It wasn’t until Francisco’s funeral, when Rodrigo was twenty-one, that his mother told him the reason the man always seemed to despise him. Rodrigo’s real father had been the chauffeur.
“He was very handsome, and I was bored, what can I say?” Elizabeth Cabrera had told him, putting her finger to her cheek thoughtfully. “It was just a one-night indiscretion. Francisco wanted me to get rid of you. Perhaps I should have. My figure was never quite the same after.”
Now, Rodrigo glanced in the rearview mirror of the convertible, toward his son. Jett was such a sweet little boy, with big black eyes and chubby cheeks. He’d been obviously well fed and well cared for. Obviously loved. Beneath Lola’s ferocity, there was utter devotion for their son.
He appreciated that about her, at least.
In some ways, their new relationship was simple: they were a family. But between Rodrigo and Lola, now husband and wife, it was a little more complicated.
His gaze now shifted to his wife, sitting beside him in the convertible. Her arms were folded, and she was seething silently at the wide Pacific Ocean as they drove up the coastal highway. He smiled grimly.
He hadn’t lied when he’d said she was smart and a fighter. She’d been the best personal assistant he’d ever had, even better than Marnie, his longest-serving secretary. He’d relied on Lola’s intelligence, on her strength. She’d been a miracle worker as an employee, always able to achieve the impossible, willing to work any hour of the day or night, even on Christmas Day.
For two years, he’d wanted her. But he hadn’t let himself even flirt. Then, after Lola had kissed him in Mexico City, he’d taken her to bed, and discovered she was a virgin. From that moment, they’d been intoxicated, drunk on passion and pleasure. When she’d told him she loved him, in spite of everything, his heart had expanded in his chest.
Then Marnie had given him those awful photographs of Lola half-naked in that chair, looking seductively into the camera. And there was more.
Sir, there’s something you should know about Lola Price.
Rodrigo still felt sick thinking about it.
But why had Lola ever done those sordid things at eighteen? The thought jolted him. Because she clearly wasn’t the coldhearted gold digger he’d once believed her to be. If she’d cared only about money, she would have demanded a huge payout from Rodrigo the moment she’d discovered she was pregnant.
So why had Lola posed for those provocative photographs? Why had she done even worse? Just youthful stupidity? He ground his teeth. He’d had his share of that himself, with his own three broken engagements. But was there more to it? Had she just been desperate to be a movie star? Or had something forced her into it?
Rodrigo looked at Lola out of the corner of his eye. The warm wind was tossing her blond hair in the sun. But her jaw was tight, and she was tapping her fingertips on the convertible’s armrest in repressed fury.
No point in asking her, he knew. She guarded the darkest secrets of her soul with grim determination. In that, she and Rodrigo were the same.
During the flight from New York on his private jet, they’d sat at opposite ends of the cabin, ignoring each other. She’d accused him of bossing her around, being a tyrant. Not a great start. But it wouldn’t go on for long.
His gaze traced down the curve of her cheek, to her swanlike throat and full breasts. He’d promised to honor and cherish her, forsaking all others. She didn’t realize that he’d already done that for the last year. He was hungry for her. Starving.
He wanted her in his bed. Tonight.
But first, he needed her to actually look at him. He grudgingly extended an olive branch.
“Are you really so upset about leaving New York?”
“You had no right,” Lola said, turning to him with her eyes blazing. “Just because I’m your wife doesn’t mean I’m your slave. I wanted to stay in New York, but you didn’t care! Just like you didn’t care you frog-marched me through our wedding!”
“You wanted Morozov there?”
She let loose a curse that would have made a sailor blush.
“Not Morozov, then,” he said, amused. “Then who?”
“My friends. Hallie. Tess.” She looked disconsolately out at the hills. “My sisters.”
“You said you haven’t seen your sisters in years.”
“I haven’t,” she whispered.
“Then I don’t see why it matters that they weren’t there today.”
Lola took a deep breath. “They’re a lot younger than me. Still just kids. My mother died when they were just five and eight. They were sent to foster care, then adopted.” Her jaw tightened. “When I left California last year, I went to New York. I intended to finally ask them to forgive me. For not keeping my promise to get custody back.” She looked down at her hands, twisting in her lap. “But I never had the guts.”
Admitting failure was so unlike Lola that he glanced at her in surprise. He switched gears, stepping hard on the gas as they drove up the highway. “You’ll think of some way to smooth things over. You always do.”
Lola looked at him hopefully out of the corner of her eye. “You think so?”
He snorted. “You never had trouble arranging people when you were my assistant. You always managed to get me appointments with anyone from feared dictators to beloved religious leaders.”
“Because you’re you.”
“And you’re you,” he said firmly. “You know how to argue people into things. When you’re ready to see your sisters, you’ll figure out how.”
Lola bit her lip thoughtfully. He could almost see the wheels start to turn in her mind. “I could send them some amazing present. Just to break the ice. Then they’d have to contact me to say thanks.”
“That could work,” he said, smiling. He was glad to see some of the dark cloud lift from her shoulders—and glad to distract her from being angry at him for rushing her into marriage and back to California.
“It could.” She smiled back, and it was warmer and brighter than the California sun.
Then her lips twisted mischievously. “I’m warning you. The gift will probably be expensive.”
Rodrigo shrugged. “Spend whatever you like. What’s mine is yours.”
“Do you mean that?”
“I already know you didn’t marry me for my money, Lola.”
“No.” Her expression darkened. She turned away, her arm resting on the edge of the convertible as she looked out at the ocean. “I married you because you blackmailed me.”
The brief moment of camaraderie, of shared sunshine, abruptly disappeared.
Rodrigo turned the convertible off the highway, traveling down a private lane to the edge of tall stone walls that blocked off his compound. He punched in the security code, and the gate slid open. He drove the convertible inside the courtyard, followed closely by his longtime bodyguard, Tobias Watson, in the SUV with all the luggage.
“Back to home sweet home,” he murmured.
“Yes,” Lola said, looking up at the beach house.
Getting out of the convertible, he reached in the back seat of the convertible to unbuckle their baby.
“I can do that,” she said, alarmed.
“It’s