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‘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.
