Surrender To The Ruthless Billionaire

But he was wrong.

As he walked into the sitting room he frowned. It was empty.

It looked the same, though. He stared round dazedly, barely taking in the opulent interior with its beautiful tapestries and paintings by Goya and Velázquez. Only where were his mother and father?

Behind him a door opened softly and, turning, Luis felt his heart squeeze with a mixture of love, respect and dismay as a silver-haired man walked into the room.

His father, Agusto Osorio, might be nearly seventy, but he was still handsome. And his dark, austere grey eyes and upright bearing were a reminder that he was a man who was used to demanding and getting his way.

But although he was still tall, and immaculately dressed, there was a hesitancy and unsteadiness in his manner that hadn’t been there before. Unable to watch his father’s faltering progress any more, Luis crossed the faded Persian carpet and embraced the older man gently.

‘Papá!’

His heart gave a lurch as he hugged the older man. His father smelt of shaving soap, and that old-fashioned cologne his mother loved, and there was a reassuring familiarity to his father’s shoulders. As a child he’d loved to be carried up there; for a long time it had been the only way he could be taller than Bas.

His chest tightened as Agusto released him and smiled.

‘We were expecting you earlier. Your mother was worried until she got your text. She misses you. We both do,’ he said simply. ‘It’s good to have you home, Luis, even if it is just for a week.’

Trying to suppress the ache inside his chest, Luis nodded. ‘It’s good to be back, Papá. And I’m sorry I can’t stay longer—’

His father patted him on the arm. ‘We understand.’ He gestured towards a trio of sofas and armchairs. ‘Sit! I’ll ring for coffee.’

Watching his father’s face crease in pain as he turned and tentatively lowered himself into one of the chairs, Luis held his breath. As a child, Agusto had seemed to him like one of the mythical knights in the books he’d used to read to his sons. A man of honour, vital, inviolate and invincible.

Now, though, his father looked frail and tried—smaller, somehow. Only it wasn’t just the passing of time that had caused these changes, but the pain and grief of losing his oldest son.

He felt another stab of guilt and, glancing past him, said quickly, ‘Where’s Mamá? Should I go and find her?’

‘You don’t have to, mi cariño, I’m right here.’

Across the room, his mother Sofia was standing in the doorway. Before he’d even realised what he was doing he was on his feet and moving. As they embraced he felt a tug at his heart, for he could sense that she had changed more than his father. Not physically—she was still beautiful, slim and elegant—but her sadness was palpable. It seemed to seep into him so that he was suddenly struggling to breathe.

‘Luis, you look so well. Doesn’t he, Agusto?’ She turned to her husband.

Smiling, Agusto nodded as the housekeeper arrived with a tray. ‘Yes, he does, querida! Ah, here’s the coffee. Gracias, Soledad. Just there will be perfect.’

Luis waited until they were alone again, and then, turning towards his mother, he smiled. ‘So, how many people are coming to the party?’

‘Sixty, of course—that’s why we had to arrange it for tomorrow. It was the only date everyone could make.’

Picking up his coffee cup, Agusto cleared his throat. ‘But we can always squeeze in one more if there’s someone special you’d like to bring along.’ He glanced over at his son. ‘We did wonder if you might bring Amy.’

Shaking his head, Luis met his father’s gaze with resignation. ‘That’s not going to happen, Papá. I haven’t dated her in about a year. We’re friends now—that’s all.’

His father frowned at him. ‘But you’re seeing someone else?’

‘No one serious.’

He held his breath, waiting for the conversation to continue as he knew it surely would. His parents had met at his mother’s quincañera. It had been love at first sight, and they had both believed—assumed, really—that their sons would find a partner just as effortlessly.

Only with Bas gone all their attention was now focused on him, so that every conversation, no matter how it started, always seemed to turn inevitably to Luis’s relationships. But he didn’t—couldn’t—trust his feelings. Believing that someone loved and desired you was stupid and dangerous. It lulled you into a dream state, made you careless.

And he was never careless. Never took risks. In fact he’d spent most of his adult life doing his damnedest to minimise risk, doing everything in his power to control the world around him. It was one of the reasons why he’d set up his business. Hedge funds were by definition speculative. However, by using algorithms to calculate the optimal probability of executing a profitable trade, he’d eliminated not just fear and greed but risk. Risks that were not worth taking—

His body stilled, his breath catching in his throat as he pictured Cristina, with those ludicrous heels dangling from her hand, as he’d kissed her up the stairs to her hotel room.

She’d been a risk worth taking.

He felt suddenly exhilarated, and a flurry of anticipation rose up inside him.

A risk worth repeating.

He would call her hotel after lunch.

Feeling calmer, he glanced over at his father. ‘Life is different in California, Papá. The people are different there. They don’t care about—’

‘About what? Love? Commitment? Family?’

He could hear the confusion in his father’s voice, and the hurt. About everything that was left unspoken. The past. His brother. And, of course, the family business.

His father was coming up to seventy. He wanted to retire and he wanted Luis to take over from him. But he wasn’t going to. He couldn’t step in for his brother. Sit at the head of that massive oak table in the boardroom. It just wasn’t going to happen.

Glancing at his father expression of frustration and his mother’s stricken face, he wanted to apologise for letting them down. For not being the son they deserved. But to do so would mean having to explain his reasons, and that would mean losing their love for ever.

His father shook his head. ‘Thank goodness we’re only being photographed for this article,’ he muttered. ‘I can’t imagine how I’d explain the fact that my only son and heir has turned his back on his birthright.’

Luis felt his skin tighten across his face, his brain locking on to the one word in his father’s remark that was designed to trigger alarm bells in his head.

‘What article?’

Sofia leaned forward. ‘It’s for a magazine. We’re meeting the photographer before lunch, just to have a little chat. I have her CV here...’

Reaching across, she picked up a folder from the table, and handed it to Luis.

He didn’t open it.

‘But what’s the point of the article?’ He could feel his hackles rising.

His father raised an eyebrow. ‘I know you’re not interested in the family business, Luis. But I would have thought that even you might have remembered it’s the bank’s four hundredth anniversary this year.’

Luis cursed silently. Of course it was. Agusto had mentioned it to him several months back. Believing it to be some kind of entrée into discussing his return to the family business, he’d pushed it away.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to speak calmly. ‘I hadn’t forgotten, Papá,’ he said slowly. ‘I just didn’t connect the dots.’ He frowned. ‘I get that the anniversary is a big deal, but Banco Osorio’s reputation is built on our discretion. We never talk to the media. So why go public now?’

‘It was my idea.’ His mother looked up at him, her face suddenly anxious. ‘Do you think I made a mistake, Luis?’

Damn right he did. He didn’t trust any journalists or photographers.

But he could hardly explain the reason for that to his parents.

His spine stiffened, his body tensing as memories filled his head. Memories of the night his brother had died.

He hadn’t even wanted to go to that party, only Bas had insisted and his mother had backed him up. She knew that Luis needed his big brother in order to socialise, and Bas needed Luis to rein in his excesses.

But the party had been so not his style. Wall-to-wall trust fund brats, drinking and whining about their parents.

Watching Bas work the party, Luis had felt one of his occasional twinges of envy. His brother was so charming. With Bas there he always felt like a spare part—particularly around women. Then, out of nowhere, he’d spotted her. And she had been looking at him.

Unlike all the other women in the room, she’d looked at ease with herself. Jeans, boots, hair loose to her shoulders. They had talked and talked, shouting at first, over the noise of the party, and then later more quietly out on the balcony. She had liked the same artists he did, hated parties, and had had an older sister who was much cooler than she was.

He had felt as though she knew him inside out.

It was only later that he’d realised why that was.

Much later.

After he’d slept with her.

After he’d learnt that she was a paparazza and after he’d accidentally let slip where Bas was going to be staying that night.

After her colleagues had chased his brother to his death.

Striving for calm, he looked up at his mother. ‘So when is this photo shoot happening?’

‘Next week. The day after you go back to California.’ Sofia bit her lip. ‘Your father wasn’t sure, but he’s worked so hard and I wanted to do something—’

He squeezed his mother’s hand gently. ‘It’s a lovely idea.’

He felt a fist of tension curl inside his stomach.

He couldn’t stay. It would be unbearable, and unfair to his parents, for he knew they would begin to talk wistfully of his moving back to Spain.

But how could he leave them to face some unscrupulous photographer alone? They were so otherworldly, so trusting.

‘I know you don’t like the press,’ his mother said tentatively. ‘But we’ll have final say over the photos. And your father made it clear that we won’t be answering personal questions.’

There was a knock on the door. It was Soledad.

‘The photographer is here, Señor Osorio. She’s waiting in the salón azul.’

‘Thank you, Soledad.’

Taking his mother’s hand, Luis helped her to her feet. ‘I feel bad about making such a fuss, Mamá. Let me come with you—please. I might even be some help. I deal with the media a lot back in California, so I’m pretty sure I can handle anything they throw at me.’

His words were still reverberating around his head as he followed his father into the salón azul and came face to face with Cristina.

* * *

He stared at her in silence, his heartbeat deafeningly loud, a thousand questions bombarding his brain.

Had he just looked at her clothes he might not have recognised her. Gone were the denim shorts and that insane transparent top. Instead she was wearing tailored navy trousers and a blue-and-white-striped matelot top. Only her hair was the same—still tumbling over her shoulders in a mass of glossy red waves.

Slowly the events of the night before began to whirl in front of his eyes, spinning over and over until finally they lined up alongside one another like fruit on a slot machine.

Drink. Bike. Kiss.

Jackpot.

His breath felt sharp in his throat as he realised that it had all been a set-up. Right from the moment he’d walked into that club he’d been played. Everything that had felt so random, so spontaneous—their eyes meeting in the mirror, her banging into him and spilling his drink, even her having that stupid can of oil in her bag—all of it had been planned.

Flipping open the folder his mother had given him, he read swiftly through her CV, his stomach knotting with fury both with her and himself.

What was wrong with him? After what had happened with Bas did he really need another opportunity to prove how naive and complacent he was?

Apparently he did.

Apparently he had already forgotten that a beautiful woman always had an agenda of her own.

He was on the verge of striding across the room and dragging her lying, manipulative little body out of the building, when his mother stepped past him, smiling.

‘You must be Cristina. Welcome to our home.’

* * *

Sliding to her feet, Cristina held out her hand.

Her editor, Grace, had warned her that the Osorios were old-school and preferred to keep things on a formal footing, so she’d tried to dress in a way that implied she was professional, yet creative. But her heart was still beating like a startled horse as the beautiful grey-haired woman crossed the room towards her.

‘Señora Osorio. Thank you so much for meeting me today.’

‘Please...’ Sofia smiled. ‘You must call me Sofia. This is my husband, Agusto, and my son, Luis. He’s over on a visit from California. Flew in this morning.’

Cristina shook Agusto’s hand, and then, finally registering the second, taller, darker-haired man, she turned to Luis.

She smiled. Or tried to. But her lips wouldn’t work. Her whole body seemed to be numb. Around her the room was dissolving into a mist the same grey as his eyes—Lucho’s eyes—as silently she racked what was left of her brain for some kind of practical response to what was happening.

Only Grace’s notes had said nothing about coming face to face with your one-night stand. Or finding out he was the son of the people you were meant to photograph.

As he held out his hand she took it mechanically.

It couldn’t be.

Except that it was, and suddenly she thought she might faint.

Sofia was staring at her. ‘Are you all right, my dear? You look pale.’

‘I’m fine.’ She smiled stiffly. ‘Too much coffee, I’m afraid. I should probably try decaffeinated, but it’s so disgusting. I prefer a simple espresso—Arabica bean, black, no sugar.’

Agusto beamed at her. ‘Ah, a coffee connoisseur. I’m trying to cut back too, but it’s hard when the alternatives are such poor substitutes.’

Cristina nodded, and then, sensing Luis’s cool, dismissive gaze, she felt a rush of anger. ‘I agree. I hate things that aren’t what they appear to be.’

A warning flag of anger flared in his grey eyes, but she didn’t care.

Lucho—Luis—whatever he called himself—was a phony, happy to offer different versions of himself in order to get what he wanted.

In this case her.

He was just like her father—and she should have known that.

A familiar feeling of doubt and panic was slipping over her skin. She felt her eyes tugged towards the door and escape.

Her pulse jerked. Escape from what? She had come here to put the past behind her. It was why she’d fought so hard to win this assignment. To make the world, and more particularly her father, sit up and take notice. And that was what would happen when she sent him a copy of the magazine with her byline beneath the photographs. Lifting her chin, she smiled at Agusto.

‘I’m sure you didn’t invite me here to discuss coffee. How about I talk you through the production process for the shoot? And then if you have any questions I’ll try and answer them.’

‘I have some questions.’

Luis’s voice cut through her smile.

‘You do?’ She forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘That’s great,’ she said stiffly.

‘You seem very young. I’m just wondering about your experience.’

His mother frowned at him. ‘I gave you Cristina’s CV, cariño.’

‘And I read it. It seems very light. Does it cover all your talents?’

He watched her beautiful light brown eyes widen.

‘No, not all of them.’ She looked at him calmly. ‘I worked in a cake shop when I was fifteen, so I can make a mean crème pâtissière if you’re tempted.’

‘I’m not.’ He held her gaze. ‘Not any more, anyway.’

* * *

After the interview was over, and Cristina had left the room, Sofia glanced at her husband and son and said quickly, ‘Well, I thought that went well. I know she’s young, but she seemed very genuine—and quite charming.’

Luis felt his stomach twist. Oh, she was charming, all right—but genuine?

Breathing in, he said as calmly as he could manage, ‘She did seem charming. But wouldn’t you prefer someone with a little more gravitas?’

He was speaking to his mother, but it was his father who answered the question.

‘Not really. Unless you have a particular reason to doubt this young women?’

Luis hesitated. Say it, he ordered himself. Tell the truth.

But how? He could hardly tell his mother that he’d had sex with Cristina. For a start, she thought he’d flown in that morning. Nor could he reveal that his fears lay rooted in a mistake he’d made five years ago—a mistake that had cost his brother his life and his parents a son.

Looking at their faces, he made up his mind. He didn’t trust Cristina, but he didn’t need to admit that or explain why. He just needed to be around to keep tabs on her.

Slowly, he shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. All that matters to me is that you’re happy. And besides, I can help. You know how much I love photography.’

His mother looked at him in confusion. ‘But, cariño, you won’t be here—’

Luis picked up his mother’s hand and pressed it to his mouth. ‘I can be, Mamá. And I want to be.’

His mother’s tears of happiness made him feel guiltier than ever. But he would do whatever it took to protect his parents. Even lie to them.

‘I think it would be a good idea if we did the photo shoot on the island,’ he said firmly.

La Isla de los Halcones had belonged to the Osorio family for over one hundred years. It was isolated—only accessible by motorboat—and best of all communication with the mainland was limited to a landline.

It’s completely private, and much more relaxed.’ He smiled reassuringly at both of them. ‘It’ll be perfect, and I’ll be there to supervise the whole thing.’

And if that meant keeping a close eye on Cristina then so be it.

CHAPTER THREE

‘IS THERE ANYTHING else I can get you, Ms Shephard? More coffee?’

Closing her laptop, Cristina smiled up at the air stewardess and shook her head. ‘No, thank you. I’m good.’

The stewardess smiled back at her. ‘Okay, but just let me know if you need anything.’

Watching the woman move gracefully away down the cabin, she resisted the urge to pinch herself again, and instead gazed out of the window at the cloudless blue sky.

She’d never flown business class before, and frankly it would probably be a long time before she did so again. But the Osorios had insisted, and it was a treat to have the extra legroom and a lunch that was actually edible.

The Osorio name had helped in other ways too. She’d been fast-tracked through baggage and security, and a limousine would be waiting at Valencia airport to take her to the marina.

It was all very civilised. But then people like Agusto and Sofia didn’t queue for taxis or hang around waiting for luggage. The rich and the powerful valued their time almost as much as their privacy, and unlike normal people they only did what they wanted to do.

As she knew from experience.

She felt her face stiffen, the muscles tightening involuntarily, and, reaching down, she picked up her cup—china, not cardboard—and took a sip of coffee.

What other reason could there be for her father never bothering to get in touch with her?

Still gazing listlessly out of the window, she thought about how at the beginning she’d tried to make sense of his actions. Husbands divorced wives, not children, so why didn’t he want to see her?

At first she’d made excuses for him, and then she’d blamed her mother. Later, though, there had been only one explanation. Her father didn’t love her and he probably never had.

Frowning, Cristina flipped open her laptop and gazed determinedly down at the screen. She wasn’t going to let her father’s rejection ruin this moment for her. This was her last chance to do her final preparation before the photo shoot, and she wasn’t going to waste it brooding about the past.

She began scrolling through the background notes that Grace had emailed to her. It didn’t take long. It was mostly historical facts about the Osorio banking dynasty. Personal, biographical details about the family were frustratingly sparse.

Her heart gave a lurch. Panic was beginning to uncoil inside her stomach. It wasn’t the first portrait that she’d taken—Grace wasn’t that trusting. But it was the most important to date, and she wanted it to work. Not just for the magazine but for herself. She so badly wanted to prove that she could do this.

Her fingers shook slightly above the keyboard.

No, that wasn’t true. She wanted more than that. She wanted to matter, to be somebody, to be noticed. And not just by her peers.

Only how could she do that if she couldn’t find the key to their story?

She felt her stomach clench.

It was her job as a photographer to seek the truth—that was why she’d so foolishly become a paparazza. But with portraits the truth was elusive. In the intimacy of a studio-style setting people grew guarded, and of course there was always an obstacle between her camera and the sitter. It wasn’t just a matter of point and click; the shutter was like a tiny little door that she needed to open.

And that required a key.

She had hoped to find one, talking to Agusto and Sofia. But although they had been polite, and helpful, they had fairly conservative ideas about what they wanted from the photo shoot—and, looking down at the pictures that Grace had sent her, she could see why.

To her photography was magic. But the Osorios were clearly intensely private people who simply wanted a record of a particular moment.

She needed to see beyond the staged poses. She needed to do a little supplementary research of her own. But as she typed in the Osorio name she felt heat spread over her cheeks as the screen filled not only with photos of Agusto and Sofia, but Luis too.

She stared at them greedily.

There were a couple of him as dark-eyed teenager, watching the polo at Sotogrande with his parents and brother. Another as a student in America, rowing at Harvard. And then, leaping forward several years, there were several more of the adult Luis. Publicity shots of him in his role as CEO of the quantitative hedge fund he’d founded.

Clearly turning his back on one fortune had been no obstacle to amassing another. His business was less than three years old but it had already made him a billionaire.

The thought of Luis behind a desk, with some glossy PA hovering over his shoulder, made her feel as if she was pressing on a bruise. But now that she knew the truth about him his career choice made perfect sense.

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