A Mistress, A Scandal, A Ring. Angela Bissell

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.

      The big man with the mountainous shoulders—who seemed no less intimidating even now that she knew his name—waited in the reception area while she went to pack. The Irish girls were still out for the count, so she moved about the room quietly and left a farewell note, saying she was checking out due to a change of plans and she wished them well on their travels.

      When she emerged, Juan reached for her backpack. ‘Let me carry it, Senyorita Walsh.’

      Although she was more than capable of carrying her own bag, she gave it up without argument. He was under orders, and she suspected even a burly, tough-looking man like Juan would not wish to invite his boss’s displeasure.

      ‘I just need to settle my account,’ she told him.

      ‘It is done.’

      She frowned. ‘But—’

      ‘Please come at once, senyorita. Senyor de la Vega does not like to be kept waiting.’

      Jordan wasn’t happy about it, but she held her tongue. Arguing with the hired muscle was pointless. She would say something to Xavier, though. She couldn’t allow him to pay her hostel bill. It didn’t matter that she’d prepaid the accommodation and the outstanding charges had just been for a few incidentals. It was the principle that counted. And while she wasn’t one to hold a grudge, neither would she forget in a hurry the stinging assumptions he’d made about her motives. The last thing she wanted to do was give him any reason to cast such aspersions on her again.

      But when she got to the car, this time thanking the other man who opened the door, she couldn’t say as much to Xavier because he had his phone pressed to his ear and was conversing with someone in Spanish or Catalan.

      She hesitated, wondering if he’d prefer privacy, but he beckoned her in with a perfunctory wave of his hand. Then he continued his conversation as if she wasn’t there.

      Which was fine, she told herself as she settled back against the cool leather, carefully arranging her skirt to avoid another incident of indecent exposure. It was Friday, the middle of a working day for him. She could raise the issue of the hostel bill later.

      Besides, there was something deliciously indulgent about simply sitting there, listening to that deep, molasses-rich voice of his. His tone was brusque and authoritative, suggesting the call was work-related rather than personal, but still she found his voice utterly mesmerising. And she didn’t have to feel uncomfortable about eavesdropping. Besides the odd word she could translate, she didn’t understand what he was saying.

      ‘Un moment,’ she heard him say, and translated that in her head: one moment.

      Then she heard, ‘Belt up,’ and it took her a few seconds to realise he’d spoken in English. Another few to register his silence.

      Suddenly her senses prickled. She jerked her gaze from the view outside her window to the man beside her and found his grey eyes fastened on her intently.