Slowly the events of the night before began to whirl in front of his eyes, spinning over and over until finally they lined up alongside one another like fruit on a slot machine.
Drink. Bike. Kiss.
Jackpot.
His breath felt sharp in his throat as he realised that it had all been a set-up. Right from the moment he’d walked into that club he’d been played. Everything that had felt so random, so spontaneous—their eyes meeting in the mirror, her banging into him and spilling his drink, even her having that stupid can of oil in her bag—all of it had been planned.
Flipping open the folder his mother had given him, he read swiftly through her CV, his stomach knotting with fury both with her and himself.
What was wrong with him? After what had happened with Bas did he really need another opportunity to prove how naive and complacent he was?
Apparently he did.
Apparently he had already forgotten that a beautiful woman always had an agenda of her own.
He was on the verge of striding across the room and dragging her lying, manipulative little body out of the building, when his mother stepped past him, smiling.
‘You must be Cristina. Welcome to our home.’
* * *
Sliding to her feet, Cristina held out her hand.
Her editor, Grace, had warned her that the Osorios were old-school and preferred to keep things on a formal footing, so she’d tried to dress in a way that implied she was professional, yet creative. But her heart was still beating like a startled horse as the beautiful grey-haired woman crossed the room towards her.
‘Señora Osorio. Thank you so much for meeting me today.’
‘Please...’ Sofia smiled. ‘You must call me Sofia. This is my husband, Agusto, and my son, Luis. He’s over on a visit from California. Flew in this morning.’
Cristina shook Agusto’s hand, and then, finally registering the second, taller, darker-haired man, she turned to Luis.
She smiled. Or tried to. But her lips wouldn’t work. Her whole body seemed to be numb. Around her the room was dissolving into a mist the same grey as his eyes—Lucho’s eyes—as silently she racked what was left of her brain for some kind of practical response to what was happening.
Only Grace’s notes had said nothing about coming face to face with your one-night stand. Or finding out he was the son of the people you were meant to photograph.
As he held out his hand she took it mechanically.
It couldn’t be.
Except that it was, and suddenly she thought she might faint.
Sofia was staring at her. ‘Are you all right, my dear? You look pale.’
‘I’m fine.’ She smiled stiffly. ‘Too much coffee, I’m afraid. I should probably try decaffeinated, but it’s so disgusting. I prefer a simple espresso—Arabica bean, black, no sugar.’
Agusto beamed at her. ‘Ah, a coffee connoisseur. I’m trying to cut back too, but it’s hard when the alternatives are such poor substitutes.’
Cristina nodded, and then, sensing Luis’s cool, dismissive gaze, she felt a rush of anger. ‘I agree. I hate things that aren’t what they appear to be.’
A warning flag of anger flared in his grey eyes, but she didn’t care.
Lucho—Luis—whatever he called himself—was a phony, happy to offer different versions of himself in order to get what he wanted.
In this case her.
He was just like her father—and she should have known that.
A familiar feeling of doubt and panic was slipping over her skin. She felt her eyes tugged towards the door and escape.
Her pulse jerked. Escape from what? She had come here to put the past behind her. It was why she’d fought so hard to win this assignment. To make the world, and more particularly her father, sit up and take notice. And that was what would happen when she sent him a copy of the magazine with her byline beneath the photographs. Lifting her chin, she smiled at Agusto.
‘I’m sure you didn’t invite me here to discuss coffee. How about I talk you through the production process for the shoot? And then if you have any questions I’ll try and answer them.’
‘I have some questions.’
Luis’s voice cut through her smile.
‘You do?’ She forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘That’s great,’ she said stiffly.
‘You seem very young. I’m just wondering about your experience.’
His mother frowned at him. ‘I gave you Cristina’s CV, cariño.’
‘And I read it. It seems very light. Does it cover all your talents?’
He watched her beautiful light brown eyes widen.
‘No, not all of them.’ She looked at him calmly. ‘I worked in a cake shop when I was fifteen, so I can make a mean crème pâtissière if you’re tempted.’
‘I’m not.’ He held her gaze. ‘Not any more, anyway.’
* * *
After the interview was over, and Cristina had left the room, Sofia glanced at her husband and son and said quickly, ‘Well, I thought that went well. I know she’s young, but she seemed very genuine—and quite charming.’
Luis felt his stomach twist. Oh, she was charming, all right—but genuine?
Breathing in, he said as calmly as he could manage, ‘She did seem charming. But wouldn’t you prefer someone with a little more gravitas?’
He was speaking to his mother, but it was his father who answered the question.
‘Not really. Unless you have a particular reason to doubt this young women?’
Luis hesitated. Say it, he ordered himself. Tell the truth.
But how? He could hardly tell his mother that he’d had sex with Cristina. For a start, she thought he’d flown in that morning. Nor could he reveal that his fears lay rooted in a mistake he’d made five years ago—a mistake that had cost his brother his life and his parents a son.
Looking at their faces, he made up his mind. He didn’t trust Cristina, but he didn’t need to admit that or explain why. He just needed to be around to keep tabs on her.
Slowly, he shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. All that matters to me is that you’re happy. And besides, I can help. You know how much I love photography.’
His mother looked at him in confusion. ‘But, cariño, you won’t be here—’
Luis picked up his mother’s hand and pressed it to his mouth. ‘I can be, Mamá. And I want to be.’
His mother’s tears of happiness made him feel guiltier than ever. But he would do whatever it took to protect his parents. Even lie to them.
‘I think it would be a good idea if we did the photo shoot on the island,’ he said firmly.
La Isla de los Halcones had belonged to the Osorio family for over one hundred years. It was isolated—only accessible by motorboat—and best of all communication with the mainland was limited to a landline.
It’s completely private, and much more relaxed.’ He smiled reassuringly at