‘Sí, of course, but I actually meant in any way. What if his politics differ completely to yours? What if he has a twisted sense of humour? Or wears his underpants on the outside of his clothes?’
‘Like a superhero? I’ve always had a bit of a Lois Lane fantasy, you know.’
His eyes hold a contemplative glimmer. ‘I am sure there are other ways to indulge that.’
‘Oh? Such as flying off a building?’
His lips flicker in a half-smile, but he’s not easily put off the conversation. ‘What if you hate him?’
Anxiety trickles down my spine. ‘I...won’t.’
His scepticism is obvious, and makes me feel about an inch tall. ‘Because your parents knew his parents?’
I swallow past a suddenly constricted throat. ‘Because I can’t hate him. I have to make it work.’
His silence speaks volumes.
‘You think I’m crazy.’
‘I think you obviously loved your parents very much.’
The observation is so unexpected it takes my breath away. I nod, looking away quickly.
‘Losing them must have been very difficult.’
Tears threaten. I swallow quickly, then reach for a piece of cheese. ‘That’s an understatement.’ And, even though I’m sure he knows what happened, even though I know Santiago will have done his research before coming to Marlsdoven, I say quietly, ‘Their car rolled while travelling in Africa. It was a freak accident—the first of its kind to happen to the tour company. My father died instantly, my mother two days later—just long enough for me to fly to her side and be there when she took her last breath. I’ll never forget what she looked like at the end. So pale and weak. It was awful.’
He says nothing, and I’m glad.
‘I always find it hard to hear from people like you, people who have their parents but choose not to be close to them. I would give everything I have for one more day with my mum and dad.’
His eyes hold mine and, even though I think he reads me easily, I have no idea what he’s thinking or feeling. ‘It is natural you would feel this way. You view parenthood through the veil of your own experiences.’
‘What are your parents like?’
There is tension in the harsh angles of his face. He’s quiet again, and I wonder if he’s going to ignore me, but then he offers me one curt word.
‘Different.’
‘To you?’
‘Yes, thank Christ.’ His short laugh lacks humour.
‘How so?’
He expels a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring. ‘Does it matter? They’re not in my life. I prefer not to think of them unless I really can’t avoid it.’
I reach for another piece of cheese simply to hide my face. I’m hurt. It’s such a cold rejection.
But he understands, because he sighs heavily. ‘Does it matter?’ he repeats, but I hear the plea in his words. He doesn’t want to talk about this, but he will, if I push him.
I flick a glance at him; his face gives little away. If I didn’t know him as well as I do, I would say that he’s the same ruthless billionaire I first met. But deep in his eyes I see sadness, and I ache for him then.
‘How about just the bullet points?’ I suggest as a compromise.
He stands abruptly, moving into the kitchen and bracing his palms on the counter, looking out to sea. Guilt washes over me. I’m being selfish by asking this of him.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, without moving. ‘I was just trying to learn more about you. But if you really don’t want to tell me...’