7
What did he want from her? Alejandro stared at the blinking skyline of Madrid at night. Problems in Dubai should take precedence. He had a hotel to build and permits to straighten out before he could do so, and yet he couldn’t seem to get the problem of Rebecca Layton out of his mind while he worked late.
He reached for the pale sherry he’d poured over twenty minutes ago, took a sip.
Damn her and her lies.
It was her fault he’d married Caridad. He would never have agreed to it had Rebecca not left him. Had she not stolen from him.
It wasn’t just that she’d yanked the safety net out from under him. While it would have taken him far longer to take Ramirez Enterprises global without the Cahill Group’s backing, he still could have done it without Caridad’s family contributing to his coffers.
No, what Rebecca’s betrayal confirmed was the folly of allowing emotion to rule his head. He’d cared for her, had even envisioned the children they would have if he married her. He’d grown up with parents whose daily emotional drama should have inured him to any hint of sentiment, but Rebecca’s smokescreen of naïve charm had pulled him into her web.
What a bloody idiot.
And then he’d returned to his suite one afternoon and found a severe-looking woman waiting for him and no sign of Rebecca. The woman fanned open a thick folder and nattered at him about planning a wedding.
It’d taken him several more minutes to realize Rebecca’s suitcases were gone. The woman simply shrugged. “Sí,” she’d said. “There was a pretty young woman. She wished you a happy marriage to Señorita Mendoza.”
That’s when it dawned on him. His father, the old fool, had been urging him to marry Caridad since Roberto’s death. Arranged marriages were no longer commonplace, but they did happen from time to time. His father had seen it as a measure of his own importance to find a bride for his eldest son. Roberto hadn’t had the guts to object, which Juan Ramirez had known full well. He’d never have tried it with Alejandro—until Roberto died and he wanted to save face with the Mendozas. Señor Mendoza had loaned him a lot of money, and Juan intended to deliver his famous son as payment if it was the last thing he did.
Alejandro had steadfastly refused. Apparently, Juan had decided to step up the campaign. The timing could not have been worse.
Alejandro’s first thought was to go after Rebecca. But she had a head start and he had no idea where she’d gone. His calls to her mobile phone went unanswered. Two days later, she finally picked up. From London. She’d been cool and aloof, and he’d lost his temper. How dare she expect an explanation? All she needed was to accept that what he told her was the truth. He was not engaged.
Not surprisingly, she hadn’t believed him. He’d realized later that his alleged engagement was merely a convenient excuse for her to do what she’d always intended to do. The next day, Roger Cahill told him they were backing Layton International instead.
Rebecca had said she loved him, but she’d lied. He wasn’t good enough for her and never would be in her eyes.
You weren’t important enough.
It had pricked his pride, sliced a wound in his soul, the knowledge this woman he’d cared about had used him. Never again would he believe protestations of love from any female. Since love was a fool’s dream, he’d agreed to marry Caridad. Why not? Her breeding and social standing were impeccable. She would be the perfect hostess, the perfect tycoon’s wife, and the perfect mother to his children.
He’d certainly been mistaken on that point. He could not have chosen a colder, more unfeeling woman for his wife if he’d tried.
Alejandro swallowed a mouthful of sherry, welcomed the burn as it slid down his throat. Who could have guessed how much pain he would have to endure before his marriage was over? He’d never known such despair, such aching emptiness until he married Caridad. Everything that happened to him, everything that sliced his soul to shreds and left him hollow inside could be traced to that moment when Rebecca had left him. If not for her, it would have turned out so differently.
He’d vowed long ago that every ounce of pain she’d ever dealt him would be returned to her before he was through. That’s what he wanted from her. Nothing less than complete revenge.
Rebecca had no real destination as she wandered through Alejandro’s darkened house. It was after ten and everything was quiet. A small lamp burned on the desk in the home office she’d first seen him in yesterday. She went inside, thinking to find a book to read since she wasn’t sleeping so well.
She studied the titles lining the bookshelves with interest. What did Alejandro like to read? It surprised her to realize she hadn’t known before. Hadn’t known much about him, in fact, if she thought about it. He’d come far indeed in the five years since she’d last seen him.
But his fury and hatred stunned her. Clearly, he believed she had ruined his deal with the Cahill Group. But even if it were true, which it was not, why would that be enough to make him hate her so much? The business world was often unfair. Life was unfair. Sometimes, it was downright cruel. Plenty of times in the last few months she’d wanted to bury her head in her hands and scream at the unfairness that left her in charge of Layton International so soon. The monstrous bad luck that had her father climbing on a tiny plane in Thailand so he could tour the resorts he’d just acquired.
But she hadn’t. She’d picked herself up and dusted herself off and got back to work. There was no other choice.
Most of the books were in Spanish. Don Quixote, naturally. The Count of Monte Cristo in English. Interesting. She started to reach for Dumas’ tale of wrongful imprisonment and revenge, but another book caught her eye. This one had “Photos” emblazoned on the spine.
What sort of photos would a man like Alejandro find important enough to keep in an album? Bullfighting ones, no doubt. Curious, she pulled the book from the shelf and placed it on the desk in front of her.
She opened the cover—and sank onto Alejandro’s chair, her knees no longer strong enough to hold her up. A little girl smiled back at her. A beautiful, black-haired child with grey eyes and a smile so familiar it hurt to see it.
But to see it in a toddler?
His child. Without a doubt, this girl was Alejandro’s child. She had his smile, his eyes, the stubborn tilt of his chin. When he appeared in a picture with her, the resemblance was unmistakable. Tears sprang to Rebecca’s eyes. Why? She wiped at them furiously, flipping pages until she came to a photo that made her heart stop. Alejandro holding the little girl on a beach. He was healthy and tan, his smile glowing as he gazed at his daughter. The girl stared at whoever took the photo, a finger in her mouth, her eyes wide.
Rebecca chewed absently on a knuckle. My God, he’d had a child after she’d gone back to America. He’d married the woman and had a beautiful little girl with her. Jealousy speared Rebecca like a poisoned barb. You have no right, she told herself. You left.
But she’d had to go. He’d been engaged.
He said he wasn’t, a voice whispered. You gave him no chance to prove it.
She shook her head. If he hadn’t been engaged, why did he go through with it? You didn’t marry someone and have a child with her if you weren’t committed somehow.