His face hardened. ‘There’s no need, really,’ he said tersely.
He didn’t care about the drink. Or his T-shirt. Or the fact that she had a boyfriend. He definitely didn’t care about that, he thought angrily. So why, then, did he feel so wound up?
And then, catching sight of the phone in her hand, he felt a warm surge of relief. She’d been taking a selfie—that was why she’d bumped into him.
Wasn’t it enough that every man in the room was drooling all over her? Did she have to drool over herself too?
Reaching around her, he snatched up his leather jacket from the bar stool.
‘I don’t want another drink,’ he said quietly. ‘But just do yourself and everyone else a favour and look where you’re going next time you come over all narcissistic.’
She gazed up at him as if she couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. Probably she couldn’t. With lips and legs like hers she’d almost certainly never had to take responsibility for her actions before.
Her mouth curled. ‘I was looking where I was going because I was standing still. You walked into me.’
It was true. He had walked into her. But somehow the knowledge that he was technically in the wrong just antagonised him more.
His voice cold, and clipped with a fury he didn’t fully understand, he shrugged his arms into his jacket. ‘You were taking a selfie in the middle of a nightclub. You weren’t concentrating. And that’s how accidents happen.’
He watched her eyes darken to the colour of burnt sugar, her face stiffening with shock and then a fury that doused his.
‘Well, don’t worry—next time I spill a drink all over you I’ll make sure I do it on purpose.’
She stared at him fiercely and then, lifting her chin, turned and stalked off towards the dance floor.
For a fraction of a second Luis stared after her, his heart ricocheting inside his chest. Then, biting down on the frustration rising inside his throat, he turned and strode towards the stairs.
* * *
Out in the street, he felt his fury fade in the still night air. Gazing up at the dark sky, he breathed out slowly.
He hated conflict of any kind. Rarely lost his temper or provoked a fight. Yet tonight he’d almost done both—and with a woman. Gritting his teeth, he cursed softly. He’d been obnoxious and childish—and frankly he’d deserved everything she’d thrown at him and more.
In fact he was lucky she hadn’t thrown her own drink at him too, he thought savagely as he began walking across the square.
The pavements were empty now, almost like a ghost town, and he felt a wrench of loneliness as he unlocked his bike. He missed Bas so much. Living in California, it was easy to rationalise his brother’s absence from his life. All he had to do was pretend that back in Spain Bas was doing just what he always did—teasing their mother, eating empanadas by the plateful, partying until dawn with his friends.
Here, though, it was impossible to pretend.
And it would be even harder tomorrow—he glanced at his watch and frowned—or rather later today, with his parents. His stomach twisted with guilt and grief, and suddenly he knew that he had to move.
Straddling the bike, he pushed the key clumsily into the ignition. It would better once he was moving. On the open road, with the sound of the engine mingling with the beat of his blood, his feelings would spin away into the darkness like the dirt beneath his wheels.
He eased the bike forward and turned the ignition. Pulling in the clutch, he thumbed the starter button—and then frowned as the engine sputtered and died.
Damn it!
He tried again, and then again, over and over, feeling a tic of irritation start to pulse in his cheek. What the hell was wrong with the damn thing? It made no sense.
Trying to stay calm, he leaned forward and took a deep breath. He would check the blindingly obvious. And then...
And then nothing. For anything else he’d need pliers, a wrench, a screwdriver—
‘Do you need any help?’
He sensed movement behind him and, turning, he felt his breath catch in his throat as she took a step closer.
She was watching him warily. Her auburn hair was now tied up into some kind of messy ponytail and she’d changed her shoes. Glancing at the black military-style boots on her feet, he almost smiled. Good job she hadn’t been wearing those earlier or he might not have made it out the club.
He shook his head. ‘Not sure you can,’ he said carefully. Holding her gaze, he gestured towards the high-heeled shoes dangling from her hand. ‘Unless those transform into some kind of toolkit. Or are you planning on throwing them at me too?’
Cristina stared at him in silence.
She had hesitated before coming over. He’d been so patronising and rude to her. But then she had spilled his drink over him, so maybe that made them equal. It was a pretty lame argument, but before her brain had had a chance to object she had already been walking across the square.
‘I didn’t plan on throwing your drink over you—as you yourself pointed out. Now, do you want my help or not?’
Luis stared at her for a long moment. Her voice was husky—distractingly so. Was this some kind of trick? Or a joke.
‘You want to help me?’ he said slowly. ‘I’m—’
‘Touched?’ she suggested. ‘Grateful? Pleased?’
‘Actually, I was going to say surprised. And a little nervous maybe.’ He glanced over at her shoes.
Her mouth twitched. ‘Well, I probably would have broken my leg or my neck if you hadn’t caught me, so I guess it’s only fair.’
‘It’s more than fair. It’s magnanimous, given that I not only walked into you but then failed to apologise for doing so.’ His grey eyes were level with hers. ‘I’m sorry. I was the one who wasn’t looking where I was going.’
As his gaze held hers Cristina felt her heart thud against her ribs. Even though it had been a little awkward, she liked that he had picked up where they had left off. Liked that he was honest enough to admit that he’d been wrong.
And, although he might not say much, she liked that he meant what he said.
‘Don’t you need to get home?’
Home. The word made her breathe in sharply. She shrugged.
‘Right now, I don’t really have one. I’m just travelling.’
Feeling suddenly horribly self-conscious, she glanced down at the Ducati.
‘I don’t know this model, but I’m almost sure you don’t need a toolkit to fix it.’
Watching his mouth turn up at one corner, she felt a rush of heat tighten her skin. It was impossible not to imagine what he would look like if he smiled properly, or what it would be like to be kissed by that mouth.
Feeling his gaze on her face, and terrified that her thoughts might somehow be visible, she frowned. ‘Did I say something funny?’
‘No, I’m just tweaking my mental picture of you. I had you down as a party girl, not a back-warmer.’
She took a step towards him, her eyes narrowing. ‘Is that right? Then maybe what you need isn’t a toolkit but a little imagination. Or perhaps a little less prejudice. Women ride motorbikes on their own these days, and guess what? They don’t even do it side saddle.’
Meeting her gaze, Luis felt something soft and dark stir inside in his blood as she took another step closer and touched