‘You are not the only one with security guards.’
I frown. ‘You have security?’
He dips his head. ‘Particularly when I’m at the casino.’
That makes sense. His net worth is str
atospheric, which must put him at risk. I just can’t imagine anyone targeting Santiago—more fool them.
‘And they spied on me?’
His lips curl in a sardonic smile. ‘Actually, I advised them you were here so that they could ensure your safety.’ A hand lifts, his fingers lightly brushing my cheek, robbing me of breath.
Danger sirens blare.
‘It’s a precaution we take with any high-value guest.’
My heart twists. I tell myself to step backward, yet stay exactly where I am.
‘The point of this trip was to fly beneath the radar.’ My voice is husky. ‘Hence I travelled on a commercial airline, booked an ordinary room...’
‘But you are not ordinary, Princesa, no matter how you try to behave. And I do not want the publicity that would result if harm were to befall you in my casino.’
Disappointment sears me, as well as a sense of foolishness at my own expectations. Of course this wasn’t about me. He was only looking after his business and its reputation. ‘You don’t need to worry about me.’ I belatedly take a step back, needing space.
He lifts his shoulders. ‘As I said, it’s a precaution we take with any prominent visitor.’
‘Nonetheless, it’s not necessary.’
He shrugs, and I know there’s nothing I can say that will change his mind. ‘They’re discreet. You didn’t notice them today, did you?’
I hadn’t, but that’s not the point. I can sense the futility in arguing with him, though. Besides, he’s right. If he wants to waste resources having his own security guards trail me around the venue, then that’s his decision.
‘Fine.’ I move into the kitchen, tapping my fingers on the bench top. ‘Would you like a drink?’
The question is curt, my temper at risk of fraying, as it seems to be almost all the time that I’m around Santiago. I can’t explain why I feel so deflated suddenly.
His face look shows a hint of mocking amusement. ‘I can’t have you waiting on me, Princesa. What would your people say?’
I turn to the fridge. ‘Contrary to what you might think, I’m perfectly capable of pouring a glass of wine.’
‘I wasn’t sure if you drink,’ he murmured, coming jarringly close, swinging the fridge door open and removing a dark-green bottle.
‘Only when I’m not working.’
His eyes probe mine and I realise—too late—what I’ve just admitted. That tonight isn’t about work.
My fingers twist at my sides but he doesn’t make a big deal of it, simply side-steps me to remove a couple of tall-stemmed glasses from the cupboard. He pours a little into each, a very reserved amount, before handing one of the glasses over.
‘What is it?’
‘A Godello.’
I lift the glass to my nose first, breathing in the aromas before taking a sip, closing my eyes to fully appreciate the floral explosion, perfectly balanced with tartness and acidity.
‘It’s gorgeous.’
His laugh is hoarse. ‘I am glad you like it. I have just enough grapes to make a small vintage each year. This is the two thousand and twelve.’