“What do you really want?” he asked grimly. “This isn’t about a guest list.”
“No, it’s not,” she allowed shakily. “I want you to trust me.”
He snorted, telling her how far-off that was.
Which was the crux of her reluctance, and each time she pushed back, she undermined what little regard he might have for her. It made a future with him impossible.
“Let’s table marriage until we see how we get along as parents,” she said in a conciliatory tone. “We may decide killing each other is preferable to sharing our lives.”
“I’ll table it until we get to Madrid.” He moved behind the rocker and stuck his foot in the rail so the chair stopped moving. The hair on the back of her neck stood up.
“I don’t want to delay the rest of our arrangements with an argument I’ll win.” The pendant flashed in front of her eyes, then settled as a cool weight against the base of her throat. His fingertips brushed the sensitive skin of her nape and his hand nudged against her ponytail, sending a sensual tingle across her scalp and down the front of her chest.
She hugged Locke to breasts that began to ache.
Javiero moved in front of her and centered the pendant. His smile pulled at the scar across his lip and became more of a sarcastic sneer. “Compromise is fun.”
CHAPTER FOUR
SCARLETT STILL HAD a thousand concerns about her future with Javiero, but she wanted to coparent in good faith. She climbed aboard the private jet that would fly them to Spain.
She thought she would finally see Casa del Cielo, the Rodriguez estate south of Madrid. The sprawling villa had been featured in architectural magazines and overlooked hills covered in wine grapes. His family owned properties in Valencia and Seville, too, obtained generations ago and retained by the skin of their teeth after Paloma’s divorce from Niko.
All Javiero’s estates were profitable and worth millions now, but the bulk of their fortune had always been in telecom, energy and infrastructure. The corporate offices for those were in Madrid, ten minutes from the family apartment in the city center.
The scene of the crime, as it were.
As they arrived, she thought back to the first time she’d met Javiero here. Paloma was too proud to ask Niko for money, but Evelina had demanded funds once or twice a year. Niko had never simply transferred a balance. He had liked to make a statement of his “generosity” and use his supposed benevolence as an opportunity to lure his sons back into the fold.
Mere weeks into her employment, Scarlett hadn’t yet realized the murky history between all the players. Niko had sent her to Evelina first—a stunning, scorpion of a woman whose son hadn’t even bothered to show up for the meeting although Scarlett had gone to great lengths to accommodate his schedule.
Then she had arrived here expecting to meet Paloma, but the broad-shouldered, square-jawed Javiero had opened the door. He’d been unhurried, shirt open at his swarthy-skinned throat, charming and hospitable as he invited her in—yet intimidating as he issued an order that had somehow come across as an understated threat.
“Never approach my mother directly again. Come to me first with anything Niko wishes to convey. I will decide if she needs to hear it. And don’t get your feminist feathers in a ruffle.” A cynical smile had widened his masculine lips as she sat straighter. “I’m protecting her from a conscienceless tyrant, not controlling her. How do you come to work for such a monster? Do you need help? Blink twice.”
She’d been stunned, utterly out of her depth; her blood felt thick in her veins, her skin oversensitive, and her entire being throbbed with a sensual beat. Somehow, she’d stammered into her spiel about Niko wishing to entail Javiero’s birthright on him with the caveat he come to Greece to claim it.
“No,” Javiero had stated before she’d even finished.
Minutes later, he’d dismissed her. She’d left feeling as though she’d barely escaped with her life, yet she’d been brimming with excitement and sexual fantasies.
The handful of meetings she’d had with him in the next five years had all been held here in this six-bedroom residence. It was a stunning home that took up the top floor of a complex built in the 1800s. The ornate decor reflected its history, but the building was impeccably maintained, with the layout of the minimansion airy and bright. There were three fireplaces and fully six balconies—two big enough to dine on—all of which overlooked the lush greenery of El Retiro park.
Every inch of this place became a salacious memory of that day as they entered. She had experienced the familiar, nearly irresistible pull when he’d opened the door. Her heart had plummeted then soared when he’d served the coffee himself, casually mentioning the staff had been dismissed for the day. Wicked temptation had kept her here to argue her point when she could have said her piece and left. She had been frustrated on so many levels that she had stepped into his space, pretty much daring him to make a move.
He had. He’d taken her by the shoulders and kissed her. Moments later, they had fallen onto that striped sofa before they moved into the bedroom for the most intimate type of communication. It had been silent except for words of erotic encouragement, and utterly spectacular.
Afterward, they’d showered, still barely speaking, and returned to the bed to make love again, less frantically this time. As the sun had set beyond the closed blinds, she’d insisted she had to leave, but they’d had one final, desperate, life-altering interaction right here in the foyer, against this wall.
Her soul stood outside her skin as her feet found the same spot, making her feel obvious and utterly defenseless. She searched his grim expression as he hung her jacket without removing his own.
His gaze tangled with hers. The
