Angela Bissell – A Mistress, A Scandal, A Ring (страница 7)

That conclusion was enough to douse any lingering heat—for which she was grateful. Who wanted to feel attracted to someone who very obviously didn’t fancy them back?

No, thanks. She’d learned at the tender age of six how much rejection hurt. Twenty years later she knew better than to make herself vulnerable to that kind of pain again. She’d made a mistake with Josh, but she’d been smart enough to realise it and she had been the one to walk away. And although her heart had felt a bit bruised, and she’d shed a few tears, she hadn’t ended up bitter and disillusioned.

She knew that good men existed in the world because her dad had been a gentle, loving man. She simply had to make wiser choices when it came to relationships and men.

Mr Right was out there somewhere.

And he most certainly wasn’t the man sitting beside her.

* * *

Some eight hours later Jordan woke from a nap she hadn’t planned on having. Memory crept in slowly, reminding her where she was, so when she opened her eyes she wasn’t startled by the unfamiliar surroundings.

She sat up on the bed and noted the shallow angle of the sunlight slanting into the room, suggesting the sun had commenced its evening descent. She checked her watch and was startled to find she had slept for well over an hour.

She hadn’t meant to sleep at all. She’d only intended to lie down for a minute or so, just long enough to determine if the ornate iron-framed canopy bed, with its diaphanous white curtains and the thick mattress layered in soft snowy linens, was as comfortable as it looked.

It was.

And she had never slept in anything so luxurious. Or so enormous.

It must have been the sheer comfort combined with the fresh air and exercise she’d enjoyed that afternoon that had sent her off to sleep.

She scooted off the bed, walked barefoot over sumptuous pale carpet to the French doors that led to a private balcony and stepped out to appreciate the magnificent view.

From here she could see the path she’d taken on her solitary walk after lunch, zigzagging down no less than six beautifully landscaped terraces to a white strip of sandy beach at the foot of the hill.

Directly beneath her lay the longest section of the wide natural stone terrace that wrapped around three sides of the villa, complete with an inviting infinity pool and the shaded alfresco area where she’d eaten the scrumptious lunch Rosa had prepared for her—which, aside from the housekeeper’s brief appearances to check everything was okay and to clear away the dishes, had been another solitary affair.

She hadn’t been all that surprised when Xavier had returned to work rather than accompanying her to his villa. Everything she’d read about him painted him as focused and driven, so there were probably very few things that would lure him away from his work responsibilities on a weekday afternoon.

This morning, in the car, he’d only ended his call as they’d pulled up outside the Vega Tower. ‘My housekeeper, Rosa, will greet you at the villa and get you settled in,’ he’d said, his tone impeccably polite, and then he and Juan had got out, leaving just her and the driver.

Jordan would have tried to chat with the man if not for the dark glass partition between them. Instead she’d focused on the scenery as they’d exited the city, her interest sharpening when, after about thirty minutes, they’d started to climb, weaving up and up through large, sloping groves of olive and citrus trees until finally they’d levelled out at a location that offered glorious views across the glittering blue of the Balearic Sea.

Rosa had appeared on the stone steps at the villa’s entrance before they’d even drawn to a stop. The fifty-something housekeeper had a neat salt-and-pepper bob and a broad, welcoming smile, and she hadn’t seemed at all fazed by receiving a house guest at short notice.

She’d shown Jordan her room and given her a tour of the main living areas, all of which were light and spacious and luxurious beyond anything she’d ever seen. The grounds were beautiful, too. Outside on one of the upper terraces Rosa had introduced her husband, Alfonso, who worked as the chief groundsman, and their grown-up nephew, Delmar, who was helping his uncle with some landscaping.

The whole place was gorgeous. And tranquil. A home only a billionaire could afford.

Too bad he probably spent more time at work than here, enjoying his amazing home.

Turning away from the stunning view, she went inside and took a shower in the massive en suite bathroom, and afterwards pulled on a pair of navy dress jeans and a short-sleeved white blouse. She hadn’t thought to ask Rosa about the dress code for dinner, and she’d never dined with a billionaire in his home before, so ‘smart casual’ seemed the safest option.

After tying her hair into a loose knot at her nape, she checked the time and decided to make an appearance ten minutes earlier than Rosa had recommended. If her host was a stickler for punctuality she’d rather be early than even a minute late.

The villa was so big she took two wrong turns on her way to the formal dining room before she finally located it. Pausing in the hallway, she touched a hand to her hair, took a deep breath and then walked into the room. Rosa was there and Jordan smiled at her, then shifted her gaze to the long dining table—and the single place-setting at one end.

Before she’d fully processed the implication of that single setting, Rosa said quickly, ‘Ho sento, molt. Senyor de la Vega sends his apologies. He must work late.’

Her heart sank. After all the nervous anticipation, discovering she would be dining alone—again—was a huge let-down.

Seeing Rosa’s anxious expression, however, she made an effort to resurrect her smile and said lightly, ‘That’s okay. Perhaps I’ll catch him later, when he gets home.’

Rosa wrung her hands together. ‘I am afraid he is not coming home tonight.’

She looked at the housekeeper in surprise. ‘He’s staying at work all night?’ she said, yet even as she spoke she knew it wasn’t inconceivable that someone like him would work through the night and into the weekend. He was a workaholic, and workaholics had only one priority.

‘He has an apartment above his office,’ Rosa said. ‘He stays there often. Senyor de la Vega works very hard,’ she added, and Jordan couldn’t tell from Rosa’s tone whether she admired or disapproved of her employer’s work ethic.

She regarded the table again. Despite the fine china and the sparkling crystal, the gleaming cutlery and the beautiful vase of crimson calla lilies, the solitary setting looked rather forlorn at the head of the enormous table.

‘Rosa, would it be all right if I ate outside on the terrace?’

Out there she’d at least have the birds and the crickets for company. And she could gaze out to sea and watch the sun as it sank below the horizon.

The housekeeper smiled. ‘Sí. Of course.’

An hour later Jordan sat on the terrace in the gathering dusk with a full tummy and a glass of white wine, watching the sky turn to lush shades of orange and purple. She could hear laughter and snatches of conversation coming from somewhere nearby. The feminine voice she recognised as Rosa’s; the male voices no doubt belonged to Alfonso and Delmar.

She pictured the trio, enjoying their own alfresco meal, and the sounds of their banter sharpened the sense of isolation that had crept over her in the last hour.

She took a gulp of wine. Was this what Xavier had intended all along? To isolate her?

Suddenly his offer of hospitality didn’t seem quite so munificent.

But why? Was he somehow testing her? Had he left her up here to see what she would do? What did he think she would do? Pocket the silverware? Slip some crystal into her bag? Snatch a priceless painting off the wall and hightail it off the estate before she was found out?

More laughter danced through the still air and she swallowed another mouthful of wine.

She knew this hollow feeling in her chest. It was loneliness. And she refused to let it suck her down into a place of misery. She didn’t do self-pity. Self-pity was a waste of time. She’d learnt that as a child in the wake of her mother’s departure, when she’d realised that crying under the duvet wasn’t going to bring her mother back. She had dried her eyes, got out of bed and focused on the parent she still had. She’d made herself indispensable to her father.

Because if Daddy needed her then he wouldn’t go away. Wouldn’t leave her like Mummy had.

Jordan shook off the childhood memories. It was history, and dwelling on the past was just another form of self-pity. The best medicine for the blues was to do something, and with that thought in mind she got to her feet, picked up her wine glass and went in search of the laughter.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS CLOSE to one-thirty p.m. on Saturday when Xav arrived home—a couple of hours earlier than he’d anticipated. He grabbed his briefcase, dismissed his driver for the remainder of the weekend and strode into the villa.

He should be dead on his feet. He was operating on little more than two hours’ sleep and a gallon of caffeine. But he wasn’t exhausted. He was wired. It was how he always felt in the midst of a major business deal. Focused. Determined. Ruthless.