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A Mistress, A Scandal, A Ring
Angela Bissell


His scandalous mistress…Bound with a vow?Ruthless billionaire Xavier de la Vega has worked relentlessly to throw off the emotional shackles of his past. Seducing stunning Jordan, with her link to a family he’d rather forget, is a calculated risk—he’s convinced their fire will soon burn out! But when their affair is exposed Xavier can see just one way forward—and it will bind Jordan to him permanently!







His scandalous mistress...

Bound with a vow?

Ruthless billionaire Xavier de la Vega has worked relentlessly to throw off the emotional shackles of his past. Seducing stunning Jordan, with her link to a family he’d rather forget, is a calculated risk—he’s convinced their fire will soon burn out! But when their affair is exposed, Xavier can see just one way forward—and it will bind Jordan to him permanently!


ANGELA BISSELL lives with her husband and one crazy Ragdoll cat in the vibrant harbourside city of Wellington, New Zealand. In her twenties, with a wad of savings and a few meagre possessions, she took off for Europe, backpacking through Egypt, Israel, Turkey and the Greek Islands before finding her way to London, where she settled and worked in a glamorous hotel for several years. Clearly the perfect grounding for her love of Mills & Boon Modern Romance! Visit her at angelabissell.com (http://www.angelabissell.com).


Also by Angela Bissell (#u47945a35-0dc7-5049-9cb5-14a18a34fd8a)

Irresistible Mediterranean Tycoons miniseries

Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian

Defying Her Billionaire Protector

Ruthless Billionaire Brothers miniseries

A Night, A Consequence, A Vow

A Mistress, A Scandal, A Ring

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


A Mistress, A Scandal, A Ring

Angela Bissell






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-07231-1

A MISTRESS, A SCANDAL, A RING

© 2018 Angela Bissell

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.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book is dedicated to the memory of Susan Chapman, aka Lily Shepherd, an amazing lady who faced her final days with strength, grace and tremendous courage. She will be sadly missed and fondly remembered by her friends in the romance writing community.


Contents

Cover (#ue8b0e749-fcad-5246-9f72-21686d421cb2)

Back Cover Text (#ue4f7d3b7-53e0-5a3e-879c-efd46d1930b1)

About the Author (#u181129d9-e50e-5770-ba39-3c22fea87db3)

Booklist (#u7d96db81-b05b-509b-85dc-ac99bd935068)

Title Page (#u00ec95ec-b012-5a18-85ea-36ecdcc8deeb)

Copyright (#u39fde54c-0429-5bb1-984f-891e5515ae09)

Dedication (#u51410852-94ae-5867-9867-bd7388abb340)

CHAPTER ONE (#ua4a21a9c-5c3c-55f8-998c-3cfd62547ed8)

CHAPTER TWO (#u2da702dc-5bb7-5444-a621-459187aa6a23)

CHAPTER THREE (#u76ee0a5d-d822-5384-9622-364f7efc8f36)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#u47945a35-0dc7-5049-9cb5-14a18a34fd8a)

‘YOU MUST LEAVE NOW, senyorita.’

Jordan Walsh tipped her head back, and back some more, until she stared into the face of the uniformed security guard who towered over her.

‘I’m not leaving,’ she told him, making no move to vacate the chair she had occupied for over two hours in the waiting area of this vast marble foyer.

The big man’s eyebrows beetled together. ‘You must go. The building is closing.’

The building was the Vega Tower—a great big steel and glass monolith that rose from the heart of Barcelona’s thriving business district and dwarfed everything around it. It had cost one point two billion US dollars to construct, had taken two years and three months from foundation to completion, and comprised forty-four floors of bustling head office activity for one of Europe’s largest and most successful multinational conglomerates.

Jordan was well acquainted with these facts because she had picked up the glossy hardbound book titled The Vega Corporation: Sixty Years of Success off the low table beside her and, out of sheer boredom, read the entire thing from front cover to back. Twice.

‘I’m not leaving without an appointment to see Mr de la Vega,’ she said.

This was not news to the security man. She had made the same request on her arrival, and again an hour ago when it had become obvious that his call to the CEO’s assistant had garnered no result.

‘He is not available.’

‘Which is why I want to make an appointment,’ she explained with exaggerated patience. ‘So that I can see him when he is available.’

‘It is not possible,’ the man said, and with that he clamped a giant hand around her upper arm and hauled her to her feet.

Jordan gasped. ‘Wait!’ She braced her legs to resist, her flat rubber-soled shoes giving her feet a much-needed moment of purchase on the shiny marble. ‘You’re not seriously going to manhandle me out of the building?’

‘I am sorry, senyorita,’ he said, but the sidelong glance he sent her didn’t look apologetic so much as...pitying.

She bristled at the implication of that look. It wasn’t difficult to guess what he and his colleagues behind the desk were thinking. A man as wealthy and powerful as their boss must have an abundance of female admirers and hangers-on, and his staff were no doubt required to act as gatekeepers on occasion.

But Jordan was no jilted lover or wannabe mistress. ‘Please,’ she persisted, hating the desperate note that crept into her voice. ‘Can you just call his office one more time?’

Somebody must still be up there. Sure, it was almost six-thirty p.m., but didn’t working hours in Spain differ from the norm at home? And hadn’t she read an online article just yesterday in which the CEO was quoted as saying he not only worked long hours himself, but expected key members of his staff to do the same?

But the guard shook his head. ‘Call tomorrow,’ he said.

Jordan felt the sharp bite of frustration in her belly. She’d already phoned the day before, and the day before that. Each time she’d been stonewalled by the CEO’s uppity assistant. Which was why she had trekked across the city in the stifling mid-August heat this afternoon and shown up in person.

She planted her feet and locked her knees, but her strength was no match for the guard’s. He started walking and she was forced to stumble along beside him, clutching her tote bag and the shreds of her dignity as he marched her towards the automatic sliding glass doors.

Her heart lurched. A few more steps and she’d be out on the street, back to square one.

The glass doors parted before them, letting in a blast of hot air, and she thought of the envelope in her bag—the letter she’d carried ten thousand miles across the globe—and a crushing sense of failure engulfed her.

All because she couldn’t find her way to the top of this imposing corporate fortress to see one man.

Her body stiffened in protest. ‘I’m Mr de la Vega’s stepsister!’ she cried out, and the guard pulled up short, surprise making his grip slacken just enough so she could wrench herself free.

Around them the cavernous foyer came to a standstill, the other security personnel behind the desk and the few office workers making their way to and from the lifts having paused and fallen silent in the wake of her outburst.

A tidal wave of heat swept up her body and into her face. Doing her best to ignore the curious stares, she levelled her gaze at the guard and said quietly, ‘I’m sure neither his assistant—nor you—would like to inform him that you’ve turned me away.’

The man rubbed the back of his neck, his face screwed up in a grimace of indecision. Finally, he said in a gruff voice, ‘Please wait.’

He returned to the desk to make a phone call and two minutes later a tall, elegant woman wearing a sleek navy shift dress and high heels emerged from a lift. She looked to the guard, who steered her in Jordan’s direction with a tilt of his head.

Jordan saw the woman give her an assessing, narrow-eyed once-over before striding across the marble floor towards her.

‘Ms Walsh.’ Her tone was cool. ‘Mr de la Vega is extremely busy, but he is willing to give you ten minutes of his time.’

Her English was accented, but good, and Jordan recognised the voice at once. She was the assistant who’d screened her phone calls and refused to give her an appointment.

Jordan forced a smile and resisted asking if Mr de la Vega was sure he could spare a whole ten minutes from his extremely busy schedule. Instead she offered a gracious, ‘Thank you,’ but the woman had already pivoted on a spiked heel and started back across the foyer, leaving Jordan to follow.

The guard held the lift doors open and then boarded with them, taking a position at the rear as they hurtled upwards to the forty-fourth floor.

Jordan’s heart raced and her hands grew clammy. After all the careful thought she’d put into this, the endless days of agonising indecision, the time spent working out what she’d say when...if...this moment came, she hadn’t expected to feel quite so nervous.

But then it was no small thing she was about to do. She had no idea how Xavier de la Vega would receive her. How he’d react. She wasn’t sure how she’d react herself in his position.

She cast a critical glance at her reflection in the highly polished panels of the lift doors. In a sleeveless white blouse, khaki capris and a pair of comfy shoes, she looked plain and unremarkable next to the tall, stunning Spanish woman. Her one feature worthy of note—her long, copper-red hair—was pulled into a high, no-fuss ponytail, and the tinted moisturiser she’d rubbed into her skin that morning was the closest thing to make-up her face had seen in weeks.

The lift doors opened and all thoughts of her appearance were swiftly forgotten as she followed the other woman into a large suite of offices. They walked along a wide corridor and she was conscious of the guard trailing close behind them, of thick carpet underfoot, high walls hung with expensive artwork and a hushed atmosphere. But the escalating flutter of nerves in her belly made everything else a blur.

And then they entered a big corner office and every shred of her attention was snagged and held by the man sitting behind the massive oak desk.

Jordan had seen photos of him online. Not many, mind you. Unlike his younger brother, of whom there were literally hundreds of photos scattered across the Internet, Xavier de la Vega appeared to value his privacy. But as her breath caught and her hands inexplicably shook she realised those two-dimensional images had not in any way prepared her for a personal, up-close encounter with this devastatingly handsome man.

And his eyes.

Grey...just like Camila’s.

Her throat thickened and she had to swallow hard and blink fast to contain her emotion.

He stood, and she was struck by his height. Six foot at least, which surprised her. Her stepmother had been tiny, her figure perfectly proportioned but petite. By the time Jordan had turned sixteen she’d easily been able to rest her chin on top of Camila’s head when they’d hugged.

He walked around the desk and she saw that everything about him, from his neatly cropped black hair to his tailored grey suit and expensive-looking leather shoes, was immaculate. Even the full Windsor knot in his tie looked as if it had been flawlessly executed.

He had an air of authority about him—and something else she couldn’t quite pinpoint.

Arrogance?

Impatience?

Her gaze went to the hard line of his jaw and then up to his high, intelligent forehead and slashing jet-black eyebrows.

Yes, she concluded with a touch of unease. This man looked as if he had little tolerance for weakness or compromise.

Suddenly she was conscious of the silence blanketing the room. Of the fact that he was returning her scrutiny with hard, narrowed eyes. He didn’t smile. He didn’t even step forward and offer to shake her hand in greeting. Which probably wasn’t a bad thing, given her hands now felt as damp as soggy dishrags.

His attention shifted to his assistant. ‘Gràcies, Lucia,’ he said, his voice deep and rich and undeniably masculine. ‘Leave us, please.’

He looked to the guard and said something in Spanish—or perhaps he spoke in Catalan, since she’d read that he spoke both languages fluently, along with English and French—and she tried to pretend her knees hadn’t just gone a little weak. She loved the romance languages, and despite his forbidding demeanour there was something indescribably sexy about the way Xavier de la Vega spoke in his native tongue.

The guard responded, but whatever he said it only drew a terse, dismissive word from his boss, and he quickly joined Lucia in vacating the room, closing the door on his way out.

Those grey eyes—a shade or two darker than Camila’s, she realised now—settled on her again.

‘My staff are concerned for my safety.’

It wasn’t the start to their conversation she’d anticipated. She blinked, confused. ‘Why?’

‘They believe you might pose a threat,’ he elaborated, watching her closely. ‘Do you, Ms Walsh?’

Her eyes widened. ‘A physical threat, you mean?’ The notion was so preposterous a little laugh bubbled up her throat. ‘Hardly.’

‘Indeed.’ His tone and the way his gaze raked over her, as though assessing her physical capabilities, implied that he too considered the idea ludicrous. ‘Are you a journalist?’ he asked abruptly.

‘No,’ she said, trying to ignore the disconcerting pulse of heat that fired through her body in the wake of his cursory appraisal. ‘Why would you think that?’

His penetrating gaze locked onto hers. ‘Journalists have a tendency to get creative in their attempts to access whomever they’re pursuing.’

She frowned. ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow.’

‘You claim to be my stepsister.’

‘Ah...’ She felt her cheeks grow pink. ‘I can explain that...’

‘Can you, Ms Walsh?’ His tone was hard. ‘Because the last time I checked my parents were still happily married—to each other. To my knowledge, neither of them is hiding additional spouses or secret stepchildren.’

Her blush intensified. She had expected this to be tricky. It was why she’d put such careful thought into what she would say and how she’d say it if she ever got the chance. But now that she was here and he was standing before her, so much more imposing in the flesh than she’d imagined, she couldn’t recall a single one of the sentences she’d so painstakingly crafted in her mind.

She swallowed. ‘Um... Maybe we could sit down?’ she suggested.

For a long moment he didn’t move, just stood there staring at her, eyes narrowed to slits of silver-grey as if he were debating whether to have her thrown out or let her stay. Finally, just as her composure teetered on the brink of collapse, he gestured to a chair in front of his desk.

Relief pushed a smile onto her face. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and noted that he waited until she was seated before sitting in his own chair.

It was a simple, old-fashioned courtesy that made her warm to him a bit—until he opened his mouth again.

‘Start talking, Ms Walsh. I don’t have all evening.’

The smile evaporated from her face. Good grief. Was he this brusque with everyone? Or only with strangers who dared to ask for a piece of his precious time?

She sat up a little straighter and said, ‘Jordan.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘My first name is Jordan.’

He drummed the long, tapered fingers of his right hand on the top of the desk, then abruptly stopped, curling his hand into a loose fist. ‘Your accent—is it Australian?’

‘Yes. I’m from Melbourne.’

She paused, took a deep breath, then opened her tote bag and pulled out her red leather-bound journal. She undid the clasp and lifted the cover. The sealed envelope and the two photos she’d carefully tucked inside the journal were still there, safe and sound.

‘Until recently I lived there with my stepmother.’ She picked up one of the photos and held it out, her arm extended across the desk. ‘Camila Walsh.’

He glanced at the photo, but no flicker of recognition showed on his face. Jordan didn’t know why that should disappoint her. Of course he wouldn’t recognise her stepmother.

But her eyes...

Could he not see they were his eyes?

‘Her maiden name was Sanchez,’ she added. ‘She was originally from a small village north of here.’

‘Was?’

A stillness had come over him and Jordan hesitated, all the doubts she’d thought she’d laid to rest suddenly rearing up again, pushing at the walls of her resolve. For the past ten days she’d ridden a wave of certainty, firm in her belief that what she was doing was not only the right thing but a good thing.

After weeks of feeling lost and alone, adrift, with no job, nothing and no one left in the world to anchor her, she’d booked her flights to Spain almost with a sense of euphoria.

‘She died six weeks ago.’

Somehow she managed to say the words without her voice wobbling. She lowered her arm and stared down at the photo of her stepmother.

‘I am sorry for your loss.’

She looked up. The sentiment in his deep voice had sounded genuine. ‘Thank you.’

Her gaze meshed with his and the intensity of those sharp, intelligent eyes made her breath catch in her throat. She shifted a bit, unsettled by her escalating awareness of him. He was so handsome. So compelling. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. And that preternatural stillness in his body... It was disconcerting, making her think of the big, predatory cats in the wildlife documentaries her dad had loved to watch.

She took another deep breath, in through her nose, out through her mouth, the way Camila had taught her to do as a child to combat stress. He was waiting for her to speak—to spell out why she was here. Did he already have an inkling? She searched his face, but the chiselled features were impassive, giving nothing away.

Adopting the tone she often used at work when a mix of practicality and compassion was required, she said, ‘Camila was your birth mother.’

The statement landed between them like a burning stick of dynamite tossed into the room. Jordan braced herself for its impact, her whole body tensing, but if Xavier de la Vega was even mildly shocked he hid it well.

‘You have proof of this?’

She blinked at him. It was such a cool, controlled response—far less emotional than anything she’d expected—but she counselled herself not to read too much into it. At twenty-six years of age, and after five years of working as a trauma nurse, she’d seen people react in all kinds of ways in all sorts of life-altering situations. Often what showed on the surface belied the tumult within.

She slid the other photo from her journal across the desk to him. This one was older, its colours faded, the edges a little bit worn.

He leaned forward, gave the photo a cursory glance, then drew back. ‘This tells me nothing,’ he said dismissively.

Jordan withdrew her hand, leaving the photo on his desk. ‘It’s you,’ she said, and it gave her heart a funny little jolt to think that the tiny, innocent baby in the photo had grown into the powerful, intimidating man before her.

His frown sharpened and he flicked his hand towards the photo, the gesture faintly disdainful. ‘This child could be anyone.’

She reached forward and flipped the photo over. The blue ink on the back had faded with time, but Camila’s handwriting was still legible. ‘It says “Xavier”,’ she pointed out, and waited, sensing his reluctance to look again. When he did, she saw his eyes widen a fraction. ‘And the date of birth underneath... I believe it’s—’

‘Mine,’ he bit out, cutting her off before she could finish. He sat back, nostrils flaring, a white line of tension forming around his mouth. ‘It is no secret that I am adopted. An old photo with my forename and my birth date written on it proves nothing.’

‘Perhaps not,’ she conceded, determined to hold her nerve in the face of his denial and the hostility she sensed was gathering in him. ‘But my stepmother told me things. Details that only your adoptive parents or your birth mother could know.’

His eyes darkened, the grey irises no more than a glint of cold steel between the thick fringes of his ebony lashes. ‘Such as?’

Her lips felt bone-dry all of a sudden, and she moistened them with her tongue. ‘Thirty-five years ago Regina Martinez worked as a housekeeper for your parents,’ she began, carefully reciting the details Camila had shared with her for the first time just a month before she had died. ‘She had an eighteen-year-old unmarried niece who fell pregnant. At the time, your parents were considering adopting a child after your mother had had several miscarriages. A private adoption was arranged, and soon after you were born—at a private hospital here in Barcelona which your parents paid for—they took you home.’

And the young Camila had been devastated, even though she had done the only thing she could. The alternative—living as an unwed mother under her strict father’s roof in their small, conservative village—would have heaped as much misery and shame on her child’s life as on her own.

Knowing first-hand how it felt to be genuinely unwanted by one’s biological mother, Jordan hoped Xavier would see Camila’s decision not as an act of rejection or abandonment, but one of love.

She waited for him to say something. It was perfectly understandable that he might need a minute or two to process what she had told him. Something like this was—

‘What do you want, Ms Walsh?’

Her thoughts slammed to a halt, the question—not to mention the distinct chill in his voice—taking her by surprise. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Money?’

She stared at him. ‘Money?’ she echoed blankly.

His gaze was piercing, the colour of his eyes the dark pewter of storm clouds under his lowered brows. ‘It is common knowledge that my family is one of the wealthiest in Spain. You would not be the first to claim a tenuous connection in hopes of a hand-out.’

A hand-out? Her head snapped back as if he’d flung acid at her face. She gripped the edges of her journal, shock receding beneath a rush of indignation. ‘That is offensive,’ she choked out.

‘Quite,’ he agreed. ‘Which is why I will ask you again—what do you want, Ms Walsh?’

Jordan felt her heart begin to pound. How on earth could this arrogant, imperious man be her stepmother’s son?

Camila had been a kind, gentle soul, who’d always looked for the best in people despite the heartbreak she’d suffered early in her life.

Jordan looked at the envelope she’d placed with such reverent care between the pages of her journal. She’d carried the envelope halfway around the world and not once had she been tempted to snoop inside it. The letter it contained was private, sacred—the precious words of a dying woman to her son.

Lifting her chin, she looked him in the eye, letting him know he didn’t intimidate her—that she had nothing to feel ashamed about. She held up the envelope. ‘I came here to give you this.’

‘And what is “this”?’

‘A letter from your birth mother.’

‘Camila Walsh?’

‘Yes—your birth mother,’ she reiterated.

A muscle worked in his jaw. His gaze flicked to the photo that lay face-down on his desk, then back to her. ‘A claim which is, at present, unsubstantiated.’

Jordan let her hand fall back to her lap, her frustration so great she wanted to slap her palm against the top of his desk and demand to know why he was being so bloody-minded. Instead, she clamped her back teeth together and waited for the impulse to pass.

She was not someone who flew off the handle at the slightest provocation. She might have been saddled with her mother’s unruly flame-coloured hair but she hadn’t, thank goodness, inherited her fiery personality.

Suddenly she felt as cross with herself as she did with him. Why hadn’t she been better prepared for this kind of reaction? Had she imagined that because she and Camila had been close she would automatically feel some sort of instant kinship with this man?

Sadly, she had. She’d tucked her grief away in a safely locked compartment of her heart, donned those silly rose-coloured glasses she should have learnt to distrust years ago, and set off on her mission to deliver Camila’s letter and scatter her ashes in the homeland she’d left thirty-three years before.

It was the final thing Jordan would be able to do for her stepmom—for the woman whose love and kindness had helped to heal the wound Jordan’s mother had inflicted years earlier with her abrupt, unapologetic departure from her daughter’s life.

And, embarrassing though it was to admit it, Jordan had built up a little fantasy in her head—imagining herself striking up a friendship with Camila’s son, having a kind of stepsibling relationship with him—which, now that she was here, seemed totally laughable.

This was not a man she could imagine having such a relationship with. Girls did not look at their brothers and feel their skin prickle and heat or their mouths go dry.

He wasn’t even the sort of man she liked. In fact he was everything she disliked. Arrogant. Superior. Unfeeling. A self-appointed demigod in a power suit, ruling his kingdom from the top of his gilded tower.

And Jordan knew all about men with god complexes, didn’t she? She’d dated a surgeon whose ego was the size of the Sydney Opera House and then—even worse, because she should have known better—she’d moved in with him and decided she was in love.

Jamming the brakes on her runaway thoughts, she focused on the cold, handsome face of the man in front of her and made a snap decision. ‘I don’t think you’re ready for this letter, Mr de la Vega.’

And in that moment she knew she wasn’t ready to relinquish it—because what if he didn’t treat it with the respect it deserved? What if he threw it away without even reading it?

Stiffening her resolve, she tucked the envelope into her journal, then tore out a blank page from the back, pulled a pen from her tote bag and scribbled down her mobile number. ‘I’ll be staying at the Hostel Jardí across town for a few more days and then I’m travelling to Mallorca and then Madrid.’ She put the piece of paper on his desk. ‘If you want to reach me, here’s my number.’ She bundled her things back into her tote and slung the strap over her shoulder. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Mr de la Vega.’ And she turned to go.

‘Ms Walsh.’

His deep, commanding voice brought her to a standstill and her heart leapt with hope. Had he had an epiphany? Realised, perhaps, that he’d behaved abominably?

Breath held, she turned back...and her heart landed with a heavy thud of disappointment.

He was standing, arm extended, holding out the photo she’d left on his desk—the one of himself as a baby. ‘You forgot this.’

Releasing her breath, she shook her head. ‘It’s yours. Keep it—or throw it away. Up to you.’

She continued on to the door, and for a few agonising seconds her nerveless fingers fumbled with the handle while her nape prickled from the unsettling sensation of his gaze drilling into her back.

But he didn’t call her name again. Didn’t attempt to stop her.

As she walked past his assistant’s desk and the stunning Lucia half rose out of her chair, Jordan held up her palm. ‘I can see myself out, thanks.’

Her chest was so tight it wasn’t until she stepped onto the street forty-four storeys below that she felt able to draw a full, oxygen-laden breath into her lungs again.

But as she set off across the city no amount of deep breathing could lift the weight from her heart.

Damn him.

What was she supposed to do now with her stepmom’s letter?


CHAPTER TWO (#u47945a35-0dc7-5049-9cb5-14a18a34fd8a)

‘I’VE LOCATED THE PAPERWORK,’ said Roberto Fuentes, long-time solicitor and a trusted friend to the de la Vega family for over forty years. He paused, and a ripple of disquiet ran beneath the surface of Xav’s iron-clad self-control.

Xav rose from behind his desk, his mobile pressed tightly to his ear. Three short strides brought him to a thick wall of glass—one of two floor-to-ceiling panes that afforded his office in the Vega Tower a panoramic view of the sprawling, sun-baked metropolis below.

He stared blindly out at the cityscape, his body bristling with impatience under the impeccably tailored lines of his charcoal-grey suit. ‘And?’

‘Your birth mother’s name was Camila Sanchez.’

The first cold prickles of shock needled over his scalp, even though the solicitor only confirmed what he already knew in his gut was true.

He raised his left arm and leant his palm against the window, needing to steady himself.

He didn’t suffer from vertigo, or a fear of heights, but suddenly the sheer drop on the other side of the glass to the city street over forty storeys below induced a wave of dizziness.

‘Xavier—?’

‘I heard you, Roberto.’ He backed away from the window and returned to his desk. ‘Was she related to anyone in my parents’ employ?’

Another heavy pause. ‘With the greatest respect, Xavier... I really would feel more comfortable if you had this conversation with Elena and Vittorio. They’ve always said—’

‘No.’ He cut Roberto off. He knew what his parents had always said.

‘We love you. Nothing will ever change that.’

And in thirty-five years nothing ever had. Not even the unexpected arrival of his younger brother, Ramon, the ‘miracle baby’ the doctors had told his mother she’d never have.

His parents had also told him that if one day he decided he wanted to trace his biological family they would support him in that quest. He’d never chosen that path, but he knew that if he had they would have stayed true to their word.

Because Vittorio and Elena de la Vega were good people. Good parents.

Xav had worked hard over the years to make them proud. Worked harder still to prove to those members of the extended family who’d never accepted him as one of their own that he was worthy of the de la Vega name.

As a boy, seeing how the veiled barbs and sly taunts upset his mamá had made him even more determined to prove he was just as good as, if not better than, any of them.

Years later, he still faced the same insidious prejudices—but now he had the pleasure of rubbing his detractors’ noses in his unrivalled success.

No. Despite the solicitor’s discomfort, Xav would not involve his parents at this point. He would shield them. Protect them. At least until he understood what—or rather who—he was dealing with.

He sat down at the handcrafted oak desk that had been handed down from father to son, along with the role of Chief Executive, through four generations of de la Vega menfolk over a span of more than sixty years.

‘This conversation remains strictly between you and me,’ he said. ‘Are we clear?’

‘As you wish,’ the older man said, resigned but respectful. ‘Just a moment...’

Xav heard the sounds of papers being shuffled before Roberto spoke again.

‘Ah... I remember now. Miss Sanchez was the niece of your parents’ housekeeper at the time. The adoption was private, the paperwork drawn up through this office.’

Xav was silent a moment, his mind processing. Assimilating. Finally, he said, ‘Gràcies, Roberto. I appreciate your help—and discretion,’ he emphasised, and then he ended the call and immediately made another.

The security specialist the Vega Corporation kept on retainer answered on the first ring. ‘I just emailed the dossier through to you,’ the man said without preamble.

‘Any red flags?’

‘None. A couple of parking offences, but nothing more serious. She’s single, a qualified trauma nurse currently unemployed. Presence on social media is sporadic and low-key. Mother lives in North America. Father’s dead—and, yes, he was married to a Camila Walsh, nee Sanchez, now also deceased.’ He paused. ‘Without knowing what your specific concerns are, I’d say she’s pretty harmless.’

Xav twisted his lips. Any man who believed women were harmless was a fool. He knew from experience they weren’t. It was why he’d taken exceptional care in choosing his lovers over the last decade—and why he was being equally judicious in choosing a wife.

‘And the surveillance?’ he asked.

‘We’ve still got eyes on her. She was at a dance club till one a.m. She hasn’t left the hostel yet this morning.’

Xav narrowed his eyes. Jordan Walsh was an unemployed party girl? ‘Keep me apprised of her movements.’ He tapped his keyboard to bring his computer screen to life. ‘I’ll let you know if I need anything further.’

He put his phone down, located the email in his inbox and opened the attachment. The first section of the document covered basic stats—name, age, marital status, occupation—and included a photo: a full-colour head-and-shoulders shot that had probably come from one of her social media accounts. She was smiling into the camera lens, giving the illusion that she was smiling straight at him, and just looking at the image gave him the same visceral gut-punch reaction that he’d experienced last night when she’d walked into his office.

Right before she had turned his world on its head and then stalked out.

Over the years he’d met hundreds of beautiful women, had slept with a select few, but never had he been so immediately or powerfully arrested by a woman’s looks before.

Her colouring was striking, with a head-turning combination of Titian hair and extraordinary hazel eyes which were a fascinating blend of green and gold. Her features were strong and symmetrical, with bold cheekbones, a straight nose and a wide, generous mouth.

Not pretty by conventional standards, perhaps, but stunning nevertheless.

Abruptly he sat back, irritated at his unusual lack of focus. Jordan Walsh’s looks, however remarkable, were irrelevant. She was a problem to be handled—that was all. One he needed to contain until he understood what threat, if any, she posed. Just as his feelings about his birth mother would have to be shelved and examined at a later stage. He didn’t have time for distractions. He had a global corporation to run. A multimillion-dollar acquisition to negotiate—a major deal that at least one member of the board would relish seeing him fail to close.

He opened the drawer where he’d shoved the photo and the piece of paper she’d left on his desk last night. He picked up his phone to punch in the number she’d written down, but then suddenly changed his mind, slipped the paper and his phone into his jacket pocket and stood.

In the anteroom outside his office he paused by Lucia’s desk and checked his watch. It was ten-twenty a.m. ‘I’m heading out,’ he told her.

Her heavily made-up eyes blinked as if he’d said something unintelligible. She glanced at her computer screen. ‘But...you have a ten-thirty meeting with the Marketing Director.’

‘Reschedule it. And arrange for Juan and Fernando to meet me with the car downstairs straight away.’

Lucia gaped at him, nonplussed. ‘And your video call with Peter Reynaud at noon?’

‘I’ll be back in time for that,’ he said, because he had to be. His intended acquisition of Reynaud Industries took priority over everything.

Buttoning his jacket, he turned to go.

Lucia shot up from her chair, her expression vaguely panicked. ‘But where are you going?’

‘To deal with a problem,’ he replied, and strode towards the lifts, leaving his wide-eyed, slack-jawed secretary staring after him.

* * *

Barcelona was basking in the heat of a blazing sun beneath a glorious blue sky when Jordan emerged from the hostel just before eleven a.m. She’d risen late and then lingered over breakfast, chatting with a Canadian guy and a young German couple who’d wanted to ask her a bunch of questions about Australia.

Pausing on the pavement outside the hostel, she rummaged in her tote bag for her sunglasses and slid them on. She had a mild headache, and her ears still rang from the overloud music in the club last night, but at least she wasn’t suffering with a hangover. She’d had one tequila shot with the girls, then stuck with lime and soda water for the rest of the time.

The dancing had been fun, but the clubbing scene wasn’t really her thing. She’d only gone because the two Irish girls with whom she was sharing a room had invited her out, and the prospect of a few hours of deafening music and fun-loving company had appealed more than sitting alone feeling sorry for herself.

‘Senyorita Walsh?’

She looked up, startled, when she saw a burly man she didn’t know in a suit and dark glasses standing in front of her. ‘Yes?’

‘Senyor de la Vega wishes to speak with you,’ he said, and then gestured towards a vehicle sitting at the kerb. ‘Please get in, senyorita.’

Shifting her stunned gaze from the man to the SUV, Jordan wondered how she hadn’t noticed the vehicle sooner, given that it was bigger and shinier than any other in the street. Black paintwork and dark windows gave it a slightly sinister veneer, and she couldn’t see who, if anyone, was sitting inside it. Another man of solid build stood by the rear door, which sat open, waiting for her to climb in.

Her heart beginning to pound, she bounced her gaze back and forth between the two men and the tiny hairs on her arms lifted. They were strangers, asking her to get into a car, supposedly sent by a man she barely knew.

She backed away. ‘Actually... I—I have somewhere else to be right now... Maybe Mr de la Vega could call—hey!’

Suddenly the man’s meaty hand was wrapped around her arm. Her heart tripped with panic and her brain could scarcely compute what was happening before she was tugged forward and bundled unceremoniously into the back of the SUV. She sucked in her breath, ready to scream, but the sound died in her throat as her backside landed, rather inelegantly, on soft leather and her gaze fell on the man sitting farther along the seat.

‘Good morning, Ms Walsh.’

Her pulse spiked. Hastily she righted herself, dismayed to find when she looked down that her wraparound skirt had got twisted beneath her and was gaping open, exposing the length of one pale thigh all the way up to her crotch. A fierce blush scalded her cheeks.

Lips tightly pursed, she closed the offending split with an indignant tug. ‘I’m not sure it is a good morning, Mr de la Vega.’

The car door closed behind her, shutting her in. Making her acutely aware of the confined space and the potency of the man whose presence seemed to fill every inch of the luxurious interior.

Breathing deeply, she willed her heartbeat to slow and tried not to look as overheated and flustered as she felt. How did he do it? How did he look so cool and refined in his immaculate three-piece suit and tie when the day was stiflingly hot and everyone else was melting?

Not that she could entirely pin the blame for her stampeding pulse and all-over body-flush on the rising mercury or the few seconds of fright his men had given her. But she would not think about how ridiculously handsome Xavier de la Vega was. Or how he looked not only cool and urbane in his sleek designer suit but also supremely fit and virile.

One dark brow slanted up. ‘Late night?’

Striving for an air of dignified calm, she folded her sunglasses away and pushed back some strands of hair that had slipped from her ponytail and fallen across her face. ‘Not particularly,’ she said, crossing her fingers at the tiny lie.

Technically it hadn’t been a late night but rather an extremely early morning when she’d finally collapsed into her narrow bunk bed in the hostel. As for her roomies—Lord knew what time they’d eventually crept in. They’d both still been fast asleep as of ten minutes ago, one of them lying face-down and fully clothed on top of the bedding. If the girl hadn’t been softly snoring, Jordan would have felt compelled to check that she was breathing.

She lifted her chin. ‘I was referring to the fact that I hadn’t planned on getting manhandled into a car this morning.’

He frowned. ‘You were hurt?’

For a second she was tempted to say yes, just to test his reaction, see if he was capable of demonstrating remorse, but she wasn’t that good a liar. ‘No,’ she said, because the man who’d held her had been strong, but not rough, and the only thing truly smarting was her pride. ‘But that’s beside the point.’

‘Which is...?’

She saw a flicker of movement at one corner of his mouth that looked suspiciously like amusement. ‘My point,’ she said, prising her gaze away from those firm lips, ‘is that this is a rather unorthodox way of meeting. You couldn’t have called me first?’

‘Forgive me,’ he said, but his tone and the eloquent shrug of his broad shoulders gave the impression he didn’t care one way or the other whether she did or not. ‘Given the way you came to my office in person last night, I assumed that you’d prefer face to face.’

What I’d really prefer is to wipe the superior look off your face.

The thought rushed into her head from out of nowhere, and the small surge of churlish pleasure she gained from it was quickly overshadowed by shame. She’d never hit another person in her life—had never been so much as tempted to before now. Perversely, the fact that he’d so effortlessly provoked her into thinking about slapping him only made her feel ten times more annoyed.

She considered explaining that she wouldn’t have turned up at his offices as she had if Lucia hadn’t blocked her calls and denied her an appointment, but she chose not to go there. She hadn’t warmed to the leggy brunette, but she had no desire to get the woman into trouble with her boss.

She sighed. ‘Look, I know we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot—’

‘Which I regret,’ he cut in, his voice growing deeper, more solemn.

She blinked. ‘You do?’

‘Yes,’ he said evenly, ‘and it is something I would like to redress, if you would allow me to.’

And it struck her then—belatedly. She’d been so blindsided, so caught up in her reaction to him, she’d failed to consider the obvious. ‘You believe me,’ she said, not a question but a statement—because why else would he be here? ‘About Camila.’

‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘I believe your late stepmother was my birth mother.’

Emotion more powerful than she’d expected drew her throat tight. She swallowed. ‘I... I’m glad,’ she said, wanting to say more, so much more, but holding back. His demeanour was calm, imperturbable, but she read the tension in his clean-shaven jaw, saw the slight guardedness in his silver-grey eyes.

And she understood. It was a big thing to process. Eventually he’d be ready. He’d want to know more about Camila, and then Jordan would have the opportunity to share her memories. To talk about the warm, generous woman who’d been her stepmom and best friend for half her life.

‘You must allow me to show you some genuine Catalan hospitality,’ he said. ‘I have a villa on the coast where my housekeeper is preparing a guest room for you as we speak. It is yours for the duration of your stay in Barcelona.’

Jordan stared at him in stunned astonishment. Last night he’d greeted her with open suspicion and barely veiled hostility, and now he was inviting her to his home?

For a moment she wondered if she should be suspicious of him.

But why?

He’d candidly expressed his regret and now he’d extended an olive branch. Wouldn’t she do the same? If she’d behaved poorly, regretted the way she’d treated someone, wouldn’t she make an effort to set things right?

She hesitated. Was there any good reason she shouldn’t accept his offer?

You’re attracted to him!

Okay. There was that small, undeniable fact. But what of it? There wouldn’t be a heterosexual woman on the planet who could meet this man and not feel some level of physical attraction. And that was all it was, she assured herself. A hormone-based reaction to a good-looking man at the height of his prime.

Beyond his looks he wasn’t her type, and a man who could have his pick of the world’s most beautiful, sophisticated women wouldn’t be interested in her anyway. Which meant those surges of heat, the pinpricks of awareness she’d experienced last night and again today, were best ignored for a whole host of reasons—not least of which was the preservation of her pride.

She bit the inside of her lip. None of this changed the fact that he was arrogant and presumptuous—as evidenced by having a guest room prepared for her before she’d even accepted his invitation!

But, no matter how impossible it seemed, this man was Camila’s biological son. Did she not owe it to her stepmom to give him another chance?

If she accepted his offer, stayed as a guest in his home, they’d have an opportunity to talk properly—not in his office or the back of a chauffeured car, but somewhere more comfortable and private.

Plus, she still had the letter. His letter, by rights. At some point she’d have to relinquish it.

She released her lip and smiled with genuine gratitude. ‘Thank you. I’d like that very much.’

The smile she got in return was no more than a brief lift of one side of his mouth, but his grey eyes gleamed with... She wasn’t sure what, exactly. Satisfaction?

He gave a crisp nod, then raised his left hand to the window beside his shoulder and rapped the backs of his knuckles twice on the tinted glass.

Seconds later, as if by magic, Jordan’s door swung open.

‘Juan will help you with your things,’ he said. ‘I trust it won’t take you long to pack?’

She glanced out, saw the long, trouser-clad legs and polished black boots of the man who’d ‘escorted’ her to the car, then looked back to Xavier. ‘We’re going now?’

His gaze was steady. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘Er...no,’ she said after a slight hesitation. ‘I—I guess not...’

She supposed it made sense. The car was already here. And she was travelling light, with a single large backpack, so she wouldn’t need more than a few minutes to gather her things.

The big man with the mountainous shoulders—who seemed no less intimidating even now that she knew his name—waited in the reception area while she went to pack. The Irish girls were still out for the count, so she moved about the room quietly and left a farewell note, saying she was checking out due to a change of plans and she wished them well on their travels.

When she emerged, Juan reached for her backpack. ‘Let me carry it, Senyorita Walsh.’

Although she was more than capable of carrying her own bag, she gave it up without argument. He was under orders, and she suspected even a burly, tough-looking man like Juan would not wish to invite his boss’s displeasure.

‘I just need to settle my account,’ she told him.

‘It is done.’

She frowned. ‘But—’

‘Please come at once, senyorita. Senyor de la Vega does not like to be kept waiting.’

Jordan wasn’t happy about it, but she held her tongue. Arguing with the hired muscle was pointless. She would say something to Xavier, though. She couldn’t allow him to pay her hostel bill. It didn’t matter that she’d prepaid the accommodation and the outstanding charges had just been for a few incidentals. It was the principle that counted. And while she wasn’t one to hold a grudge, neither would she forget in a hurry the stinging assumptions he’d made about her motives. The last thing she wanted to do was give him any reason to cast such aspersions on her again.

But when she got to the car, this time thanking the other man who opened the door, she couldn’t say as much to Xavier because he had his phone pressed to his ear and was conversing with someone in Spanish or Catalan.

She hesitated, wondering if he’d prefer privacy, but he beckoned her in with a perfunctory wave of his hand. Then he continued his conversation as if she wasn’t there.

Which was fine, she told herself as she settled back against the cool leather, carefully arranging her skirt to avoid another incident of indecent exposure. It was Friday, the middle of a working day for him. She could raise the issue of the hostel bill later.

Besides, there was something deliciously indulgent about simply sitting there, listening to that deep, molasses-rich voice of his. His tone was brusque and authoritative, suggesting the call was work-related rather than personal, but still she found his voice utterly mesmerising. And she didn’t have to feel uncomfortable about eavesdropping. Besides the odd word she could translate, she didn’t understand what he was saying.

‘Un moment,’ she heard him say, and translated that in her head: one moment.

Then she heard, ‘Belt up,’ and it took her a few seconds to realise he’d spoken in English. Another few to register his silence.

Suddenly her senses prickled. She jerked her gaze from the view outside her window to the man beside her and found his grey eyes fastened on her intently.

A jolt went through her midsection. ‘I’m sorry—were you speaking to me?’

His eyebrows snapped down. ‘Seatbelt,’ he said, and when she didn’t immediately move he made an impatient sound in his throat, put his phone down between them and reached across her.

Three seconds. That was how long it took for him to pull the belt across her front and secure the latch, yet still her pulse leapt and her breathing fluctuated wildly as she pressed back against the seat. Somehow he avoided touching her—not even a brush of his long fingers against her clothing—but his face came so close she felt the warm stroke of his breath on her collarbone and caught the subtle scents of sandalwood and something citrusy on his skin.

She swallowed—hard—and he must have heard for his gaze settled on her throat, right where she felt the frantic beat of her pulse. His eyes became hooded and for just a second, no more, his gaze dropped, skimming down the front of her white V-necked T-shirt, then up again.

Their eyes locked and something flashed in his, something hot and furious, almost accusing, that she didn’t understand.

Then, abruptly, he pulled back, snapping his gaze away from her as he picked up the phone and resumed his conversation.

Dragging her gaze off his hard profile, Jordan let out a shaky breath. Had she done something wrong? Aside from forgetting to put her seatbelt on?

She glanced down and—Oh...

Oh, no...

Was that what he’d seen? The clear outline of her hardened nipples thrusting like little beacons of desire against her cotton bra and T-shirt?

Heat suffused her face. Mortified, she folded her arms over her breasts.

For heaven’s sake. What was wrong with her? With her body? It wasn’t as if she’d never met an attractive man before. Her ex, with his square jaw, dark blond hair and deep blue eyes, had always drawn more than his share of female attention and probably still did.

But Josh had always had to touch her—intimately—to induce this sort of powerful, conspicuous reaction.

If Xavier could have this effect without even touching her, what would happen if he actually put his hands on her?

She hugged her arms more tightly over her chest. Spontaneous combustion came to mind.

Which was silly as much as it was unsettling. She didn’t even believe in this sort of thing. Not really. Plain old physical attraction she understood, but the much more abstract concept of chemistry...? Not so much.

Whenever she’d heard sex described with words such as explosive and mind-blowing and electric, she’d always dismissed them as exaggeration or pure fiction. Sex with Josh had been enjoyable for the most part, but she didn’t remember ever feeling any lightning strikes of sensation or ‘explosions’ of pleasure. Orgasms for her had been a rather hit and miss affair—secondary to Josh’s release—and on the occasions when she had climaxed it had been satisfying, but hardly a ‘mind-blowing’ event. And, because Josh had seemed to know what he was doing, she’d never imagined there was much more to sex beyond what she’d experienced with him.

Anyway, sexual chemistry was supposed to be a mutual thing, wasn’t it? Whatever she’d glimpsed in Xavier’s eyes had looked more like anger than arousal—or maybe even disgust. Which was mortifying on a whole other level. Clearly he was not attracted to redheads with modest curves and pale skin covered in too many freckles.

That conclusion was enough to douse any lingering heat—for which she was grateful. Who wanted to feel attracted to someone who very obviously didn’t fancy them back?

No, thanks. She’d learned at the tender age of six how much rejection hurt. Twenty years later she knew better than to make herself vulnerable to that kind of pain again. She’d made a mistake with Josh, but she’d been smart enough to realise it and she had been the one to walk away. And although her heart had felt a bit bruised, and she’d shed a few tears, she hadn’t ended up bitter and disillusioned.

She knew that good men existed in the world because her dad had been a gentle, loving man. She simply had to make wiser choices when it came to relationships and men.

Mr Right was out there somewhere.

And he most certainly wasn’t the man sitting beside her.

* * *

Some eight hours later Jordan woke from a nap she hadn’t planned on having. Memory crept in slowly, reminding her where she was, so when she opened her eyes she wasn’t startled by the unfamiliar surroundings.

She sat up on the bed and noted the shallow angle of the sunlight slanting into the room, suggesting the sun had commenced its evening descent. She checked her watch and was startled to find she had slept for well over an hour.

She hadn’t meant to sleep at all. She’d only intended to lie down for a minute or so, just long enough to determine if the ornate iron-framed canopy bed, with its diaphanous white curtains and the thick mattress layered in soft snowy linens, was as comfortable as it looked.

It was.

And she had never slept in anything so luxurious. Or so enormous.

It must have been the sheer comfort combined with the fresh air and exercise she’d enjoyed that afternoon that had sent her off to sleep.

She scooted off the bed, walked barefoot over sumptuous pale carpet to the French doors that led to a private balcony and stepped out to appreciate the magnificent view.

From here she could see the path she’d taken on her solitary walk after lunch, zigzagging down no less than six beautifully landscaped terraces to a white strip of sandy beach at the foot of the hill.

Directly beneath her lay the longest section of the wide natural stone terrace that wrapped around three sides of the villa, complete with an inviting infinity pool and the shaded alfresco area where she’d eaten the scrumptious lunch Rosa had prepared for her—which, aside from the housekeeper’s brief appearances to check everything was okay and to clear away the dishes, had been another solitary affair.

She hadn’t been all that surprised when Xavier had returned to work rather than accompanying her to his villa. Everything she’d read about him painted him as focused and driven, so there were probably very few things that would lure him away from his work responsibilities on a weekday afternoon.

This morning, in the car, he’d only ended his call as they’d pulled up outside the Vega Tower. ‘My housekeeper, Rosa, will greet you at the villa and get you settled in,’ he’d said, his tone impeccably polite, and then he and Juan had got out, leaving just her and the driver.

Jordan would have tried to chat with the man if not for the dark glass partition between them. Instead she’d focused on the scenery as they’d exited the city, her interest sharpening when, after about thirty minutes, they’d started to climb, weaving up and up through large, sloping groves of olive and citrus trees until finally they’d levelled out at a location that offered glorious views across the glittering blue of the Balearic Sea.

Rosa had appeared on the stone steps at the villa’s entrance before they’d even drawn to a stop. The fifty-something housekeeper had a neat salt-and-pepper bob and a broad, welcoming smile, and she hadn’t seemed at all fazed by receiving a house guest at short notice.

She’d shown Jordan her room and given her a tour of the main living areas, all of which were light and spacious and luxurious beyond anything she’d ever seen. The grounds were beautiful, too. Outside on one of the upper terraces Rosa had introduced her husband, Alfonso, who worked as the chief groundsman, and their grown-up nephew, Delmar, who was helping his uncle with some landscaping.

The whole place was gorgeous. And tranquil. A home only a billionaire could afford.

Too bad he probably spent more time at work than here, enjoying his amazing home.

Turning away from the stunning view, she went inside and took a shower in the massive en suite bathroom, and afterwards pulled on a pair of navy dress jeans and a short-sleeved white blouse. She hadn’t thought to ask Rosa about the dress code for dinner, and she’d never dined with a billionaire in his home before, so ‘smart casual’ seemed the safest option.

After tying her hair into a loose knot at her nape, she checked the time and decided to make an appearance ten minutes earlier than Rosa had recommended. If her host was a stickler for punctuality she’d rather be early than even a minute late.

The villa was so big she took two wrong turns on her way to the formal dining room before she finally located it. Pausing in the hallway, she touched a hand to her hair, took a deep breath and then walked into the room. Rosa was there and Jordan smiled at her, then shifted her gaze to the long dining table—and the single place-setting at one end.

Before she’d fully processed the implication of that single setting, Rosa said quickly, ‘Ho sento, molt. Senyor de la Vega sends his apologies. He must work late.’

Her heart sank. After all the nervous anticipation, discovering she would be dining alone—again—was a huge let-down.

Seeing Rosa’s anxious expression, however, she made an effort to resurrect her smile and said lightly, ‘That’s okay. Perhaps I’ll catch him later, when he gets home.’

Rosa wrung her hands together. ‘I am afraid he is not coming home tonight.’

She looked at the housekeeper in surprise. ‘He’s staying at work all night?’ she said, yet even as she spoke she knew it wasn’t inconceivable that someone like him would work through the night and into the weekend. He was a workaholic, and workaholics had only one priority.

‘He has an apartment above his office,’ Rosa said. ‘He stays there often. Senyor de la Vega works very hard,’ she added, and Jordan couldn’t tell from Rosa’s tone whether she admired or disapproved of her employer’s work ethic.

She regarded the table again. Despite the fine china and the sparkling crystal, the gleaming cutlery and the beautiful vase of crimson calla lilies, the solitary setting looked rather forlorn at the head of the enormous table.

‘Rosa, would it be all right if I ate outside on the terrace?’

Out there she’d at least have the birds and the crickets for company. And she could gaze out to sea and watch the sun as it sank below the horizon.

The housekeeper smiled. ‘Sí. Of course.’

An hour later Jordan sat on the terrace in the gathering dusk with a full tummy and a glass of white wine, watching the sky turn to lush shades of orange and purple. She could hear laughter and snatches of conversation coming from somewhere nearby. The feminine voice she recognised as Rosa’s; the male voices no doubt belonged to Alfonso and Delmar.

She pictured the trio, enjoying their own alfresco meal, and the sounds of their banter sharpened the sense of isolation that had crept over her in the last hour.

She took a gulp of wine. Was this what Xavier had intended all along? To isolate her?

Suddenly his offer of hospitality didn’t seem quite so munificent.

But why? Was he somehow testing her? Had he left her up here to see what she would do? What did he think she would do? Pocket the silverware? Slip some crystal into her bag? Snatch a priceless painting off the wall and hightail it off the estate before she was found out?

More laughter danced through the still air and she swallowed another mouthful of wine.

She knew this hollow feeling in her chest. It was loneliness. And she refused to let it suck her down into a place of misery. She didn’t do self-pity. Self-pity was a waste of time. She’d learnt that as a child in the wake of her mother’s departure, when she’d realised that crying under the duvet wasn’t going to bring her mother back. She had dried her eyes, got out of bed and focused on the parent she still had. She’d made herself indispensable to her father.

Because if Daddy needed her then he wouldn’t go away. Wouldn’t leave her like Mummy had.

Jordan shook off the childhood memories. It was history, and dwelling on the past was just another form of self-pity. The best medicine for the blues was to do something, and with that thought in mind she got to her feet, picked up her wine glass and went in search of the laughter.


CHAPTER THREE (#u47945a35-0dc7-5049-9cb5-14a18a34fd8a)

IT WAS CLOSE to one-thirty p.m. on Saturday when Xav arrived home—a couple of hours earlier than he’d anticipated. He grabbed his briefcase, dismissed his driver for the remainder of the weekend and strode into the villa.

He should be dead on his feet. He was operating on little more than two hours’ sleep and a gallon of caffeine. But he wasn’t exhausted. He was wired. It was how he always felt in the midst of a major business deal. Focused. Determined. Ruthless.

It put him in the perfect frame of mind to deal with a certain redhead—a problem he would have tackled sooner, had Peter Reynaud’s bloodsucking lawyers not waited until six p.m. last night to return their marked-up version of the one-hundred-and-fifty-page contract. Either they were tearing every damn clause and sub-clause apart to eke out their billable hours, or Reynaud himself was hindering the process.

Furious, Xav had made his commercial and legal teams pull an all-nighter—which meant he’d had no choice but to stay as well. He never demanded anything of his people he wasn’t willing to demand of himself.

At least he’d been able to focus one hundred percent on work, secure in the knowledge that his other ‘problem’ was safely contained for now. Offering up his villa had been a stroke of genius, and she’d played into his hands just as he’d thought she would. Few women could resist the lure of luxury—especially when the luxury was free.

All he needed now was her signature on the paperwork in his briefcase. Once executed, the confidentiality agreement would prohibit her from disclosing any information about the biological relationship between her late stepmother and himself to any third party. In return she would receive a handsome one-off payment—a sum Xav considered a small price to pay for peace of mind. The last thing he wanted was some tabloid journalist digging up the answers to questions he had decided a long time ago he didn’t want to ask.

As for that one minor glitch yesterday—that fleeting moment of hot, naked lust that had struck him unawares in the car, when he’d leaned across her to belt her in and her light, feminine scent had curled around him... He’d glanced down, away from those entrancing hazel eyes and soft, full lips—away from temptation—only to be transfixed instead by pert breasts and hard, pointed nipples poking shamelessly against the fabric of her T-shirt, just begging for his attention.

Lust and fury had collided. Fury at her for tempting him; fury at himself for being tempted.

Subsequently, his having to stay overnight in the city had been a blessing in disguise. For a few hours he’d been able to cast her out of his head, shrugging off the incident as nothing more than the base reaction of a neglected libido.

Pausing now in the villa’s double-height entry hall, he pulled off his sunglasses and waited, listening for Rosa’s approach.

Nothing.

Which was unusual.

His housekeeper of ten years had an uncanny radar for people arriving at the villa—particularly her employer.

He moved deeper into the house and then stopped, canting his head.

He could hear music.

More specifically, the jaunty strains of the gaita—the Galician bagpipes that Rosa’s husband, Alfonso, had a talent for playing. He heard voices, too. And laughter.

Frowning, he set his briefcase and sunglasses down, followed the sounds through the house and ended up standing outside the kitchen, looking across Rosa’s meticulously tended herb and vegetable gardens to the staff cottage where she and her husband lived.

Xav recognised the music now—an old folk song—and it was indeed Alfonso on the gaita. He sat in the shade of a massive orange tree at a wooden table littered with the detritus of a group meal, his wiry chest puffing in and out as he breathed life into the old instrument. Rosa sat beside him, smiling and clapping, but it wasn’t the housekeeper who held Xav’s attention—it was the couple on their feet.

Alfonso’s twenty-something nephew, Delmar, who helped his uncle with the odd stint of landscaping on the estate, was performing the steps of a traditional folk dance, while opposite him Jordan Walsh attempted to mirror his moves.

Xav couldn’t tear his gaze off her—and it was no wonder, given the clingy tank top and denim cut-offs she wore. The latter left bare the long, slender thighs he’d caught a tantalising glimpse of in the car yesterday, before she’d closed her skirt in that prim display of modesty.

She laughed, the sound surprisingly throaty and appealing, and tossed her head, drawing his gaze to that magnificent mane of copper-red hair with its streaks of glinting gold. She wore it down today, and it flowed over her bare shoulders, thick and wavy, the ends softly curling against the pale upper slopes of her breasts.

Heat punched into his groin, swift and brutal in its intensity, and he gritted his teeth against the unwanted surge. Dios. His libido had lain dormant for too many months to count and it was springing to life now? In response to this woman?

She messed up her steps and laughed that husky laugh again, and then she stumbled and Delmar’s big hands wrapped around her waist to stop her falling.

Xav wasn’t fully aware that he’d moved—that he’d stalked between the neat borders of the vegetable patches and crossed to the cottage—until suddenly he was standing in the yard, the music had stopped and four startled faces were staring at him.

‘Senyor!’ His housekeeper leapt to her feet with remarkable agility for a woman of her age. ‘We were not expecting you so soon.’

‘Clearly.’ His response came out sharper than he’d intended, but the way they were all staring at him made him feel like an interloper—an outsider in his own home. He didn’t like it.

‘Can I fix you some lunch?’ Rosa offered.

‘Sí. A sandwich will do. I’ll take it in my study.’ He turned to Jordan and noted with a stab of satisfaction that Delmar had removed his hands from her body and stepped away. ‘Ms Walsh,’ he said evenly, and she looked at him with what he thought might be a touch of defiance in her hazel eyes. ‘A word in private, please—if you can spare a moment from your dancing lesson.’

Giving her no chance to reply, he turned on his heel and strode back to the villa, detouring to where he’d left his briefcase and collecting it before heading to his study. Assuming she was trailing somewhere not far behind, he didn’t slow his pace or glance over his shoulder until he reached the doorway, where he finally paused and looked back—only to see she was nowhere in sight.

His mouth flattened.

Infernal woman.

He dumped his briefcase on the desk, returned to the hallway and cast an impatient look down its vast, empty length.

Finally, just as he was beginning to consider the possibility that she’d decided to defy him, she emerged around a corner at the far end of the hallway and, spotting him waiting, hurried towards him on those long, shapely legs. She stopped in front of him, panting a little, each breath moving her firm, high breasts up and down.

He gritted his teeth. Don’t look.

‘Did you get lost?’ he said dryly.

‘Of course I got lost.’

Her snapped response made him draw back a fraction. ‘I was being sarcastic.’

She gave him a droll look. ‘Were you? I would never have guessed.’

She jammed her hands on her hips and huffed out a breath, blowing an errant strand of hair out of her face.

‘If you actually care to know, I did get lost. You stormed off so quickly I couldn’t catch up and I took a wrong turn at the kitchen. I didn’t know which way you’d gone and this place is...is ridiculously huge.’

Xav took in her flushed cheeks, the cross look on her face and her generally flustered demeanour. A sudden flash of amusement drew the sting out of his temper.

He cocked an eyebrow. ‘You think my home is ridiculous?’

Her eyes widened, her expressive features morphing into a look of dismay. ‘Of course not!’ she blurted, her blush turning a deeper shade of pink. ‘I only meant... I meant I wasn’t...’

She bit her lip, which had the dual effect of halting her stammered response and drawing his attention to the lushness of her mouth—which in turn fired a pulse of heat into his groin and hampered his ability to concentrate when she took a deep breath and spoke again.

‘You have a very beautiful home,’ she said, enunciating her words slowly this time, as if selecting each one with care. ‘An amazing home, actually. It’s just that my sense of direction is hopeless and...well, the villa is rather...’

She fluttered her hand in the air, searching, he assumed, for a suitably inoffensive word.

‘Big?’ he supplied helpfully.

She cleared her throat, her cheeks glowing like hot embers now. ‘Yes.’

A crueller man would have let her squirm for a bit longer, but he wasn’t quite that merciless. Plus, he had no idea where this urge to tease and provoke had sprung from—or, more dangerously, where it might lead—so he was better off shutting it down. The fact that she’d already had him lurching from arousal to anger to amusement and back to arousal again in the space of mere minutes, when usually he was so adept at governing his emotions, was disturbing enough.

He motioned her into the room, followed her in and then closed the door and crossed to his desk.

‘I hope you’re not angry with Rosa and Alfonso and Delmar,’ she said.

He turned and looked at her. She stood in the middle of the room, her colour still high, her arms folded tightly over her breasts.

‘Do I have reason to be?’

She frowned at him. ‘I don’t know. Why are you asking me? You’re the one who marched in looking as if you wanted to throttle someone.’

He had wanted to throttle someone. Delmar. An urge for which he could offer no reasonable explanation. All he knew was that he hadn’t liked seeing the younger man’s hands on her. The familiarity between them. What else besides dancing had they got up to over the last twenty-four hours?

Had she encouraged him?

Pain arced through his jaw and he realised his teeth were clenched. Relaxing his expression, he sat against the edge of his desk and crossed his ankles. Good manners would normally dictate that he offer the lady a chair, but he wasn’t feeling especially chivalrous just then.

And he rather liked having her standing there in the centre of his antique Persian rug where he could see her.

All of her.

He could tell it made her uncomfortable and he enjoyed that—perhaps a little too much.

Maybe he was that cruel.

He folded his arms loosely over his chest. ‘I’m not accustomed to finding my house guests fraternising with the staff.’

Her chin came up. ‘Perhaps your staff wouldn’t have had to entertain your house guest if their employer hadn’t been an absentee host. If anything, you should be thanking them. Rosa has been wonderful—and Alfonso. They’ve very generously shown me some of that Catalan hospitality you promised.’

‘And Delmar?’ he couldn’t resist asking.

Just how generous had his hospitality been?

Her brow scrunched. ‘Of course. Delmar, too. They’ve all been exceptionally kind. I hope you know how lucky you are to have them,’ she added, her tone implying that she considered him entirely unworthy of his employees’ services.

Well, well... It seemed his little nurse from Down Under was a zealous defender of others.

Xav stilled.

His




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