Except he looked on it with dread more than anticipation. Why? Perhaps it was the prospect of drama, of her tears and pleading. He’d once thought that would be gratifying, but now he realized he just wanted the whole mess over cleanly and quickly.
Maybe he was wrong to move so fast. It’d only been a couple of weeks since he’d taken over Layton International. He needed to enjoy the full measure of his triumph, needed to watch her squirm for a while in his employ. She would think she had a chance of regaining her company and he would know it wasn’t possible. In the meantime, he could enjoy her in his bed.
Yes, a much better plan. In fact, he would take her to the opera at the Teatro Real tonight. He would make nice and be solicitous. She would fall into his arms willingly when they returned home. He liked this idea a lot better than the other one. Draw it out, make it hurt more in the end.
He was almost giddy when he headed for the villa later that day. An evening out with Rebecca on his arm, and then a night spent between her legs was exactly what he needed. Hell, maybe they would skip the theater entirely.
Señora Flores was in the entry when he walked through the door. She frowned at him, spun on her heel and marched away. Off to one side of the entry, Rebecca’s suitcases were stacked.
“You’re back.”
His head snapped up, his gaze landing on Rebecca. She stood in the door to his home office. She was dressed in a tailored grey pantsuit and carrying her briefcase.
“You are going somewhere?” His gut twisted. He’d warned her what he would do if she left. Did she think to manipulate him by threatening to walk out?
“Yes.” Her chin tilted up as he moved toward her. She looked as if she wanted to flee, but she stood her ground. He took in her defiant stare, her red eyes, the puffiness.
Instantly, he was concerned. Thoughts of punishing her faded. “You have been crying, querida? What has happened?”
Had something happened to her mother perhaps? He would order his plane made ready. He would take her anywhere she needed to go.
He moved to embrace her, but she shrank away so quickly he thought she might fall. “No,” she gasped. “Don’t touch me.”
His arms fell to his sides. Madre de Dios. He knew what this was. What he’d done. Why was his chest suddenly tight?
“Tell me,” he commanded, retreating to ground he understood. He would force her to say it, and then he would soothe her tears and fix everything for the time being.
In answer, her hand snaked out and connected with his cheek. He didn’t even flinch, though heat flared deep inside. Their gazes clashed and held. A disconnected part of him idly wondered how this would end. But the warrior in him knew what was in store. He could see the violence shaking her in its grip.
A moment later she rushed him, her hands balling into fists. He grabbed her wrists, held her away from him as she struggled.
“Rebecca, for God’s sake, tell me what is wrong.” As if he didn’t know.
She sucked in a breath, wrenched herself from his grasp with a strength that surprised him. Spinning away, she wrapped her arms around her body.
She faced him again, glaring. “You own the bank, Alejandro. You’ve owned it for over a year. The only bank that would loan my father money!” She laughed. The sound broke off in a sob. “I thought it was a mistake at first, that you bought it recently along with the promissory note for Layton International’s loans. But you financed the loan. And you sold the Thailand resorts to us. They belonged to you, to one of your subsidiaries. You set everything up. When you said you make your own luck, I thought you’d watched us and waited. But you made everything happen!”
He shrugged, tried to look casual. Unfeeling. Except hot emotion boiled beneath the surface, threatening to break free. Why? This was supposed to be his triumph, yet it felt exceedingly hollow at the moment.
“Sí, it is as you say.”
She took a step forward, her fists clenching so hard her knuckles were white. “He died in Thailand. Touring the resorts you sold him in order to ruin us. My God, you are a bastard. How I could’ve thought—” She swiped at her eyes, shook her head.
“How did you learn this?”
Her face was pale, her expression almost fragile. Oddly, it bothered him.
“It’s too ironic really. Roger Cahill emailed me the documents. He dug them up while looking for dirt on you. Funny, huh?”
“You have been in touch with Cahill?” It shouldn’t surprise him, but it did. Cahill had been the financial power behind the company fighting him over the Dubai property, though there was no evidence he was connected to Alejandro’s corporate spy. No doubt Rebecca had been in close contact with Cahill the entire time, though she’d been in no position to learn anything truly useful to report back. Strangely, the thought she would even want to stung him.
“I asked him what happened five years ago,” Rebecca said, sniffling. “Perhaps you should have done the same.”
“I know what happened,” he snapped. How many times did he have to remember it?
“No, you really don’t.” Her chin thrust out as she drew herself up. “My father killed your deal, so yes, the Laytons tried to ruin you. I think he must have been angry because you hurt me, but I don’t know for sure. I suppose you can blame me if you want, but then you need to blame yourself as well. If you hadn’t had a fiancée—or whatever you want to call her—none of this would have happened.”
Blame himself? What the hell was she talking about? It was her fault. He took a step forward, but to do what he wasn’t sure.
The doorbell rang and he stopped,
