Spanish Magnate, Red-Hot Revenge

Alejandro had steadfastly refused. Apparently Juan had decided to step up the campaign. The timing could not have been worse.

Alejandro’s first thought had been to go after Rebecca. But she’d had a head start and he’d had no idea where she’d gone. His calls to her mobile phone had gone unanswered. Two days later she’d finally picked up. From London. She’d been cool and aloof, and he’d lost his temper. How dared she expect an explanation? All she’d 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 had 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 that this woman he’d cared about had used him. He’d vowed never again to believe protestations of love from any female. So 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, 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 alcohol, 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. Everything that had happened to him, everything that had sliced his soul to shreds and left him hollow inside, could be traced to that moment when Rebecca Layton had left him. If not for her, it would have turned out so differently.