If she had overstepped, Galán wouldn’t hesitate to call her on it. She’d lost track of the number of times he’d done exactly that during the Battle. To her annoyance, more often than not with good cause.
Galán’s bland poker face gave nothing away.
Too late, Cat’s older sister’s often-issued warning whispered in her ear: Think before blasting a verbal zinger you can’t rescind.
A weighty silence filled the room, broken only by the insistent thrum of Galán’s fingers on the glass table. Lips pressed in a thin line, eyes narrowed, he studied her.
Cat bit her tongue to keep from speaking first. She had said enough already.
“Great!” George clapped his hands, punctuating his announcement. Then, an overly animated grin widening his mouth, he reached for the signed document. “Sounds to me like this will be a match made in heaven.”
“Maybe,” Galán murmured. “Be prepared, Catalina. I have high standards of my own. This is my album. I call the shots.”
Yes, but if she had correctly read the subtext of their earlier conversations and Padua’s thinly veiled explanation for bringing her on board, he’d been experiencing a bit of a writing slump.
George cleared his throat and shot Galán a reproachful frown. “Teamwork, remember.”
Galán released a moody sigh but didn’t argue with his producer.
A giddy exhilaration bubbled up inside Cat.
Well, well, well. Looked like she was right. The great Patricio Galán needed her as much as she needed him.
Chapter Two
“This is definitely cause for celebration!”
George’s exuberant announcement had Patricio pausing midpour, barely a finger of his favorite añejo tequila filling his tulip-shaped copita. Cutting a glance over his shoulder, he eyed the man who had been more like an older brother than a record executive since Patricio had signed his first contract with Padua Records as a teen.
Their personal relationship made the ruse Patricio had put into play prick his conscience like a spike from the blue agave succulents grown at the craft tequila distillery he’d recently invested in.
“Who says I’m celebrating?” he countered.
More like girding his loins for the farce he embarked upon. By necessity.
“I like her.”
The unwanted announcement came from his assistant, Alberto, who sauntered in from the grand hall and entry after seeing Catalina Capuleta out.
Not that the headstrong woman needed an escort.
Madre de Dios, she was fire and brimstone and pure determination. Her passion reminded Patricio of a different time in his life. Back when the tight shackles of expectation hadn’t pinched and strangled . . .
Ay, enough! Stubbornly he stomped out the useless thoughts.
Stressing over them did nothing to assuage his current predicament. The same one he initially had sought to get himself out of with Catalina’s unknowing help. Only, now that she had signed the damn contract, he prayed the woman wouldn’t exacerbate his secret problem. Or, worse, figure out his charade.
The potential threat of his plan coming back to bite him in the ass was the reason behind his current “it’s five o’clock somewhere” mentality on a Monday at one in the afternoon.
Not bothering to respond to either of the men, Patricio finished pouring two fingers of the limited-release tequila into the copita, his mind replaying the last few moments of their meeting.
After dropping a cheeky “See you at rehearsal,” her cherry-red lips quirked in a satisfied smirk he found annoying and tempting as hell—which annoyed him all over again—Catalina had spun away. The waves of her long, satiny hair danced across her shoulder blades, the tips brushing her lower back like a lover’s caress. A tight black sweater hugged her petite figure, and slim-fitting dress slacks drew an appreciative eye to her delectable curves. Her vibe was chic and professional and far too enticing for his peace of mind.
Alberto’s suit jacket had flapped in the wind as he hurried to catch up with Catalina and usher her to the front door. She never broke stride. Her stilettos tap-tap-tapped down the dusky rust-colored tile with purpose. A woman on a mission. Intent on conquering an industry that had been less than fair to most women, even those with her level of talent and skill.
Under different circumstances, Patricio would champion her goal. Do what he could to assist with her trailblazing. Growing up in the industry under the larger-than-life shadow of his father, a man who believed his nickname, El Rey del Mariachi, warranted royalty treatment and status, Patricio had been inspired by and lucky enough to collaborate with numerous female mariachis who hadn’t been given their due because of antiquated patriarchal traditions. The younger generations were pushing back, making inroads. But they needed others in the industry to stand with them.
And he planned to do that for Catalina. Only, not in the way she and George had anticipated.
“Catalina Capuleta is exactly what you need,” Alberto added. “Maybe she can shake some sense into you, ha, jefe?”
Patricio rolled his eyes at Alberto’s subtext-riddled jab and shameless needling by referring to him as “boss.” A tongue-in-cheek moniker at best. Over their nearly two decades together, Alberto’s role had gone from the chaperone of a gangly fifteen-year-old to, officially, executive assistant. Unofficially, the voice of reason and counsel—albeit one who often suffered from a severe case of selective listening that had gotten worse over the years. The old man had no qualms about breaking out his raised-brow disapproval.
Like now. The viejo was still peeved by Patricio’s decision to pursue his current course, despite the number of times Alberto had tried to “talk some sense into” him. To no avail.
The only potential fly in his cajeta—a fly Patricio was determined to shoo away from his favorite goat milk and sugar dessert—was pint-size Catalina Capuleta with her rapier-sharp tongue and bulldozer personality. Keeping her in the dark might not be as easy as he’d thought.
Arms crossed over his burly chest and a-few-enchiladas-too-many, expanding paunch, Alberto leaned a shoulder against the archway. His parental glare telegraphed his uncanny ability to read Patricio’s thoughts.
“I agree. Having Catalina on board is a real coup.” George swiped the drink Patricio had just finished pouring for himself. The wise guy raised the copita to his face and breathed in the rich scent of the caramel-tinted añejo. “Good stuff, güey.”
“I only invest in the best.”
George paused before taking a sip, his crafty eyes glinting with zeal. “Same with me. Which is why I’m betting on Catalina Capuleta to pull you out of this slump or whatever it is you’re not calling it. She’s smart, wickedly talented, and not afraid to speak her mind.”
“Eso es lo que me preocupa,” Patricio grumbled under his breath.
“What worries you?” George asked, catching Patricio’s complaint with his keen hearing, lauded for discovering diamonds in the rough from only a short music clip and grooming and polishing them to star status.
“Is it the fact that she’s smart enough to know her worth?” George continued. “Talented enough to run circles around any of the other songwriters we considered? Or that she’s feisty enough to call your bluff like she did today? And during the Battle.”