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.