‘Nobody is telling my parents anything because there’s no need. You’re not leaving.’
Cristina stared at him. Her anger felt like a living thing, pulsing beneath her skin. She’d always known he was a control freak. Not just because of the way he’d insisted on overseeing the photo shoot, but because men like Luis and her father could only lead double lives by micro-managing every detail.
So, even though he’d wanted her to leave before she’d even arrived, it had to be on his terms.
Her face felt hot as she lifted her gaze to his face. ‘Yes, I am.’
She didn’t want to leave. But it was better that she went now. Better to leave with what was left of her pride intact, given that Luis’s opinion wasn’t about to change and any reprieve would only be temporary. If she left now maybe she might be able to persuade Grace that it had been her choice—for what was the alternative? Being made to feel like a hopeless fraud until someone—probably Grace—finally put her out of her misery?
‘I’m going home.’
He stared at her intently. ‘I thought you didn’t have a home.’
She frowned, caught off guard by his words. How had he remembered what she’d said that night?
‘I—I don’t.’ Her heart gave a jolt as she pictured her mother’s rooms in the staff quarters where she worked. ‘But I’d rather sleep on a park bench than stay here.’
Her voice sounded too high—and thin, as though it were about to fray—and she glanced away, furiously fighting the tears that were building in her throat.
‘Please don’t do that,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t want you to do that.’
‘I don’t care what you want,’ she snapped.
Luis took a deep breath. His chest felt tight as his gaze dropped from her small, pale face to the bag she was holding in front of herself like a buffer between them. ‘Do you care that I’m sorry?’
Watching the flicker of response in her caramel-coloured eyes, he felt his heart beat faster.
She shook her head. ‘Sorry for what? Sorry that I heard what you said? Or sorry you didn’t get a chance to prove to your parents what a worthless person I am?’
Something in her voice made his heart clench inside his chest. His hands curled involuntarily. Her pain sounded old, and he wondered where it came from. And why did it matter to him?
His eyes drifted over her face. He’d known beautiful women all his life. Some were so confident of their beauty that they expected to be fought over. But Cristina was different—exceptional, really. Her beauty was more than just an aesthetically pleasing arrangement of features. In part it was her vulnerability, in part her pride.
It was a pride he knew he had wounded—not intentionally but carelessly. Gazing at her, he felt his heartbeat accelerate as he saw the mix of doubt and defiance in her light brown eyes.
He took a breath. ‘Please don’t leave. I am sorry—sorry for what I said and for upsetting you.’
Cristina looked up at him warily. He sounded sincere, and with his dark eyes softer than she had ever seen them it would have been easy to accept his apology. Her stomach muscles clenched. But it didn’t really change anything. He was apologising for his thoughtlessness, not his actual opinion, and it still hurt that he thought so little of her photographs.
‘You’re entitled to your point of view,’ she said stiffly.
He stared at her pensively. ‘No, I’m not.’
Before she could respond, he sighed.
‘Whatever I said to my mother, I’m not entitled to any opinions on your photographs. Especially not these.’
He lifted his hand, and for the first time she registered that he was holding her portfolio.
She looked at him, her eyes wide and wary. ‘You haven’t looked at them.’
It wasn’t a question but he shook his head anyway.
‘No. I spoke to Grace, but I didn’t look at any of your work.’ He hesitated. ‘Until just a moment ago.’
She head was suddenly swimming with fear, her hands clammy. She wanted to snatch the portfolio from his fingers, tear the photos into tiny shreds—anything but hear him try and pretend that he hadn’t meant what he said.
‘I don’t care. I don’t want to know—I don’t need to know,’ she said quickly, panic hoarsening her voice.