

With Cristina.

Picturing her beneath him, her eyes darkening as he’d thumbed her legs apart, he almost lost his footing on the pavement. Her passion had been primal; it had blindsided him, left him grappling for breath and self-control.

Over his shoulder, he felt rather than saw a dark saloon car peel away from the opposite side of the square and head towards him. For a moment he carried on walking, and then, slowing down, he turned and waited as the car drew up beside him.

Before it had even come to a stop a thickset man wearing a dark grey suit stepped out onto the pavement and pulled open the back passenger door. Luis nodded at him and climbed inside.

‘Thanks for picking me up, Carlos,’ he said softly, turning his head towards the window. ‘Now, let’s go home.’

The journey took less time than he remembered, but it was still long enough for his stomach to turn over and inside out. As the car passed slowly beneath a large stone arch and into a courtyard he had a familiar glimpse of yellowed walls and tall windows, and then he was stepping onto the cobbled paving.

Trying to rein in the beating of his heart, Luis made his way through his childhood home. It might be five years since he’d been back, but he knew exactly where his parents would be waiting.

But he was wrong.

As he walked into the sitting room he frowned. It was empty.

It looked the same, though. He stared round dazedly, barely taking in the opulent interior with its beautiful tapestries and paintings by Goya and Velázquez. Only where were his mother and father?

Behind him a door opened softly and, turning, Luis felt his heart squeeze with a mixture of love, respect and dismay as a silver-haired man walked into the room.

His father, Agusto Osorio, might be nearly seventy, but he was still handsome. And his dark, austere grey eyes and upright bearing were a reminder that he was a man who was used to demanding and getting his way.

But although he was still tall, and immaculately dressed, there was a hesitancy and unsteadiness in his manner that hadn’t been there before. Unable to watch his father’s faltering progress any more, Luis crossed the faded Persian carpet and embraced the older man gently.

‘Papá!’

His heart gave a lurch as he hugged the older man. His father smelt of shaving soap, and that old-fashioned cologne his mother loved, and there was a reassuring familiarity to his father’s shoulders. As a child he’d loved to be carried up there; for a long time it had been the only way he could be taller than Bas.

His chest tightened as Agusto released him and smiled.

‘We were expecting you earlier. Your mother was worried until she got your text. She misses you. We both do,’ he said simply. ‘It’s good to have you home, Luis, even if it is just for a week.’

Trying to suppress the ache inside his chest, Luis nodded. ‘It’s good to be back, Papá. And I’m sorry I can’t stay longer—’

His father patted him on the arm. ‘We understand.’ He gestured towards a trio of sofas and armchairs. ‘Sit! I’ll ring for coffee.’

Watching his father’s face crease in pain as he turned and tentatively lowered himself into one of the chairs, Luis held his breath. As a child, Agusto had seemed to him like one of the mythical knights in the books he’d used to read to his sons. A man of honour, vital, inviolate and invincible.

Now, though, his father looked frail and tried—smaller, somehow. Only it wasn’t just the passing of time that had caused these changes, but the pain and grief of losing his oldest son.

He felt another stab of guilt and, glancing past him, said quickly, ‘Where’s Mamá? Should I go and find her?’

‘You don’t have to, mi cariño, I’m right here.’

Across the room, his mother Sofia was standing in the doorway. Before he’d even realised what he was doing he was on his feet and moving. As they embraced he felt a tug at his heart, for he could sense that she had changed more than his father. Not physically—she was still beautiful, slim and elegant—but her sadness was palpable. It seemed to seep into him so that he was suddenly struggling to breathe.

‘Luis, you look so well. Doesn’t he, Agusto?’ She turned to her husband.

Smiling, Agusto nodded as the housekeeper arrived with a tray. ‘Yes, he does, querida! Ah, here’s the coffee. Gracias, Soledad. Just there will be perfect.’

Luis waited until they were alone again, and then, turning towards his mother, he smiled. ‘So, how many people are coming to the party?’

‘Sixty, of course—that’s why we had to arrange it for tomorrow. It was the only date everyone could make.’

Picking up his coffee cup, Agusto cleared his throat. ‘But we can always squeeze in one more if there’s someone special you’d like to bring along.’ He glanced over at his son. ‘We did wonder if you might bring Amy.’

Shaking his head, Luis met his father’s gaze with resignation. ‘That’s not going to happen, Papá. I haven’t dated her in about a year. We’re friends now—that’s all.’

His father frowned at him. ‘But you’re seeing someone else?’

‘No one serious.’

He held his breath, waiting for the conversation to continue as he knew it surely would. His parents had met at his mother’s quincañera. It had been love at first sight, and they had both believed—assumed, really—that their sons would find a partner just as effortlessly.

Only with Bas gone all their attention was now focused on him, so that every conversation, no matter how it started, always seemed to turn inevitably to Luis’s relationships. But he didn’t—couldn’t—trust his feelings. Believing that someone loved and desired you was stupid and dangerous. It lulled you into a dream state, made you careless.

And he was never careless. Never took risks. In fact he’d spent most of his adult life doing his damnedest to minimise risk, doing everything in his power to control the world around him. It was one of the reasons why he’d set up his business. Hedge funds were by definition speculative. However, by using algorithms to calculate the optimal probability of executing a profitable trade, he’d eliminated not just fear and greed but risk. Risks that were not worth taking—

His body stilled, his breath catching in his throat as he pictured Cristina, with those ludicrous heels dangling from her hand, as he’d kissed her up the stairs to her hotel room.

She’d been a risk worth taking.

He felt suddenly exhilarated, and a flurry of anticipation rose up inside him.

A risk worth repeating.

He would call her hotel after lunch.

Feeling calmer, he glanced over at his father. ‘Life is different in California, Papá. The people are different there. They don’t care about—’

‘About what? Love? Commitment? Family?’

He could hear the confusion in his father’s voice, and the hurt. About everything that was left unspoken. The past. His brother. And, of course, the family business.

His father was coming up to seventy. He wanted to retire and he wanted Luis to take over from him. But he wasn’t going to. He couldn’t step in for his brother. Sit at the head of that massive oak table in the boardroom. It just wasn’t going to happen.

Glancing at his father expression of frustration and his mother’s stricken face, he wanted to apologise for letting them down. For not being the son they deserved. But to do so would mean having to explain his reasons, and that would mean losing their love for ever.

His father shook his head. ‘Thank goodness we’re only being photographed for this article,’ he muttered. ‘I can’t imagine how I’d explain the fact that my only son and heir has turned his back on his birthright.’

Luis felt his skin tighten across his face, his brain locking on to the one word in his father’s remark that was designed to trigger alarm bells in his head.

‘What article?’

Sofia leaned forward. ‘It’s for a magazine. We’re meeting the photographer before lunch, just to have a little chat. I have her CV here...’

Reaching across, she picked up a folder from the table, and handed it to Luis.

He didn’t open it.

‘But what’s the point of the article?’ He could feel his hackles rising.

His father raised an eyebrow. ‘I know you’re not interested in the family business, Luis. But I would have thought that even you might have remembered it’s the bank’s four hundredth anniversary this year.’

Luis cursed silently. Of course it was. Agusto had mentioned it to him several months back. Believing it to be some kind of entrée into discussing his return to the family business, he’d pushed it away.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to speak calmly. ‘I hadn’t forgotten, Papá,’ he said slowly. ‘I just didn’t connect the dots.’ He frowned. ‘I get that the anniversary is a big deal, but Banco Osorio’s reputation is built on our discretion. We never talk to the media. So why go public now?’

‘It was my idea.’ His mother looked up at him, her face suddenly anxious. ‘Do you think I made a mistake, Luis?’

Damn right he did. He didn’t trust any journalists or photographers.

But he could hardly explain the reason for that to his parents.

His spine stiffened, his body tensing as memories filled his head. Memories of the night his brother had died.

He hadn’t even wanted to go to that party, only Bas had insisted and his mother had backed him up. She knew that Luis needed his big brother in order to socialise, and Bas needed Luis to rein in his excesses.

But the party had been so not his style. Wall-to-wall trust fund brats, drinking and whining about their parents.

Watching Bas work the party, Luis had felt one of his occasional twinges of envy. His brother was so charming. With Bas there he always felt like a spare part—particularly around women. Then, out of nowhere, he’d spotted her. And she had been looking at him.

Unlike all the other women in the room, she’d looked at ease with herself. Jeans, boots, hair loose to her shoulders. They had talked and talked, shouting at first, over the noise of the party, and then later more quietly out on the balcony. She had liked the same artists he did, hated parties, and had had an older sister who was much cooler than she was.

He had felt as though she knew him inside out.

It was only later that he’d realised why that was.

Much later.

After he’d slept with her.

After he’d learnt that she was a paparazza and after he’d accidentally let slip where Bas was going to be staying that night.

After her colleagues had chased his brother to his death.

Striving for calm, he looked up at his mother. ‘So when is this photo shoot happening?’

‘Next week. The day after you go back to California.’ Sofia bit her lip. ‘Your father wasn’t sure, but he’s worked so hard and I wanted to do something—’

He squeezed his mother’s hand gently. ‘It’s a lovely idea.’

He felt a fist of tension curl inside his stomach.

He couldn’t stay. It would be unbearable, and unfair to his parents, for he knew they would begin to talk wistfully of his moving back to Spain.

But how could he leave them to face some unscrupulous photographer alone? They were so otherworldly, so trusting.

‘I know you don’t like the press,’ his mother said tentatively. ‘But we’ll have final say over the photos. And your father made it clear that we won’t be answering personal questions.’

There was a knock on the door. It was Soledad.

‘The photographer is here, Señor Osorio. She’s waiting in the salón azul.’

‘Thank you, Soledad.’

Taking his mother’s hand, Luis helped her to her feet. ‘I feel bad about making such a fuss, Mamá. Let me come with you—please. I might even be some help. I deal with the media a lot back in California, so I’m pretty sure I can handle anything they throw at me.’

His words were still reverberating around his head as he followed his father into the salón azul and came face to face with Cristina.

* * *

He stared at her in silence, his heartbeat deafeningly loud, a thousand questions bombarding his brain.

Had he just looked at her clothes he might not have recognised her. Gone were the denim shorts and that insane transparent top. Instead she was wearing tailored navy trousers and a blue-and-white-striped matelot top. Only her hair was the same—still tumbling over her shoulders in a mass of glossy red waves.

Slowly the events of the night before began to whirl in front of his eyes, spinning over and over until finally they lined up alongside one another like fruit on a slot machine.

Drink. Bike. Kiss.

Jackpot.

His breath felt sharp in his throat as he realised that it had all been a set-up. Right from the moment he’d walked into that club he’d been played. Everything that had felt so random, so spontaneous—their eyes meeting in the mirror, her banging into him and spilling his drink, even her having that stupid can of oil in her bag—all of it had been planned.

Flipping open the folder his mother had given him, he read swiftly through her CV, his stomach knotting with fury both with her and himself.

What was wrong with him? After what had happened with Bas did he really need another opportunity to prove how naive and complacent he was?

Apparently he did.

Apparently he had already forgotten that a beautiful woman always had an agenda of her own.

He was on the verge of striding across the room and dragging her lying, manipulative little body out of the building, when his mother stepped past him, smiling.

‘You must be Cristina. Welcome to our home.’

* * *

Sliding to her feet, Cristina held out her hand.

Her editor, Grace, had warned her that the Osorios were old-school and preferred to keep things on a formal footing, so she’d tried to dress in a way that implied she was professional, yet creative. But her heart was still beating like a startled horse as the beautiful grey-haired woman crossed the room towards her.

‘Señora Osorio. Thank you so much for meeting me today.’

‘Please...’ Sofia smiled. ‘You must call me Sofia. This is my husband, Agusto, and my son, Luis. He’s over on a visit from California. Flew in this morning.’

Cristina shook Agusto’s hand, and then, finally registering the second, taller, darker-haired man, she turned to Luis.

She smiled. Or tried to. But her lips wouldn’t work. Her whole body seemed to be numb. Around her the room was dissolving into a mist the same grey as his eyes—Lucho’s eyes—as silently she racked what was left of her brain for some kind of practical response to what was happening.

Only Grace’s notes had said nothing about coming face to face with your one-night stand. Or finding out he was the son of the people you were meant to photograph.

As he held out his hand she took it mechanically.

It couldn’t be.

Except that it was, and suddenly she thought she might faint.

Sofia was staring at her. ‘Are you all right, my dear? You look pale.’

‘I’m fine.’ She smiled stiffly. ‘Too much coffee, I’m afraid. I should probably try decaffeinated, but it’s so disgusting. I prefer a simple espresso—Arabica bean, black, no sugar.’

Agusto beamed at her. ‘Ah, a coffee connoisseur. I’m trying to cut back too, but it’s hard when the alternatives are such poor substitutes.’

Cristina nodded, and then, sensing Luis’s cool, dismissive gaze, she felt a rush of anger. ‘I agree. I hate things that aren’t what they appear to be.’

A warning flag of anger flared in his grey eyes, but she didn’t care.

Lucho—Luis—whatever he called himself—was a phony, happy to offer different versions of himself in order to get what he wanted.

In this case her.

He was just like her father—and she should have known that.

A familiar feeling of doubt and panic was slipping over her skin. She felt her eyes tugged towards the door and escape.

Her pulse jerked. Escape from what? She had come here to put the past behind her. It was why she’d fought so hard to win this assignment. To make the world, and more particularly her father, sit up and take notice. And that was what would happen when she sent him a copy of the magazine with her byline beneath the photographs. Lifting her chin, she smiled at Agusto.

‘I’m sure you didn’t invite me here to discuss coffee. How about I talk you through the production process for the shoot? And then if you have any questions I’ll try and answer them.’

‘I have some questions.’

Luis’s voice cut through her smile.

‘You do?’ She forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘That’s great,’ she said stiffly.

‘You seem very young. I’m just wondering about your experience.’

His mother frowned at him. ‘I gave you Cristina’s CV, cariño.’

‘And I read it. It seems very light. Does it cover all your talents?’

He watched her beautiful light brown eyes widen.

‘No, not all of them.’ She looked at him calmly. ‘I worked in a cake shop when I was fifteen, so I can make a mean crème pâtissière if you’re tempted.’

‘I’m not.’ He held her gaze. ‘Not any more, anyway.’

* * *

After the interview was over, and Cristina had left the room, Sofia glanced at her husband and son and said quickly, ‘Well, I thought that went well. I know she’s young, but she seemed very genuine—and quite charming.’

Luis felt his stomach twist. Oh, she was charming, all right—but genuine?

Breathing in, he said as calmly as he could manage, ‘She did seem charming. But wouldn’t you prefer someone with a little more gravitas?’

He was speaking to his mother, but it was his father who answered the question.

‘Not really. Unless you have a particular reason to doubt this young women?’

Luis hesitated. Say it, he ordered himself. Tell the truth.

But how? He could hardly tell his mother that he’d had sex with Cristina. For a start, she thought he’d flown in that morning. Nor could he reveal that his fears lay rooted in a mistake he’d made five years ago—a mistake that had cost his brother his life and his parents a son.

Looking at their faces, he made up his mind. He didn’t trust Cristina, but he didn’t need to admit that or explain why. He just needed to be around to keep tabs on her.

Slowly, he shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. All that matters to me is that you’re happy. And besides, I can help. You know how much I love photography.’

His mother looked at him in confusion. ‘But, cariño, you won’t be here—’

Luis picked up his mother’s hand and pressed it to his mouth. ‘I can be, Mamá. And I want to be.’

His mother’s tears of happiness made him feel guiltier than ever. But he would do whatever it took to protect his parents. Even lie to them.

‘I think it would be a good idea if we did the photo shoot on the island,’ he said firmly.

La Isla de los Halcones had belonged to the Osorio family for over one hundred years. It was isolated—only accessible by motorboat—and best of all communication with the mainland was limited to a landline.

It’s completely private, and much more relaxed.’ He smiled reassuringly at both of them. ‘It’ll be perfect, and I’ll be there to supervise the whole thing.’

And if that meant keeping a close eye on Cristina then so be it.

CHAPTER THREE

‘IS THERE ANYTHING else I can get you, Ms Shephard? More coffee?’

Closing her laptop, Cristina smiled up at the air stewardess and shook her head. ‘No, thank you. I’m good.’

The stewardess smiled back at her. ‘Okay, but just let me know if you need anything.’

Watching the woman move gracefully away down the cabin, she resisted the urge to pinch herself again, and instead gazed out of the window at the cloudless blue sky.

She’d never flown business class before, and frankly it would probably be a long time before she did so again. But the Osorios had insisted, and it was a treat to have the extra legroom and a lunch that was actually edible.

The Osorio name had helped in other ways too. She’d been fast-tracked through baggage and security, and a limousine would be waiting at Valencia airport to take her to the marina.

It was all very civilised. But then people like Agusto and Sofia didn’t queue for taxis or hang around waiting for luggage. The rich and the powerful valued their time almost as much as their privacy, and unlike normal people they only did what they wanted to do.

As she knew from experience.

She felt her face stiffen, the muscles tightening involuntarily, and, reaching down, she picked up her cup—china, not cardboard—and took a sip of coffee.

What other reason could there be for her father never bothering to get in touch with her?

Still gazing listlessly out of the window, she thought about how at the beginning she’d tried to make sense of his actions. Husbands divorced wives, not children, so why didn’t he want to see her?

At first she’d made excuses for him, and then she’d blamed her mother. Later, though, there had been only one explanation. Her father didn’t love her and he probably never had.

Frowning, Cristina flipped open her laptop and gazed determinedly down at the screen. She wasn’t going to let her father’s rejection ruin this moment for her. This was her last chance to do her final preparation before the photo shoot, and she wasn’t going to waste it brooding about the past.

She began scrolling through the background notes that Grace had emailed to her. It didn’t take long. It was mostly historical facts about the Osorio banking dynasty. Personal, biographical details about the family were frustratingly sparse.

Her heart gave a lurch. Panic was beginning to uncoil inside her stomach. It wasn’t the first portrait that she’d taken—Grace wasn’t that trusting. But it was the most important to date, and she wanted it to work. Not just for the magazine but for herself. She so badly wanted to prove that she could do this.

Her fingers shook slightly above the keyboard.

No, that wasn’t true. She wanted more than that. She wanted to matter, to be somebody, to be noticed. And not just by her peers.

Only how could she do that if she couldn’t find the key to their story?

She felt her stomach clench.

It was her job as a photographer to seek the truth—that was why she’d so foolishly become a paparazza. But with portraits the truth was elusive. In the intimacy of a studio-style setting people grew guarded, and of course there was always an obstacle between her camera and the sitter. It wasn’t just a matter of point and click; the shutter was like a tiny little door that she needed to open.

And that required a key.

She had hoped to find one, talking to Agusto and Sofia. But although they had been polite, and helpful, they had fairly conservative ideas about what they wanted from the photo shoot—and, looking down at the pictures that Grace had sent her, she could see why.

To her photography was magic. But the Osorios were clearly intensely private people who simply wanted a record of a particular moment.

She needed to see beyond the staged poses. She needed to do a little supplementary research of her own. But as she typed in the Osorio name she felt heat spread over her cheeks as the screen filled not only with photos of Agusto and Sofia, but Luis too.

She stared at them greedily.

There were a couple of him as dark-eyed teenager, watching the polo at Sotogrande with his parents and brother. Another as a student in America, rowing at Harvard. And then, leaping forward several years, there were several more of the adult Luis. Publicity shots of him in his role as CEO of the quantitative hedge fund he’d founded.

Clearly turning his back on one fortune had been no obstacle to amassing another. His business was less than three years old but it had already made him a billionaire.

The thought of Luis behind a desk, with some glossy PA hovering over his shoulder, made her feel as if she was pressing on a bruise. But now that she knew the truth about him his career choice made perfect sense.

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