He didn’t care about the drink. Or his T-shirt. Or the fact that she had a boyfriend. He definitely didn’t care about that, he thought angrily. So why, then, did he feel so wound up?
And then, catching sight of the phone in her hand, he felt a warm surge of relief. She’d been taking a selfie—that was why she’d bumped into him.
Wasn’t it enough that every man in the room was drooling all over her? Did she have to drool over herself too?
Reaching around her, he snatched up his leather jacket from the bar stool.
‘I don’t want another drink,’ he said quietly. ‘But just do yourself and everyone else a favour and look where you’re going next time you come over all narcissistic.’
She gazed up at him as if she couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. Probably she couldn’t. With lips and legs like hers she’d almost certainly never had to take responsibility for her actions before.
Her mouth curled. ‘I was looking where I was going because I was standing still. You walked into me.’
It was true. He had walked into her. But somehow the knowledge that he was technically in the wrong just antagonised him more.
His voice cold, and clipped with a fury he didn’t fully understand, he shrugged his arms into his jacket. ‘You were taking a selfie in the middle of a nightclub. You weren’t concentrating. And that’s how accidents happen.’
He watched her eyes darken to the colour of burnt sugar, her face stiffening with shock and then a fury that doused his.
‘Well, don’t worry—next time I spill a drink all over you I’ll make sure I do it on purpose.’
She stared at him fiercely and then, lifting her chin, turned and stalked off towards the dance floor.
For a fraction of a second Luis stared after her, his heart ricocheting inside his chest. Then, biting down on the frustration rising inside his throat, he turned and strode towards the stairs.
*
Out in the street, he felt his fury fade in the still night air. Gazing up at the dark sky, he breathed out slowly.
He hated conflict of any kind. Rarely lost his temper or provoked a fight. Yet tonight he’d almost done both—and with a woman. Gritting his teeth, he cursed softly. He’d been obnoxious and childish—and frankly he’d deserved everything she’d thrown at him and more.
In fact he was lucky she hadn’t thrown her own drink at him too, he thought savagely as he began walking across the square.
The pavements were empty now, almost like a ghost town, and he felt a wrench of loneliness as he unlocked his bike. He missed Bas so much. Living in California, it was easy to rationalise his brother’s absence from his life. All he had to do was pretend that back in Spain Bas was doing just what he always did—teasing their mother, eating empanadas by the plateful, partying until dawn with his friends.
Here, though, it was impossible to pretend.
And it would be even harder tomorrow—he glanced at his watch and frowned—or rather later today, with his parents. His stomach twisted with guilt and grief, and suddenly he knew that he had to move.
Straddling the bike, he pushed the key clumsily into the ignition. It would better once he was moving. On the open road, with the sound of the engine mingling with the beat of his blood, his feelings would spin away into the darkness like the dirt beneath his wheels.
He eased the bike forward and turned the ignition. Pulling in the clutch, he thumbed the starter button—and then frowned as the engine sputtered and died.
Damn it!
He tried again, and then again, over and over, feeling a tic of irritation start to pulse in his cheek. What the hell was wrong with the damn thing? It made no sense.
Trying to stay calm, he leaned forward and took a deep breath. He would check the blindingly obvious. And then…
And then nothing. For anything else he’d need pliers, a wrench, a screwdriver—
‘Do you need any help?’
He sensed movement behind him and, turning, he felt his breath catch in his throat as she took a step closer.
She was watching him warily. Her auburn hair was now tied up into some kind of messy ponytail and she’d changed her shoes. Glancing at the black military-style boots on her feet, he almost smiled. Good job she hadn’t been wearing those earlier or he might not have made it out the club.
He shook his head. ‘Not sure you can,’ he said carefully. Holding her gaze, he gestured towards the high-heeled shoes dangling from her hand. ‘Unless those transform into some kind of toolkit. Or are you planning on throwing them at me too?’