Surrender To The Ruthless Billionaire

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?’

Cristina stared at him in silence.

She had hesitated before coming over. He’d been so patronising and rude to her. But then she had spilled his drink over him, so maybe that made them equal. It was a pretty lame argument, but before her brain had had a chance to object she had already been walking across the square.

‘I didn’t plan on throwing your drink over you—as you yourself pointed out. Now, do you want my help or not?’

Luis stared at her for a long moment. Her voice was husky—distractingly so. Was this some kind of trick? Or a joke.

‘You want to help me?’ he said slowly. ‘I’m—’

‘Touched?’ she suggested. ‘Grateful? Pleased?’

‘Actually, I was going to say surprised. And a little nervous maybe.’ He glanced over at her shoes.

Her mouth twitched. ‘Well, I probably would have broken my leg or my neck if you hadn’t caught me, so I guess it’s only fair.’

‘It’s more than fair. It’s magnanimous, given that I not only walked into you but then failed to apologise for doing so.’ His grey eyes were level with hers. ‘I’m sorry. I was the one who wasn’t looking where I was going.’

As his gaze held hers Cristina felt her heart thud against her ribs. Even though it had been a little awkward, she liked that he had picked up where they had left off. Liked that he was honest enough to admit that he’d been wrong.

And, although he might not say much, she liked that he meant what he said.

‘Don’t you need to get home?’

Home. The word made her breathe in sharply. She shrugged.

‘Right now, I don’t really have one. I’m just travelling.’

Feeling suddenly horribly self-conscious, she glanced down at the Ducati.

‘I don’t know this model, but I’m almost sure you don’t need a toolkit to fix it.’

Watching his mouth turn up at one corner, she felt a rush of heat tighten her skin. It was impossible not to imagine what he would look like if he smiled properly, or what it would be like to be kissed by that mouth.

Feeling his gaze on her face, and terrified that her thoughts might somehow be visible, she frowned. ‘Did I say something funny?’

‘No, I’m just tweaking my mental picture of you. I had you down as a party girl, not a back-warmer.’

She took a step towards him, her eyes narrowing. ‘Is that right? Then maybe what you need isn’t a toolkit but a little imagination. Or perhaps a little less prejudice. Women ride motorbikes on their own these days, and guess what? They don’t even do it side saddle.’

Meeting her gaze, Luis felt something soft and dark stir inside in his blood as she took another step closer and touched the fuel tank between his legs.

He sighed. ‘You’re enjoying this.’

She nodded. ‘A little. You were pretty mean to me.’

Watching her fingers stroke the warm gleaming metal, he felt his stomach tense.

‘Is this some kind of hands-on healing?’

Her fingers stilled and she cleared her throat. ‘Your bike is really clean. In comparison to your boots, I mean.’

They both looked down at his scuffed and dust-covered boots.

Despite himself, he was interested now. ‘Okay, Nancy Drew, I got my bike washed this evening. And, no, it’s not something I do very often but I have done it historically and I’ve never had a problem. And besides, it worked fine when I rode over here tonight.’

‘Was it washed by hand?’

He frowned. ‘No—pressure-wash.’

She nodded. ‘Okay...well, I could be wrong, but water might have got into the ignition switch. It probably just needs a spritz of some kind of water-displacer.’

He stared at her, his pulse jumping with excitement, his hands tightening in a gesture of pure possession. He wanted her as he had never wanted any woman. Only the fact that, however deserted it appeared to be, they were still in a public place stopped him from reaching out and—

Stomach clenching with desire, he pushed aside an image of her splayed against the gas tank and said dryly, ‘That’s good to know. But as I don’t have any—’

He broke off in disbelief as she opened up her handbag and pulled out a small spray can.

‘I know how this must look, but I don’t normally carry this stuff around with me,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s just that the window in my hotel room is so squeaky that I can’t sleep. Anyway, I complained, and when I was going out this evening the guy in reception gave me this.’ She held out the can. ‘It’s worth a try.’

Luis wanted to ask her to rewind and repeat everything she’d just said, but instead he took the can and sprayed the ignition switch. He waited a moment, and then turned the key. He grinned as the snarl of the engine punctured the silence in the square.

Cristina blinked, and then smiled too. It was impossible not to. For, even though it was a dark and starless night, his smile made her feel as though the sun was rising and it was a new dawn.

She felt her heart skip a beat.

No wonder she’d tripped earlier.

Since finding Dominic, her on-off boyfriend of several months, in bed with her flatmate, she’d sworn off men. But there were men and then there was fate.

And surely that was why she had spilt his drink over him. Why his bike had failed to start. And why she’d ended up booking the worst hotel in Segovia, possibly in Spain.

‘Thank you.’

He was holding out the can to her.

‘It’s okay. You can keep it.’

‘But your window—’

‘It’s fine. I probably won’t sleep tonight anyway. My mattress is really hard, and I think it’s going to storm later. It’s so hot and humid now.’

Luis felt his body tense. Hard. Hot. Humid. Why did every word she said make him think of sex?

Gritting his teeth, he ignored the blood pounding through his veins and forced himself to speak. ‘So how did you know what was wrong?’

Cristina hesitated. Good question. However, the completely truthful answer was not one she was about to share with a perfect stranger—no matter how tall, dark and handsome.

It would take too long, and—her skin tightened over her cheekbones—it would be too humiliating to reveal the mend-and-make-do life she and her mother had been forced to live for so many years. But, just as she always did, she would tell him one truth.

Her eyes met his. ‘My dad had a motorbike. Not like this one, but I took it over for a bit and I got to hang out with bikers—and they can’t shut up about ignitions and sparks.’

She winced inside. What was she doing, rambling on about bikers as if she was some kind of Hell’s Angel?

‘Anyway...’ She glanced up at the sky. ‘I should probably be going. It’s late, and I want to get back to my hotel before it starts to rain.’

That wasn’t true. The thought of her bedroom, dark and quiet, filled her with dread. She didn’t want to be alone. But tonight was not the night to mess up, and how could taking this handsome stranger back to her room be anything but a risk not worth taking?

She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye,’ she said woodenly.

He took it, and at the touch of his fingers heat flared inside of her—and something bittersweet. A sense of what might have been if they’d met at some other time.

‘Let me give you a lift. Please. It’s the least I can do.’

His voice jolted her back to reality and, swallowing down the ache in her throat, she shook her head.

‘No, really—it’s fine.’ She pointed at one of the side streets off the square. ‘My hotel is literally down there.’

He looked at her for the longest time, then frowned.

‘I don’t even know your name.’ He sounded surprised.

‘It’s Cristina.’

He nodded. ‘Lucho.’

There was a low rumble of thunder overhead, and as they both looked up at the sky she took a deep breath. ‘You should go or you’ll get soaked.’

He nodded and dropped her hand, and quickly, before she could change her mind, she turned and began to walk away as the rain started to fall.

At first it was soft and light like tears but then almost immediately it changed. Heavy, fat droplets hammered her head and shoulders so that in seconds she was soaked and the pavement was awash with water.

Don’t look back, she told herself. This wasn’t meant to be. Just keep walking.

But she couldn’t just walk away. And, really, what difference would it make if she took one last look?

She turned, and suddenly her heart was hammering louder than the rain.

He was still sitting there, watching her, rain running down his face.

Cristina shivered.

He was waiting.

For her.

For a moment she hesitated.

Don’t—don’t go back. It’s just because you’re nervous about tomorrow, and when you get nervous you make stupid decisions.

Her heart kicked against her ribs, and then she walking, running back across the square, and what she was feeling wasn’t nervousness but relief. And then he was pulling her against him, his mouth seeking hers, his hands sliding beneath the soaking fabric of her top.

They left the bike where it was, and ran to her hotel. Ignoring the startled glance of the receptionist, they stumbled up the stairs and into her bedroom.

He kicked the door shut and, bending his head, he took her mouth again. Rising on tiptoe, she kissed him back, her fingers tugging at his T-shirt, her mouth meeting his with urgent, frantic hunger.

‘No—’ Her eyes darkened with frustration as he broke away from her mouth and yanked his T-shirt over his head.

He was so gorgeous—all sleek, hard muscle and smooth skin, and a line of soft dark hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans.

Reaching out, she ran her fingers lightly over the hair, watching his muscles tremble, and then she breathed in sharply as he took hold of the zip on the front of her jacket and slowly pulled it down.

Leaning forward, he rested his forehead against hers, the dark grey of his eyes almost black. For an endless moment he stared at her, his breathing ragged, and then, lowering his mouth, he began to kiss her again—lips, neck, throat—each kiss leading on to the next one and the next.

As he buried his face against her neck she moaned softly, sliding her fingers up through his hair. Her head was spinning...heat was slipping over her skin as his hands slid under her top, under the bandeau she was wearing underneath and over her damp breasts, his thumbs caressing the hard peaks of her nipples.

For the second time that night her legs crumpled beneath her, and her fingers tightened in his hair.

She heard a hiss as he breathed in sharply, and then he was tugging down her shorts, lifting her up, his hands curving beneath her as he pinned her against the door with his body. She shifted against him, panting, seeking relief for the ache building inside her, until suddenly she couldn’t bear it any longer and her fingers clawed at his belt and zip, pushing his jeans down.

‘Wait...’ he muttered, and she felt her breath catch as he fumbled in his pocket and slid a condom on.

For a moment he held her gaze, and then, groaning, he forced her mouth back to his. Pushing aside the fabric of her panties, he thrust inside her. She arched against him, her nails biting into his arms, and then her muscles clenched and she cried out with pleasure as his body shuddered and slammed into her.

CHAPTER TWO

EVEN BEFORE SHE opened her eyes Cristina knew that Lucho was gone.

Shifting down beneath the duvet, she gazed up at the ceiling. From the sharpness of the light creeping beneath the curtains, and the buzz of traffic in the street, she guessed that it was probably time to get up.

And she would get up—only not just yet. For getting up would mean having to accept that what had happened last night was over, and she wasn’t quite ready to do that.

Closing her eyes, she rolled on to her side.

Her body felt pleasurably blurred at the edges, and her lips were still tingling. Lifting a hand to her mouth, she touched it lightly, feeling her lips curve into a smile as she remembered everything.

A wild, breathless happiness was swirling inside her. She could hardly believe that any of it was real. Meeting him in the club, spilling his drink, following him outside and his bike refusing to start—

Groaning, her cheeks suddenly burning, she buried her face in the pillow, remembering how she’d pulled that can from her handbag...

Her pulse stumbled.

And then the storm had started. Thunder—and rain like a monsoon.

He’d been soaked to the skin.

But he had waited for her.

The heat on her cheeks spread as another memory came to her. Of her body anchored to his...and of his dark, steady gaze watching her until the moment he’d buried his beautiful face in her neck and shuddered deep inside her.

She shivered, remembering, her thighs pressing together, pressing against the warmth and the tenderness there.

That had been the first time...

Later, after she’d lost count of the number of times and ways they’d made love, he’d pulled her against him, his eyes still dark, but soft with sleep, and kissed her gently.

She bit her lip. His intensity, his stamina, his skill hadn’t surprised her. But that kiss had. Or maybe her response to it was what was so surprising.

She’d never felt like that with any man before. She had wanted him so badly. Her need for him had been fierce and absolute and unstoppable—like a river breaking its banks. And he had needed her too. She had never felt so wanted, so desired.

Opening her eyes, she bit her lip. Or so certain.

Normally, even the thought of intimacy with a man triggered a loop of self-doubt and distrust inside her head, so that she was already questioning her behaviour and possible responses before anything had even happened.

Her mouth twisted. And for good reason.

She’d only had a handful of relationships, but they’d all ended the same way—with whatever boyfriend it had been telling her that she was too difficult, too demanding. In other words nothing like the carefree young woman they had fallen for.

After what had happened with Dominic she’d given up. It was easier that way. Easier and less exhausting than caring about someone only to be inevitably let down.

And she’d stuck to her pledge.

Until last night.

But she didn’t regret it. Lucho had been a great lover. He had made her feel desirable and sexy. Okay, he hadn’t said much, but she was glad about that for last night she hadn’t wanted to talk.

And if they had talked she would have been busy now picking over his words.

Rolling over, she pulled one of the pillows towards her and hugged it against her stomach, the faint lingering scent of his cologne making her think of night and heat and rain about to fall.

Lucho hadn’t needed to talk. To big himself up. Why would he?

He was gorgeous. All lustrous golden skin and lean muscle, and those dark eyes that had seemed to swallow her whole.

And she liked the fact that he had been happy to communicate through touch, his fingers writing poems on her body, his warm breath against her throat a wordless promise of infinite pleasure. His silence had nothing to do with laziness or shyness, but contentment. He was one of those rare people who was happy living in the moment, without expectations or regrets and with nothing to prove.

Unlike her.

Picturing the remote expression on her father’s face, the distance in his eyes, she curled her fingers into the pillow. He had not only managed to deny her existence, he’d replaced her too.

Her stomach flip-flopped as beneath her pillow the alarm buzzed on her phone. Reaching round, she switched it off, glancing at the screen. There were several missed calls, all from a number she didn’t recognise, and for one brief moment she considered calling back.

But now was not a good time. For a start, she needed to shower, pack and get dressed, and she also wanted to check in with her boss. She trusted Grace—not just professionally, but on a personal level too—and she wanted to see if she had any last-minute advice for her.

And anybody who mattered would call her back if it was important. Not that whatever he or she was calling about was likely to be life-changing.

Rolling out of bed, she grabbed a towel and walked into the bathroom.

* * *

In another bathroom, on the other side of the city, Luis stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around the taut muscles of his stomach. Ignoring the mirror on the wall, he ran his hands slowly through his hair, smoothing the tangles with his fingers.

He released a slow breath, remembering how just hours earlier Cristina had done more or less the same thing. Except her hands had been urgent, frantic. Almost as frantic as her mouth.

His lungs emptied slowly. And she’d tasted so sweet...sweeter than molasses.

It was supposed to have been just sex—a carnal union designed to delight and, more importantly, to distract him from his thoughts. Except that now he couldn’t stop thinking about her. And even though he knew she was in a hotel on the other side of the city, her presence was so strong in his memory that he kept turning to look at the bed, expecting to see her there.

Watching Cristina in the club had been one of the most confusing experiences of his life. She had dazzled him. Even just looking at her in those heels and that top, those shorts, had made a pulse of excitement beat beneath his skin. He had wanted her—and yet he’d almost hated her too. For she was too beautiful, too sexy, and an attention-seeker to boot. In other words, everything he loathed in a woman.

And so he’d got up to leave—

Gazing at his reflection, he felt his face grow warm.

She might have spilt his drink but she’d been right. It had been his fault. He’d been so desperate to leave that he hadn’t been thinking about anything but getting as far away as possible from her gravitational pull. He certainly hadn’t been looking where he was going.

Breathing in sharply, he ran his hand slowly over the stubble grazing his face.

Only instead of apologising he’d acted like a jerk.

His heartbeat slowed. He had lost her then, and that might have been the end of it—would have been if his bike hadn’t refused to start.

He stared at his reflection, steadying himself, pushing aside the thought of what might have happened, or rather not happened, if his bike hadn’t been washed or she hadn’t come outside.

But she had, and she’d rescued him.

He swallowed.

Rescued him and then kissed him.

Or were they one and the same thing?

Glancing out of the window, he felt his heartbeat accelerate. He was naturally cautious by nature, but even if he hadn’t been life had taught him in the most brutal and devastating way not to act impulsively. He didn’t do spur-of-the-moment or random.

Yet last night he’d done both. Only instead of regret or shame he could feel a kind a radiance inside his chest. It took him a moment to realise that it was happiness, and that for the first time since stepping off the plane in Athens he was ready to face his past.

Picking up his phone, he punched in a number.

‘Carlos. It’s Luis...’

Having settled his bill, he made the hotel’s owner day by giving him his bike, and then, having finally extricated himself from the man’s grateful and disbelieving embrace, he strolled down the street towards the peluquería.

It was just opening, and the old guy who ran it seemed slightly astonished to have a customer so early, but he was happy to do what Luis asked.

Thirty minutes later Luis stepped out into the sunshine, his dark hair cropped close to the head, his face smooth. Catching sight of himself in the window, he felt a flicker of panic. He looked so young. Almost as though the last five years had never happened.

Only so much had happened. So much he could never change. He ran his hand slowly over his jawline. The last time he’d been clean shaven had been for his brother’s funeral.

It hadn’t been a conscious decision to stop shaving—he’d just found it so hard to look at himself as life—his life—had carried on.

He had set up a hedge fund, a lucrative, global business. And he’d bought a house—several, actually. He’d even had the occasional girlfriend.

But none of it had mattered. None of it had felt real. Without Bas there to tease him about his tie, or drag him out at the end of a busy week, he’d felt empty, hollow.

Until last night.

With Cristina.

Picturing her beneath him, her eyes darkening as he’d thumbed her legs apart, he almost lost his footing on the pavement. Her passion had been primal; it had blindsided him, left him grappling for breath and self-control.

Over his shoulder, he felt rather than saw a dark saloon car peel away from the opposite side of the square and head towards him. For a moment he carried on walking, and then, slowing down, he turned and waited as the car drew up beside him.

Before it had even come to a stop a thickset man wearing a dark grey suit stepped out onto the pavement and pulled open the back passenger door. Luis nodded at him and climbed inside.

‘Thanks for picking me up, Carlos,’ he said softly, turning his head towards the window. ‘Now, let’s go home.’

The journey took less time than he remembered, but it was still long enough for his stomach to turn over and inside out. As the car passed slowly beneath a large stone arch and into a courtyard he had a familiar glimpse of yellowed walls and tall windows, and then he was stepping onto the cobbled paving.

Trying to rein in the beating of his heart, Luis made his way through his childhood home. It might be five years since he’d been back, but he knew exactly where his parents would be waiting.