He phoned down to the valet to have his car brought around. When he stepped outside to climb into the sleek gray car, he was a bit surprised to find a gaggle of reporters waiting for him on the sidewalk. What now?
Long after his years in the bull ring were over, the newspapers still seemed to find his life fascinating. Famed matador to billionaire tycoon was endlessly entertaining to the public. Now that he’d so recently married, the press tended to shadow his and Rebecca’s public appearances. The attention would die down eventually. He hoped.
“Señor Ramirez,” a reporter shouted at him. “Is it true you systematically destroyed your wife’s former company, Layton International, through an untraceable chain of subsidiaries? That you duped Jackson Layton into the acquisitions that led him into debt and contributed to his apparent suicide last year? Did you do this to force Rebecca Layton to marry you?”
Alejandro felt as if the ground had been kicked out from under him. If someone had asked him when he’d grown horns and a tail, he’d have been less shocked. He strode toward the group and halted just in front of the security ropes. A guard stood by, looking stony, ready to intervene.
“I acquired Layton International legally,” Alejandro stated. “You may check all the filings. And Jackson Layton didn’t commit suicide. He died in a plane crash.”
“My source says otherwise. That he piloted the plane and crashed it on purpose.”
“Your source is wrong,” Alejandro growled. Rebecca would have told him if her father had committed suicide. Wouldn’t she? Why keep it from him, especially when she’d first arrived in Madrid? She’d gone at him with both barrels back then. She wouldn’t have hesitated.
Which meant that someone was feeding false stories to the press. But who? And why?
“You owned the only bank that would lend him money,” another reporter called out. “Was that a sound financial decision? Or a calculation on your part? What does Rebecca Layton think about your involvement? Did you tell her before you married her?”
“You mean Rebecca Ramirez,” Alejandro snapped before reminding himself to remain cool. Never give reporters anything to feed on. He’d learned that lesson while watching his parents’ very public rows take place in the tabloids in recent years.
“Are you worried about how this will affect your stock prices, coming so soon on the heels of accusations of impropriety in your Dubai contracts?” someone asked. “Is this indicative of a pattern of subverting rules within your organization?”
Alejandro’s gut twisted in anger. “We were found blameless in Dubai. The project is back on track and all permits are properly executed and signed.”
“And who did you pay off in order to make sure that was done?”
Alejandro turned away, waving a hand in dismissal as he did so. The reporters’ voices lifted, shouting after him as he climbed into the car and slammed the door. He gunned the powerful engine and raced out onto the paseo, his mind racing too. Traffic was heavy, but he barely noticed.
He was too stunned to think clearly. He went back over everything the reporters had said, focusing again and again on the idea that Rebecca’s father had committed suicide. Who would say that to the press? Who would put that idea out there and then force him to defend against it? Was it true, or just a nasty rumor?
His gut churned as he stabbed the call button for his phone. He told the voice assistant to dial his research office.
“Hello, sir,” René Armas said. “What can I help you with?”
“Did Jackson Layton have a pilot’s license? And was there any suggestion of suicide about the accident that ended his life? I need answers immediately.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll put a team on it right now.”
The call ended and his phone immediately rang. It was his mother. As much as he didn’t want to talk to her, he took the call. “Alejandro,” Carmen Ramirez wailed. “Your father has cut off my allowance for the month. You must tell him I need my treatments.”
By treatments she meant injections and fillers. “Mother, I can’t deal with this right now.”
“Alejandro! It’s important. I have to keep my regimen!”
“Then you tell him.”
“I did. He said it was too much money. Quite frankly, I think he’s seeing that bimbo again and wants to shower her with presents. Perhaps you should increase our monthly allotment?”
Alejandro could feel a crushing headache starting to gather behind his eyes. His parents were the most single-minded, greedy annoyances on the planet. No doubt his father had put a stopper in the flow of money—money Alejandro provided them—in order to get his mother to beg for an increase.
Dios, he was tired of being used. His parents would do anything to get their way. For all he knew, they were in it together. What did they call that in America? Good cop, bad cop?
It hit him suddenly who stood to benefit most from manipulating him in the same way. If he took a beating in the press and the markets, how willing would he be to part with Layton International? Would Rebecca be waiting in the wings with an offer to buy it back? Perhaps through subsidiaries?
If she were that ruthless and clever, then it was his own game being played against him. Was she capable of it?
The answer twisted his belly into knots. Of course she was. She hadn’t succeeded in business as long as she had without being smart and willing to do what she had to do. And Rebecca wanted her family heritage back, quite possibly by any means necessary. He could admire the balls it took to orchestrate such a scheme, but he felt utterly betrayed at the idea she would do it.
Because he’d started to fall for Rebecca’s charm, for her sympathy, for the way she seemed to need him when they were tangled together in each other’s arms. What if it was all an elaborate lie to get her company back? The idea was insidious, but he couldn’t shake it
