‘My parents can tell you nothing about me,’ he responds with a cool voice. ‘I haven’t seen them in years.’
I nod thoughtfully, looking for a way to change the subject.
To my surprise, Santiago continues, almost as if the words are being dragged from him. ‘My mother is a drug addict. Most of my childhood she was high, wasted or jonesing for her next fix. My father has been in and out of prison all his life. When he was home, he was aggressive and drunk. They fought constantly. He was abusive until I got big enough to fight back. Is this what you want to know?’ His eyes lance mine. I’m incapable of responding. ‘I left home when I was eighteen years old.’
I shiver at the brevity of his response—he’s compressed eighteen years’ worth of pain into a few spasmodic sentences but I feel the undercurrent of emotions beneath his words. ‘You haven’t seen them since?’
He turns to face me but looks right through me, the curl of derision on his lips reserved for his absent parents. ‘If only that were true,’ he drawls. ‘Stories of my success landed in the national papers. They came knocking then.’
I frown, not understanding.
‘For money,’ he clarifies cynically. ‘My mother figured I owed her after all the money she spent raising me.’
I draw in an indignant breath. It doesn’t sound like his mother had much of a hand in raising him at all.
‘I hope you said no,’ I mutter.
‘No, querida. I gave them money. I hoped they’d use it to help themselves, but they spent it on drugs, parties. I only hear from them now when they want something.’
It is a throwaway comment but it clarifies something important for me. I reach for my drink, my mind analysing this tiny piece of his puzzle. Santiago was a boy who saw his parents constantly intoxicated, ignoring him, refusing to give him the love that all children crave. They let him walk away as a teenager, and only tried to see him once he had money. Their interest in him was purely mercenary.
No one has ever loved him—not in a meaningful way—and he’s spent a lifetime pushing people away. He has surface-level relationships that revolve around sex because...because why? Because he’s afraid? I turn to look at him and see the beautiful strength of Santiago shimmering, showing me the boy he used to be, a boy who was rejected over and over again, who lived the kind of life I can only imagine. A mother who was always wasted or looking to score drugs. A father who was either abusive or in prison. No wonder he’s so messed up when it came to relationships. No wonder he doesn’t want children!
I’m moving to him before I can stop myself, anguish in my heart and sorrow on my face. He stiffens, his body language reserved and laced with rejection, but I push past that because I finally understand why he’s so determined to push me away.
I put my hand over his heart and stare into his eyes.
‘Santiago, I...’ But whatever I’d been about to say is constricted in my throat. My own doubts run through me, along with the reality of my life and my situation—the duties awaiting me once I leave Spain. I flash him a smile, but it feels strained. ‘I really should get back to the hotel, don’t you think?’
* * *
The stars twinkle overhead like diamonds in the sky and the yacht rocks from side to side, gently, beautifully, placating me into a sense of blissful relaxation.
I didn’t go back to the hotel after our conversation earlier. Instead, we swam off the back of the boat. The water was warm, the sun high overhead and afterwards I was starving. We finished the platter then shared a bowl of strawberries in the hot tub, before making love right here on the deck of the yacht, the sky our only witness, heaven above me and all around me.
‘You’re very good at this,’ I murmur, my eyes heavy.
‘At what?’
‘Seduction. The whole thing. Is this what it’s usually like for you?’
The moonlight slices like a silver blade across his handsome face. I push up onto my elbow so I can see him better.
‘I don’t have a “usual”,’ he says after a moment. I wonder at the erratic beating of my heart. Too fast one moment, too slow the next. ‘But I can say that my experience with you is unlike anything I’ve ever known.’
My heart speeds up way too fast. ‘Oh?’
‘For one thing, you are the only princess I have slept with.’ He moves closer. ‘And, for another, most women do not argue with me the way you do.’
My heart rolls and tumbles. Something hard is at my side again, painful and urgent. I swallow, dropping onto my back. Superficial relationships—that’s what he has. And even though I now understand why, it doesn’t make it any easier to cast myself—and what we’re doing—in that light.
‘I imagine women generally trip over themselves for your attention.’
‘Something like that.’ He leans over me, his eyes flicking my face. Does he see the jealousy tearing through me? ‘But not you.’
‘No,’ I agree, my admission a whisper in the night. ‘I wanted to hate you.’
‘I know.’ He traces my lips with the tip of his finger. ‘Because of the casino?’