Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to speak calmly. ‘I hadn’t forgotten, Papá,’ he said slowly. ‘I just didn’t connect the dots.’ He frowned. ‘I get that the anniversary is a big deal, but Banco Osorio’s reputation is built on our discretion. We never talk to the media. So why go public now?’
‘It was my idea.’ His mother looked up at him, her face suddenly anxious. ‘Do you think I made a mistake, Luis?’
Damn right he did. He didn’t trust any journalists or photographers.
But he could hardly explain the reason for that to his parents.
His spine stiffened, his body tensing as memories filled his head. Memories of the night his brother had died.
He hadn’t even wanted to go to that party, only Bas had insisted and his mother had backed him up. She knew that Luis needed his big brother in order to socialise, and Bas needed Luis to rein in his excesses.
But the party had been so not his style. Wall-to-wall trust fund brats, drinking and whining about their parents.
Watching Bas work the party, Luis had felt one of his occasional twinges of envy. His brother was so charming. With Bas there he always felt like a spare part—particularly around women. Then, out of nowhere, he’d spotted her. And she had been looking at him.
Unlike all the other women in the room, she’d looked at ease with herself. Jeans, boots, hair loose to her shoulders. They had talked and talked, shouting at first, over the noise of the party, and then later more quietly out on the balcony. She had liked the same artists he did, hated parties, and had had an older sister who was much cooler than she was.
He had felt as though she knew him inside out.
It was only later that he’d realised why that was.
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.