‘So are you, querida.’ Across the table Ramon picked up the cue, fixed his eyes on her bosom and added throatily, ‘I’m learning a lot from you.’
For a moment Lucy was in danger of slipping out of character. She bit her quivering lower lip and brought her eyelids down to hide the laughter sparkling in her eyes. Ramon was getting into his role a little too enthusiastically. If he didn’t watch himself his brother was going to smell a rat. She somehow doubted he’d see the funny side.
Was there a funny side?
She reached for her glass and drained the contents. If anyone noticed her burning cheeks she could blame the alcohol, for heartless seductresses did not blush.
‘It’s always a pleasure to teach a willing pupil.’
Worried that this might be over the top, too, she slid a surreptitious glance towards the man sitting beside her. He was totally still … still as in ‘a volcano about to explode’ still. She needn’t have worried, he seemed only too happy to believe she was a total trollop.
‘So do you have a big family, Lucy?’
Lucy smiled. Carmella seemed blissfully ignorant of the undercurrents swirling around the table. ‘Vast. I have nine siblings—my father had three wives.’ Her own mother was his last.
‘Presumably not all at once.’
Lucy clenched her teeth and bridled at the amused contempt in Santiago’s voice. The man was the most smug, self-satisfied creep she had ever met. Plan or no plan, while she was willing to stomach his insults and digs when she was the target she would not tolerate him insulting her family, who had rallied around protectively when she’d needed them.
It was true that when he was alive Lucy had had her share of disagreements with her father, culminating in the massive argument that had ended with her leaving home rather than follow the course in life he had chosen for her.
Determined to show she could make it alone, Lucy had started modelling, her intention being to make enough to fund her degree. She hadn’t anticipated for one moment that she would have the sort of incredible success she had enjoyed … though actually the world of modelling had never been one she enjoyed, however much she’d loved the freedom making that sort of money gave her.
It still did. Her father had been right about one thing—she had inherited his financial acumen, though not the buzz he spoke of that came when you had nailed a deal. The investments she had made at the time had weathered the global downturn and enabled her to live comfortably off the income.
The thing that mattered was that when she had needed him her dad had been there, as had all her family, and she wasn’t about to sit by and let this man look down his nose at them.
‘And do you share your father’s attitude to marriage?’
‘According to my mother I’m very like him.’ She shrugged and, dropping her role of seductress, added with quiet dignity, ‘I can’t see it myself, but I really hope I share both my parents’ values.’
Did he look taken aback by her reply? It would seem she had imagined it because when he replied it was with that now familiar nasty smile that made her fingers itch with an uncharacteristic desire to slap his smug face.
‘I’m sure they are both proud of you.’
Clearly there was more to Lucy Fitzgerald than met the eye. He’d been so confident removing her from Ramon’s life would be easy that he hadn’t even bothered spending five minutes researching the details of the scandal—a fundamental error. His mistake was that he’d been treating this problem differently from those he encountered in his business dealings—he’d made the error of letting it become personal.
If she had weaknesses beyond greed, he would discover them, though of course it was inevitable that greed would be her downfall.
He suddenly saw the headline under a photo of her shielding her eyes from flashes as a man helped her into a blacked-out limo, and experienced a eureka moment.
‘Your father is Patrick Fitzgerald!’
The accusation drew a grunt of amazement from Ramon, who forgot his besotted act as he stared at his brother. ‘You didn’t know?’ He suddenly grinned and taunted, ‘I thought you knew everything.’
‘Who is Patrick Fitzgerald?’ Carmella asked.
Ramon laughed. ‘Melly doesn’t read books, do you, angel? Just celebrity magazines.’
The girl kicked him under the table and he laughed, snatching away her plate that held a bread roll, teasing, ‘Careful, you might put on an ounce looking at it. Seriously, Lucy’s dad had a finger in many pies—he was a bit of a legend actually—but he was about the most powerful publisher on the planet … He was—’ He glanced towards Lucy.
‘My dad died last year,’ she explained to Carmella. ‘He’d been retired for a while.’
Santiago continued to feel annoyed with himself for not making the connection sooner. He had not met the man, but Ramon was right—in financial circles he had been pretty much a legend, a man who had started the publishing house that had become the biggest and most successful in the world and still remained in the hands of the same family today.
He felt an unexpected stab of sympathy for Fitzgerald, who had been known to guard his privacy jealously. It must have been hell for him to see his daughter publicly humiliated and her sordid secrets shared with the world, and of course it was always the parents’ fault—a universally accepted premise that every parent was conscious of.
Santiago had lost count of the sleepless nights he had spent second-guessing his parenting decisions and Gabriella was not even in her teens yet. As a man who could afford to indulge his own child, Santiago knew only too well the pitfalls that were out there for a father who did not want his love of his child to ruin her.
If the results were anything to go by, Patrick Fitzgerald had fallen into every pitfall there was. If the man had still been around he might have rung him to ask him how he brought up his daughter so that he could do the exact opposite.
God knew what motivated a woman like Lucy Fitzgerald, but apparently it wasn’t money after all. His eyes drifted in her direction just as the maid who had been making a discreet exit with her dustpan paused by Lucy’s chair.
‘Oh, I am so sorry, miss … your lovely dress. I’ll …’
Lucy glanced without interest at the splash of blood stains on her dress and rose to her feet. ‘Forget the dress—your hand!’ She removed the dustpan from the girl’s hand, put it down on her seat and took the injured hand in her own. ‘Your poor hand.’
She grabbed a clean napkin from the table and pressed it to the small laceration still oozing a little blood on the girl’s palm.
‘No, miss, I’m fine, just clumsy.’
‘You’re not fine …’
Santiago found himself the focus of an accusing icy blue stare that could not have been more condemning had he taken a knife and cut the girl himself.
‘It must have hurt like mad and she didn’t say a word.’ The girl’s silence was obviously a symptom of an atmosphere of oppression in the workplace, she decided.
She turned back to the girl, the frost in her eyes warming to concern. ‘Look … sorry, I don’t know your name?’
‘Sabina.’
‘Well, Sabina, I think your hand needs cleaning—there might be some shreds of glass in it—and it needs dressing.’
The girl looked confused and Lucy turned to her fellow diners with an expression of exasperation. ‘Will someone help me out