Surrender To The Ruthless Billionaire

Much later.

After he’d slept with her.

After he’d learnt that she was a paparazza and after he’d accidentally let slip where Bas was going to be staying that night.

After her colleagues had chased his brother to his death.

Striving for calm, he looked up at his mother. ‘So when is this photo shoot happening?’

‘Next week. The day after you go back to California.’ Sofia bit her lip. ‘Your father wasn’t sure, but he’s worked so hard and I wanted to do something—’

He squeezed his mother’s hand gently. ‘It’s a lovely idea.’

He felt a fist of tension curl inside his stomach.

He couldn’t stay. It would be unbearable, and unfair to his parents, for he knew they would begin to talk wistfully of his moving back to Spain.

But how could he leave them to face some unscrupulous photographer alone? They were so otherworldly, so trusting.

‘I know you don’t like the press,’ his mother said tentatively. ‘But we’ll have final say over the photos. And your father made it clear that we won’t be answering personal questions.’

There was a knock on the door. It was Soledad.

‘The photographer is here, Señor Osorio. She’s waiting in the salón azul.’

‘Thank you, Soledad.’

Taking his mother’s hand, Luis helped her to her feet. ‘I feel bad about making such a fuss, Mamá. Let me come with you—please. I might even be some help. I deal with the media a lot back in California, so I’m pretty sure I can handle anything they throw at me.’

His words were still reverberating around his head as he followed his father into the salón azul and came face to face with Cristina.

* * *

He stared at her in silence, his heartbeat deafeningly loud, a thousand questions bombarding his brain.

Had he just looked at her clothes he might not have recognised her. Gone were the denim shorts and that insane transparent top. Instead she was wearing tailored navy trousers and a blue-and-white-striped matelot top. Only her hair was the same—still tumbling over her shoulders in a mass of glossy red waves.

Slowly the events of the night before began to whirl in front of his eyes, spinning over and over until finally they lined up alongside one another like fruit on a slot machine.

Drink. Bike. Kiss.

Jackpot.

His breath felt sharp in his throat as he realised that it had all been a set-up. Right from the moment he’d walked into that club he’d been played. Everything that had felt so random, so spontaneous—their eyes meeting in the mirror, her banging into him and spilling his drink, even her having that stupid can of oil in her bag—all of it had been planned.

Flipping open the folder his mother had given him, he read swiftly through her CV, his stomach knotting with fury both with her and himself.

What was wrong with him? After what had happened with Bas did he really need another opportunity to prove how naive and complacent he was?

Apparently he did.

Apparently he had already forgotten that a beautiful woman always had an agenda of her own.

He was on the verge of striding across the room and dragging her lying, manipulative little body out of the building, when his mother stepped past him, smiling.

‘You must be Cristina. Welcome to our home.’

* * *

Sliding to her feet, Cristina held out her hand.

Her editor, Grace, had warned her that the Osorios were old-school and preferred to keep things on a formal footing, so she’d tried to dress in a way that implied she was professional, yet creative. But her heart was still beating like a startled horse as the beautiful grey-haired woman crossed the room towards her.

‘Señora Osorio. Thank you so much for meeting me today.’

‘Please...’ Sofia smiled. ‘You must call me Sofia. This is my husband, Agusto, and my son, Luis. He’s over on a visit from California. Flew in this morning.’

Cristina shook Agusto’s hand, and then, finally registering the second, taller, darker-haired man, she turned to Luis.

She smiled. Or tried to. But her lips wouldn’t work. Her whole body seemed to be numb. Around her the room was dissolving into a mist the same grey as his eyes—Lucho’s eyes—as silently she racked what was left of her brain for some kind of practical response to what was happening.

Only Grace’s notes had said nothing about coming face to face with your one-night stand. Or finding out he was the son of the people you were meant to photograph.

As he held out his hand she took it mechanically.

It couldn’t be.

Except that it was, and suddenly she thought she might faint.

Sofia was staring at her. ‘Are you all right, my dear? You look pale.’

‘I’m fine.’ She smiled stiffly. ‘Too much coffee, I’m afraid. I should probably try decaffeinated, but it’s so disgusting. I prefer a simple espresso—Arabica bean, black, no sugar.’

Agusto beamed at her. ‘Ah, a coffee connoisseur. I’m trying to cut back too, but it’s hard when the alternatives are such poor substitutes.’

Cristina nodded, and then, sensing Luis’s cool, dismissive gaze, she felt a rush of anger. ‘I agree. I hate things that aren’t what they appear to be.’

A warning flag of anger flared in his grey eyes, but she didn’t care.

Lucho—Luis—whatever he called himself—was a phony, happy to offer different versions of himself in order to get what he wanted.

In this case her.

He was just like her father—and she should have known that.

A familiar feeling of doubt and panic was slipping over her skin. She felt her eyes tugged towards the door and escape.

Her pulse jerked. Escape from what? She had come here to put the past behind her. It was why she’d fought so hard to win this assignment. To make the world, and more particularly her father, sit up and take notice. And that was what would happen when she sent him a copy of the magazine with her byline beneath the photographs. Lifting her chin, she smiled at Agusto.