A Mistress, A Scandal, A Ring

A hand-out? Her head snapped back as if he’d flung acid at her face. She gripped the edges of her journal, shock receding beneath a rush of indignation. ‘That is offensive,’ she choked out.

‘Quite,’ he agreed. ‘Which is why I will ask you again—what do you want, Ms Walsh?’

Jordan felt her heart begin to pound. How on earth could this arrogant, imperious man be her stepmother’s son?

Camila had been a kind, gentle soul, who’d always looked for the best in people despite the heartbreak she’d suffered early in her life.

Jordan looked at the envelope she’d placed with such reverent care between the pages of her journal. She’d carried the envelope halfway around the world and not once had she been tempted to snoop inside it. The letter it contained was private, sacred—the precious words of a dying woman to her son.

Lifting her chin, she looked him in the eye, letting him know he didn’t intimidate her—that she had nothing to feel ashamed about. She held up the envelope. ‘I came here to give you this.’

‘And what is “this”?’

‘A letter from your birth mother.’

‘Camila Walsh?’

‘Yes—your birth mother,’ she reiterated.

A muscle worked in his jaw. His gaze flicked to the photo that lay face-down on his desk, then back to her. ‘A claim which is, at present, unsubstantiated.’

Jordan let her hand fall back to her lap, her frustration so great she wanted to slap her palm against the top of his desk and demand to know why he was being so bloody-minded. Instead, she clamped her back teeth together and waited for the impulse to pass.

She was not someone who flew off the handle at the slightest provocation. She might have been saddled with her mother’s unruly flame-coloured hair but she hadn’t, thank goodness, inherited her fiery personality.

Suddenly she felt as cross with herself as she did with him. Why hadn’t she been better prepared for this kind of reaction? Had she imagined that because she and Camila had been close she would automatically feel some sort of instant kinship with this man?

Sadly, she had. She’d tucked her grief away in a safely locked compartment of her heart, donned those silly rose-coloured glasses she should have learnt to distrust years ago, and set off on her mission to deliver Camila’s letter and scatter her ashes in the homeland she’d left thirty-three years before.

It was the final thing Jordan would be able to do for her stepmom—for the woman whose love and kindness had helped to heal the wound Jordan’s mother had inflicted years earlier with her abrupt, unapologetic departure from her daughter’s life.

And, embarrassing though it was to admit it, Jordan had built up a little fantasy in her head—imagining herself striking up a friendship with Camila’s son, having a kind of stepsibling relationship with him—which, now that she was here, seemed totally laughable.

This was not a man she could imagine having such a relationship with. Girls did not look at their brothers and feel their skin prickle and heat or their mouths go dry.

He wasn’t even the sort of man she liked. In fact he was everything she disliked. Arrogant. Superior. Unfeeling. A self-appointed demigod in a power suit, ruling his kingdom from the top of his gilded tower.

And Jordan knew all about men with god complexes, didn’t she? She’d dated a surgeon whose ego was the size of the Sydney Opera House and then—even worse, because she should have known better—she’d moved in with him and decided she was in love.

Jamming the brakes on her runaway thoughts, she focused on the cold, handsome face of the man in front of her and made a snap decision. ‘I don’t think you’re ready for this letter, Mr de la Vega.’

And in that moment she knew she wasn’t ready to relinquish it—because what if he didn’t treat it with the respect it deserved? What if he threw it away without even reading it?

Stiffening her resolve, she tucked the envelope into her journal, then tore out a blank page from the back, pulled a pen from her tote bag and scribbled down her mobile number. ‘I’ll be staying at the Hostel Jardí across town for a few more days and then I’m travelling to Mallorca and then Madrid.’ She put the piece of paper on his desk. ‘If you want to reach me, here’s my number.’ She bundled her things back into her tote and slung the strap over her shoulder. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Mr de la Vega.’ And she turned to go.

‘Ms Walsh.’

His deep, commanding voice brought her to a standstill and her heart leapt with hope. Had he had an epiphany? Realised, perhaps, that he’d behaved abominably?

Breath held, she turned back...and her heart landed with a heavy thud of disappointment.

He was standing, arm extended, holding out the photo she’d left on his desk—the one of himself as a baby. ‘You forgot this.’

Releasing her breath, she shook her head. ‘It’s yours. Keep it—or throw it away. Up to you.’

She continued on to the door, and for a few agonising seconds her nerveless fingers fumbled with the handle while her nape prickled from the unsettling sensation of his gaze drilling into her back.

But he didn’t call her name again. Didn’t attempt to stop her.

As she walked past his assistant’s desk and the stunning Lucia half rose out of her chair, Jordan held up her palm. ‘I can see myself out, thanks.’

Her chest was so tight it wasn’t until she stepped onto the street forty-four storeys below that she felt able to draw a full, oxygen-laden breath into her lungs again.

But as she set off across the city no amount of deep breathing could lift the weight from her heart.

Damn him.

What was she supposed to do now with her stepmom’s letter?

CHAPTER TWO

‘I’VE LOCATED THE PAPERWORK,’ said Roberto Fuentes, long-time solicitor and a trusted friend to the de la Vega family for over forty years. He paused, and a ripple of disquiet ran beneath the surface of Xav’s iron-clad self-control.

Xav rose from behind his desk, his mobile pressed tightly to his ear. Three short strides brought him to a thick wall of glass—one of two floor-to-ceiling panes that afforded his office in the Vega Tower a panoramic view of the sprawling, sun-baked metropolis below.

He stared blindly out at the cityscape, his body bristling with impatience under the impeccably tailored lines of his charcoal-grey suit. ‘And?’

‘Your birth mother’s name was Camila Sanchez.’

The first cold prickles of shock needled over his scalp, even though the solicitor only confirmed what he already knew in his gut was true.

He raised his left arm and leant his palm against the window, needing to steady himself.

He didn’t suffer from vertigo, or a fear of heights, but suddenly the sheer drop on the other side of the glass to the city street over forty storeys below induced a wave of dizziness.

‘Xavier—?’

‘I heard you, Roberto.’ He backed away from the window and returned to his desk. ‘Was she related to anyone in my parents’ employ?’

Another heavy pause. ‘With the greatest respect, Xavier... I really would feel more comfortable if you had this conversation with Elena and Vittorio. They’ve always said—’

‘No.’ He cut Roberto off. He knew what his parents had always said.

‘We love you. Nothing will ever change that.’

And in thirty-five years nothing ever had. Not even the unexpected arrival of his younger brother, Ramon, the ‘miracle baby’ the doctors had told his mother she’d never have.

His parents had also told him that if one day he decided he wanted to trace his biological family they would support him in that quest. He’d never chosen that path, but he knew that if he had they would have stayed true to their word.

Because Vittorio and Elena de la Vega were good people. Good parents.

Xav had worked hard over the years to make them proud. Worked harder still to prove to those members of the extended family who’d never accepted him as one of their own that he was worthy of the de la Vega name.

As a boy, seeing how the veiled barbs and sly taunts upset his mamá had made him even more determined to prove he was just as good as, if not better than, any of them.

Years later, he still faced the same insidious prejudices—but now he had the pleasure of rubbing his detractors’ noses in his unrivalled success.

No. Despite the solicitor’s discomfort, Xav would not involve his parents at this point. He would shield them. Protect them. At least until he understood what—or rather who—he was dealing with.

He sat down at the handcrafted oak desk that had been handed down from father to son, along with the role of Chief Executive, through four generations of de la Vega menfolk over a span of more than sixty years.

‘This conversation remains strictly between you and me,’ he said. ‘Are we clear?’

‘As you wish,’ the older man said, resigned but respectful. ‘Just a moment...’

Xav heard the sounds of papers being shuffled before Roberto spoke again.

‘Ah... I remember now. Miss Sanchez was the niece of your parents’ housekeeper at the time. The adoption was private, the paperwork drawn up through this office.’

Xav was silent a moment, his mind processing. Assimilating. Finally, he said, ‘Gràcies, Roberto. I appreciate your help—and discretion,’ he emphasised, and then he ended the call and immediately made another.

The security specialist the Vega Corporation kept on retainer answered on the first ring. ‘I just emailed the dossier through to you,’ the man said without preamble.

‘Any red flags?’

‘None. A couple of parking offences, but nothing more serious. She’s single, a qualified trauma nurse currently unemployed. Presence on social media is sporadic and low-key. Mother lives in North America. Father’s dead—and, yes, he was married to a Camila Walsh, nee Sanchez, now also deceased.’ He paused. ‘Without knowing what your specific concerns are, I’d say she’s pretty harmless.’

Xav twisted his lips. Any man who believed women were harmless was a fool. He knew from experience they weren’t. It was why he’d taken exceptional care in choosing his lovers over the last decade—and why he was being equally judicious in choosing a wife.

‘And the surveillance?’ he asked.

‘We’ve still got eyes on her. She was at a dance club till one a.m. She hasn’t left the hostel yet this morning.’

Xav narrowed his eyes. Jordan Walsh was an unemployed party girl? ‘Keep me apprised of her movements.’ He tapped his keyboard to bring his computer screen to life. ‘I’ll let you know if I need anything further.’

He put his phone down, located the email in his inbox and opened the attachment. The first section of the document covered basic stats—name, age, marital status, occupation—and included a photo: a full-colour head-and-shoulders shot that had probably come from one of her social media accounts. She was smiling into the camera lens, giving the illusion that she was smiling straight at him, and just looking at the image gave him the same visceral gut-punch reaction that he’d experienced last night when she’d walked into his office.

Right before she had turned his world on its head and then stalked out.

Over the years he’d met hundreds of beautiful women, had slept with a select few, but never had he been so immediately or powerfully arrested by a woman’s looks before.

Her colouring was striking, with a head-turning combination of Titian hair and extraordinary hazel eyes which were a fascinating blend of green and gold. Her features were strong and symmetrical, with bold cheekbones, a straight nose and a wide, generous mouth.

Not pretty by conventional standards, perhaps, but stunning nevertheless.

Abruptly he sat back, irritated at his unusual lack of focus. Jordan Walsh’s looks, however remarkable, were irrelevant. She was a problem to be handled—that was all. One he needed to contain until he understood what threat, if any, she posed. Just as his feelings about his birth mother would have to be shelved and examined at a later stage. He didn’t have time for distractions. He had a global corporation to run. A multimillion-dollar acquisition to negotiate—a major deal that at least one member of the board would relish seeing him fail to close.

He opened the drawer where he’d shoved the photo and the piece of paper she’d left on his desk last night. He picked up his phone to punch in the number she’d written down, but then suddenly changed his mind, slipped the paper and his phone into his jacket pocket and stood.

In the anteroom outside his office he paused by Lucia’s desk and checked his watch. It was ten-twenty a.m. ‘I’m heading out,’ he told her.

Her heavily made-up eyes blinked as if he’d said something unintelligible. She glanced at her computer screen. ‘But...you have a ten-thirty meeting with the Marketing Director.’

‘Reschedule it. And arrange for Juan and Fernando to meet me with the car downstairs straight away.’

Lucia gaped at him, nonplussed. ‘And your video call with Peter Reynaud at noon?’

‘I’ll be back in time for that,’ he said, because he had to be. His intended acquisition of Reynaud Industries took priority over everything.

Buttoning his jacket, he turned to go.

Lucia shot up from her chair, her expression vaguely panicked. ‘But where are you going?’

‘To deal with a problem,’ he replied, and strode towards the lifts, leaving his wide-eyed, slack-jawed secretary staring after him.

* * *

Barcelona was basking in the heat of a blazing sun beneath a glorious blue sky when Jordan emerged from the hostel just before eleven a.m. She’d risen late and then lingered over breakfast, chatting with a Canadian guy and a young German couple who’d wanted to ask her a bunch of questions about Australia.

Pausing on the pavement outside the hostel, she rummaged in her tote bag for her sunglasses and slid them on. She had a mild headache, and her ears still rang from the overloud music in the club last night, but at least she wasn’t suffering with a hangover. She’d had one tequila shot with the girls, then stuck with lime and soda water for the rest of the time.

The dancing had been fun, but the clubbing scene wasn’t really her thing. She’d only gone because the two Irish girls with whom she was sharing a room had invited her out, and the prospect of a few hours of deafening music and fun-loving company had appealed more than sitting alone feeling sorry for herself.

‘Senyorita Walsh?’

She looked up, startled, when she saw a burly man she didn’t know in a suit and dark glasses standing in front of her. ‘Yes?’

‘Senyor de la Vega wishes to speak with you,’ he said, and then gestured towards a vehicle sitting at the kerb. ‘Please get in, senyorita.’

Shifting her stunned gaze from the man to the SUV, Jordan wondered how she hadn’t noticed the vehicle sooner, given that it was bigger and shinier than any other in the street. Black paintwork and dark windows gave it a slightly sinister veneer, and she couldn’t see who, if anyone, was sitting inside it. Another man of solid build stood by the rear door, which sat open, waiting for her to climb in.

Her heart beginning to pound, she bounced her gaze back and forth between the two men and the tiny hairs on her arms lifted. They were strangers, asking her to get into a car, supposedly sent by a man she barely knew.

She backed away. ‘Actually... I—I have somewhere else to be right now... Maybe Mr de la Vega could call—hey!’

Suddenly the man’s meaty hand was wrapped around her arm. Her heart tripped with panic and her brain could scarcely compute what was happening before she was tugged forward and bundled unceremoniously into the back of the SUV. She sucked in her breath, ready to scream, but the sound died in her throat as her backside landed, rather inelegantly, on soft leather and her gaze fell on the man sitting farther along the seat.

‘Good morning, Ms Walsh.’

Her pulse spiked. Hastily she righted herself, dismayed to find when she looked down that her wraparound skirt had got twisted beneath her and was gaping open, exposing the length of one pale thigh all the way up to her crotch. A fierce blush scalded her cheeks.

Lips tightly pursed, she closed the offending split with an indignant tug. ‘I’m not sure it is a good morning, Mr de la Vega.’

The car door closed behind her, shutting her in. Making her acutely aware of the confined space and the potency of the man whose presence seemed to fill every inch of the luxurious interior.

Breathing deeply, she willed her heartbeat to slow and tried not to look as overheated and flustered as she felt. How did he do it? How did he look so cool and refined in his immaculate three-piece suit and tie when the day was stiflingly hot and everyone else was melting?

Not that she could entirely pin the blame for her stampeding pulse and all-over body-flush on the rising mercury or the few seconds of fright his men had given her. But she would not think about how ridiculously handsome Xavier de la Vega was. Or how he looked not only cool and urbane in his sleek designer suit but also supremely fit and virile.

One dark brow slanted up. ‘Late night?’

Striving for an air of dignified calm, she folded her sunglasses away and pushed back some strands of hair that had slipped from her ponytail and fallen across her face. ‘Not particularly,’ she said, crossing her fingers at the tiny lie.

Technically it hadn’t been a late night but rather an extremely early morning when she’d finally collapsed into her narrow bunk bed in the hostel. As for her roomies—Lord knew what time they’d eventually crept in. They’d both still been fast asleep as of ten minutes ago, one of them lying face-down and fully clothed on top of the bedding. If the girl hadn’t been softly snoring, Jordan would have felt compelled to check that she was breathing.

She lifted her chin. ‘I was referring to the fact that I hadn’t planned on getting manhandled into a car this morning.’

He frowned. ‘You were hurt?’

For a second she was tempted to say yes, just to test his reaction, see if he was capable of demonstrating remorse, but she wasn’t that good a liar. ‘No,’ she said, because the man who’d held her had been strong, but not rough, and the only thing truly smarting was her pride. ‘But that’s beside the point.’

‘Which is...?’

She saw a flicker of movement at one corner of his mouth that looked suspiciously like amusement. ‘My point,’ she said, prising her gaze away from those firm lips, ‘is that this is a rather unorthodox way of meeting. You couldn’t have called me first?’

‘Forgive me,’ he said, but his tone and the eloquent shrug of his broad shoulders gave the impression he didn’t care one way or the other whether she did or not. ‘Given the way you came to my office in person last night, I assumed that you’d prefer face to face.’

What I’d really prefer is to wipe the superior look off your face.

The thought rushed into her head from out of nowhere, and the small surge of churlish pleasure she gained from it was quickly overshadowed by shame. She’d never hit another person in her life—had never been so much as tempted to before now. Perversely, the fact that he’d so effortlessly provoked her into thinking about slapping him only made her feel ten times more annoyed.

She considered explaining that she wouldn’t have turned up at his offices as she had if Lucia hadn’t blocked her calls and denied her an appointment, but she chose not to go there. She hadn’t warmed to the leggy brunette, but she had no desire to get the woman into trouble with her boss.

She sighed. ‘Look, I know we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot—’

‘Which I regret,’ he cut in, his voice growing deeper, more solemn.

She blinked. ‘You do?’

‘Yes,’ he said evenly, ‘and it is something I would like to redress, if you would allow me to.’

And it struck her then—belatedly. She’d been so blindsided, so caught up in her reaction to him, she’d failed to consider the obvious. ‘You believe me,’ she said, not a question but a statement—because why else would he be here? ‘About Camila.’

‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘I believe your late stepmother was my birth mother.’

Emotion more powerful than she’d expected drew her throat tight. She swallowed. ‘I... I’m glad,’ she said, wanting to say more, so much more, but holding back. His demeanour was calm, imperturbable, but she read the tension in his clean-shaven jaw, saw the slight guardedness in his silver-grey eyes.

And she understood. It was a big thing to process. Eventually he’d be ready. He’d want to know more about Camila, and then Jordan would have the opportunity to share her memories. To talk about the warm, generous woman who’d been her stepmom and best friend for half her life.

‘You must allow me to show you some genuine Catalan hospitality,’ he said. ‘I have a villa on the coast where my housekeeper is preparing a guest room for you as we speak. It is yours for the duration of your stay in Barcelona.’

Jordan stared at him in stunned astonishment. Last night he’d greeted her with open suspicion and barely veiled hostility, and now he was inviting her to his home?

For a moment she wondered if she should be suspicious of him.

But why?

He’d candidly expressed his regret and now he’d extended an olive branch. Wouldn’t she do the same? If she’d behaved poorly, regretted the way she’d treated someone, wouldn’t she make an effort to set things right?

She hesitated. Was there any good reason she shouldn’t accept his offer?

You’re attracted to him!

Okay. There was that small, undeniable fact. But what of it? There wouldn’t be a heterosexual woman on the planet who could meet this man and not feel some level of physical attraction. And that was all it was, she assured herself. A hormone-based reaction to a good-looking man at the height of his prime.

Beyond his looks he wasn’t her type, and a man who could have his pick of the world’s most beautiful, sophisticated women wouldn’t be interested in her anyway. Which meant those surges of heat, the pinpricks of awareness she’d experienced last night and again today, were best ignored for a whole host of reasons—not least of which was the preservation of her pride.

She bit the inside of her lip. None of this changed the fact that he was arrogant and presumptuous—as evidenced by having a guest room prepared for her before she’d even accepted his invitation!

But, no matter how impossible it seemed, this man was Camila’s biological son. Did she not owe it to her stepmom to give him another chance?

If she accepted his offer, stayed as a guest in his home, they’d have an opportunity to talk properly—not in his office or the back of a chauffeured car, but somewhere more comfortable and private.

Plus, she still had the letter. His letter, by rights. At some point she’d have to relinquish it.

She released her lip and smiled with genuine gratitude. ‘Thank you. I’d like that very much.’

The smile she got in return was no more than a brief lift of one side of his mouth, but his grey eyes gleamed with... She wasn’t sure what, exactly. Satisfaction?

He gave a crisp nod, then raised his left hand to the window beside his shoulder and rapped the backs of his knuckles twice on the tinted glass.

Seconds later, as if by magic, Jordan’s door swung open.

‘Juan will help you with your things,’ he said. ‘I trust it won’t take you long to pack?’

She glanced out, saw the long, trouser-clad legs and polished black boots of the man who’d ‘escorted’ her to the car, then looked back to Xavier. ‘We’re going now?’

His gaze was steady. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘Er...no,’ she said after a slight hesitation. ‘I—I guess not...’

She supposed it made sense. The car was already here. And she was travelling light, with a single large backpack, so she wouldn’t need more than a few minutes to gather her things.