His smile must have been scary, because the journalist from one of the world’s leading financial broadsheets was looking at him nervously.
Sebastio’s suit felt constricting, his tie too tight. It was at moments like this that he longed most for his past—to be wearing the colours of his country, with fourteen teammates behind him and nothing but the reverent hush of a vast rugby stadium as everyone waited with bated breath to see if he could deliver the ball over the bar.
He missed the simplicity of working with a team with one aim in mind. Winning. Being the best they could be. Coming together in a fluid cohesive unit that was unstoppable. He’d never come across that amazing feeling of solidarity again.
Because you ruined it.
The journalist cleared his throat, bringing Sebastio back into the present moment—which was just as well because he had no desire to take a trip down that memory lane today.
The journalist apparently couldn’t read Sebastio’s mind, because he said blithely, ‘Your life is very different now from the world you inhabited before—that of a professional athlete playing international rugby for your country. You never showed any interest in banking until a few years ago, and yet your transition has been successful, to say the least. You have returned Rivas Bank to profitability within mere months of your father’s death.’
Sebastio’s eyes narrowed warningly but the young man stared him down. Maybe he wasn’t so nervous after all. Sebastio had to concede that of course there was no way he wasn’t going to be asked to explore this avenue. He had been one of the most celebrated athletes of his generation, captaining Argentina against the world’s best teams, beating them again and again, ushering in a golden era for Argentinian rugby.
He was very tempted to cut the interview short, but knew he couldn’t, so he forced that smile again and said coolly, ‘I’ve always been interested in banking. The Rivas family were one of the first to open a bank in the Americas, so it’s been in my blood for many generations.’
‘And yet the Rivas bank fell into something of a decline in recent times.’
Sebastio’s smile turned even more forced. ‘That is true. However, that decline is in the past now.’
Sebastio didn’t need to be reminded of what had precipitated that decline. He’d lived it. Witnessed it all too closely. It had come about for many reasons—the main one being Sebastio’s parents’ very high-profile and scandalous divorce. Scandalous because of the flagrant infidelities on both sides. And because of the life of excess exposed by the court case. Not to mention the vicious custody battle over eight-year-old Sebastio.
When the dust had settled, and Sebastio’s father had been granted primary custody of Sebastio, he’d proceeded to drink and gamble his way through what had been left of the family wealth and profits from the bank.
Admittedly Sebastio hadn’t done much to help when, as the only son and heir, he’d turned his back on his inheritance to play rugby professionally—which had had as much to do with rebelling against his family as it had to do with his love of the sport.
Thanks to his glamorous background, good looks and sporting prowess, and his aversion to commitment, he’d developed a reputation as one of the world’s most eligible bachelors. And one of the world’s most notorious playboys.
When Sebastio had stepped away from the rugby field, however, the bank had convened an emergency meeting, in order to appeal to him to reconsider taking up his position on the board. And once he’d realised how many thousands of lives were supported directly and indirectly through the bank—how many lives his father had been playing roulette with—he’d had no choice but to take his place and regain control of the sinking ship.
He’d already had enough guilt on his conscience to last him a lifetime. He hadn’t needed the added guilt of watching thousands of lives decimated, thanks to his father’s weaknesses.
He’d spent the last three years assuming more and more responsibility as his father had entered into a decline brought on largely through self-destruction and bitterness. Hugo Rivas had never really got over the fact that the most beautiful woman in Argentina had wanted to divorce him.
People said of Sebastio’s stratospheric success that his innate ability to understand the intricacies of finance and manage a financial institution was genetic, but he considered it merely fortuitous.
The journalist’s voice cut into his circling thoughts. ‘You walked away from rugby after the tragic car accident involving Victor Sanchez and his wife. How much of a part did the accident play in your move back into the family business? And are you still in touch with Victor Sanchez?’
The question had the effect of a small but devastating bomb inside Sebastio. He had never spoken about the catastrophic accident that had claimed two lives, ruined a third and blighted his own for ever. And he certainly wasn’t about to start.
He stood up smoothly, buttoning his jacket as he did so. ‘If that’s all... I have a meeting to attend.’
The journalist stood up too, with a wry smile, and held out his hand. ‘I hope you don’t blame me for trying, Mr Rivas. My editor would never forgive me if I didn’t ask the question everyone wants answered most.’
Sebastio took the journalist’s hand and squeezed it firmly enough to make the man’s eyes water slightly. He bared his teeth in another cordial smile. ‘You can ask all you want—not that I’ll ever answer.’
He turned and walked out, trying to ignore the beat of anger pulsing in his blood that a stranger had opened this Pandora’s box of unwelcome memories. Memories of the worst night of his life.
The screeching tangle of metal on metal and the smell of leaking petrol was still vivid enough to make Sebastio break out in a cold sweat. And the image of his friend’s wife, thrown from the car and lying at an unnatural angle on the road, blood pooling around her head.
His mouth was a grim line as he pulled on his coat and exited the exclusive hotel in London’s Knightsbridge. He was thousands of miles from Buenos Aires and yet the past wouldn’t leave him in peace.
You don’t deserve it.
The line of his mouth got tighter. He didn’t deserve peace. So maybe he owed the journalist something for reminding him of that.
He saw his driver jump out of his waiting car and rush around to open the door and that feeling of constriction was back. He said, ‘It’s okay, Nick. I’m going to walk back to the office.’
The suited man inclined his head. ‘Very well, sir. Nice day for it.’
Was it a nice day for it? Sebastio watched as the driver pulled out smoothly into the snarl of London traffic. He supposed that yes, it was a nice day. It was one of those rare English winter days—bright and clear and dry. Frost was in the air, but not on the ground yet. Christmas was around the corner and the decorations were up in earnest.
Sebastio passed women in expensive furs and men in bespoke suits and overcoats, much like his own.
He pulled up his collar against the chill and was oblivious to the appreciative looks he drew from a group of women standing outside a shop. He crossed the street, avoiding a particularly garish Christmas tree surrounded by singers in period costume belting out tuneless carols.
He loathed Christmas for too many reasons to count, and for the past three years had escaped it by going to parts of the world where Christmas wasn’t celebrated so much. One year he’d gone to Africa, another year to India. Last year he’d spent it in Bangkok.
That first year—after the accident had happened—Christmas had been a blur of grief, guilt and pain so acute that Sebastio hadn’t been sure he would come out the other side.
But he had. And this year he was here in London, in the hub of Christmas mania. Because the truth was that he didn’t deserve a