Not that she would feed his ego by admitting such a weakness to him.
The instrumental music grew louder as she continued down the hallway. Alberto had said that she’d find Galán in the music room. It must be him playing the guitar.
Ignoring the collection of landscape paintings with ornate gold frames on her right and the wall of windows overlooking the pool and estate grounds on her left, she lightened her footsteps, straining her ears to better hear the tune she didn’t recognize.
She glanced over her shoulder, checking to make sure Galán’s assistant wasn’t still watching her from the foyer. No sense embarrassing herself by getting caught eavesdropping on the famous mariachi. But she couldn’t help wondering if the piece was something new he was working on. And, if so, whether he would share it with her.
The few times during the meetings that George Garcia had mentioned Galán’s search for a writing partner, she had caught a flash of frustration in the superstar’s obsidian eyes. Quickly snuffed, but not fast enough for a girl who had learned at an early age how to read people out of necessity, seeking the signs of her birth mother’s depressive bouts, usually triggered by a call or postcard or an unkept promise from the selfish man who hadn’t deserved her devotion.
That instinct, honed during Cat’s time in the foster system, warned her that Galán might not be as thrilled about partnering with her as George or Alberto let on. Even though it had supposedly been Galán’s idea in the first place.
George had been effusive with his praise when he called Cat to confirm whether her official copy of the contract had arrived via courier. He had even relayed a “thrilled to have you join the label” message similar to the ones she’d heard from several other Padua executives. But she hadn’t heard a peep from Galán, the person she’d be working closely with.
Bueno, if they intended to do this right, they’d be working closely. And when the hell had she done anything involving her career half-assed?
Now certainly wasn’t the time to start.
Reaching the music room’s threshold, she paused just shy of the open double doors. Eyes closed, she listened to the ballad, letting the chords strum through her as potential words and lyrics slowly took shape in her mind.
“How long do you plan on hovering out there?”
She flinched at Galán’s gruff question. Her cheeks warmed, but she leaned against the doorjamb and sent him a disapproving scowl. “I am not hovering. It’s called ‘not interrupting in the middle of a song.’ My parents taught me good manners.”
His raised brow said he might think otherwise. The louse.
“Bueno, pues . . . Bienvenida to the tour, Catalina Capuleta. Buckle up. You made a smart choice accepting Padua’s offer, but life on the road isn’t all champagne and roses like you might think.”
Rather than turn her off, his taunt-laced welcome had Cat stepping into the room with a proud toss of her head. She strode across the carpeted floor, past a wooden coffee table with sheet music scattered over the surface and a cushiony leaf-green sofa, heading toward a shiny black baby grand piano along the far wall.
“I’ll accept your welcome,” she told him. “As for smart choices, I’d say Padua made one by recognizing the right person for the job. Me.”
His husky chuckle and murmured “touché” had her lips twitching with a smile of their own. Funny how the man could both annoy and amuse her.
She eased onto the piano’s wooden bench and set her purse by her side. Leaning her left elbow on the closed keyboard cover, she eyed Galán, who was seated on a short rolling stool by an electric keyboard.
“Whether or not this partnership is a smart choice . . .” she said, tacking on a shoulder hitch. “Bueno, that remains to be seen. Depends on a few factors.”
“Such as?” Relaxing his broad shoulders, he released his grip on the acoustic guitar’s neck and draped his right forearm across the top of the instrument’s curvy body. His palm cupped the rounded edge, the pads of his long fingers gently brushing the wood. Unbidden, her mind flashed to a scene from one of his recent music videos . . . him lying on a bed with crisp white linens, locked in a passionate embrace with a dark-haired woman wearing a lacy, red negligee, his black shirt unbuttoned to reveal a light dusting of dark hair over his muscular pecs, his large hand skimming the curve of her hip, the dip at her waistline, higher. That rich baritone voice of his crooning words of love and desire and . . .
Lust-filled heat oozed through Cat like warm honey on a sopapilla fresh out of the fryer.
“Catalina?”
“Hmm?” she murmured, her name on his lips initiating a mental tug-of-war between the erotic daydream of her lying beside him and the reality of their uncertain working relationship.
“I said, I’m intrigued by what those factors determining the success our new partnership might be.”
“Factors? Uhhh . . .” She blinked several times, clearing away the delicious, if also dangerous, daydream. The expectant look on his face told her this wasn’t the first time he had posed this question.
Crap!
So much for leaving the fangirl side of her back at her apartment, safely locked in her bedroom. Five minutes into their first rehearsal together and she’d let wild meanderings drag her into forbidden thought territory.
Forbidden in part because she had made a promise to herself years ago that she would never be like her birth mother, falling prey to a mariachi who continually cast her aside for his true love—music.
Forbidden also because she needed this opportunity with Galán to catapult the trajectory of her career. She couldn’t risk mucking it up by allowing fickle lust to get in the way.
Get your shit together, girl!
Buying herself some time, Cat leaned forward and craned her neck to peer down the empty hallway. George had said he might not be here today, but Alberto had mentioned bringing them some water and the cup of hot herbal tea she had requested.
“Are you expecting someone?” Galán asked.
“No. Just checking for witnesses before I answer.”
“For wit—” He broke off on a cough.
His wide-eyed surprise softened the angles of his chiseled face, reminding her of the photograph on his first album cover. Back then, baby-faced, seventeen-year-old Patricio had stolen hearts with his boyish charm and hesitant smile. Then the album released and he blew everyone away with his stellar vocals on the tracks. Twelve-year-old Cat had been at Casa Capuleta for two years by then, finally allowing herself to believe that life with Arturo, Berta, and Mariana, who had arrived a year before Blanca and Cat, could be her new normal. A preteen in braces, experiencing her first celebrity crush, she’d hung a copy of his album cover on her shared bedroom wall. Then she’d spent countless hours gazing up at it and spinning dreams.
Back then, Casa Capuleta had offered the beginning of a new life for her. Today, this contract and the chance to be a part of Galán’s next album represented a new chapter.
If she didn’t screw it up. That meant never giving the exasperating mariachi the upper hand.
“What exactly are you implying, Catalina Capuleta?” Humor laced the skepticism in Galán’s tone.
“Do I have you worried? Maybe you should be. You have no idea what I’m capable of.” She winked, pleased by the puff of breathy laughter he let out as he shook his head. Straightening on the bench, she swiveled to face him. “Look, there are two lessons I’ve learned from the rift between my papo and his childhood best friend. The genesis of the decades-long feud between the Capuletas and Monteros that nearly sabotaged our chances in the Battle of the Mariachi Bands.”