LITMIR.BIZ

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And his eyes.

      Grey...just like Camila’s.

      Her throat thickened and she had to swallow hard and blink fast to contain her emotion.

      He stood, and she was struck by his height. Six foot at least, which surprised her. Her stepmother had been tiny, her figure perfectly proportioned but petite. By the time Jordan had turned sixteen she’d easily been able to rest her chin on top of Camila’s head when they’d hugged.

      He walked around the desk and she saw that everything about him, from his neatly cropped black hair to his tailored grey suit and expensive-looking leather shoes, was immaculate. Even the full Windsor knot in his tie looked as if it had been flawlessly executed.

      He had an air of authority about him—and something else she couldn’t quite pinpoint.

      Arrogance?

      Impatience?

      Her gaze went to the hard line of his jaw and then up to his high, intelligent forehead and slashing jet-black eyebrows.

      Yes, she concluded with a touch of unease. This man looked as if he had little tolerance for weakness or compromise.

      Suddenly she was conscious of the silence blanketing the room. Of the fact that he was returning her scrutiny with hard, narrowed eyes. He didn’t smile. He didn’t even step forward and offer to shake her hand in greeting. Which probably wasn’t a bad thing, given her hands now felt as damp as soggy dishrags.

      His attention shifted to his assistant. ‘Gràcies, Lucia,’ he said, his voice deep and rich and undeniably masculine. ‘Leave us, please.’

      He looked to the guard and said something in Spanish—or perhaps he spoke in Catalan, since she’d read that he spoke both languages fluently, along with English and French—and she tried to pretend her knees hadn’t just gone a little weak. She loved the romance languages, and despite his forbidding demeanour there was something indescribably sexy about the way Xavier de la Vega spoke in his native tongue.

      The guard responded, but whatever he said it only drew a terse, dismissive word from his boss, and he quickly joined Lucia in vacating the room, closing the door on his way out.

      Those grey eyes—a shade or two darker than Camila’s, she realised now—settled on her again.

      ‘My staff are concerned for my safety.’

      It wasn’t the start to their conversation she’d anticipated. She blinked, confused. ‘Why?’

      ‘They believe you might pose a threat,’ he elaborated, watching her closely. ‘Do you, Ms Walsh?’

      Her eyes widened. ‘A physical threat, you mean?’ The notion was so preposterous a little laugh bubbled up her throat. ‘Hardly.’

      ‘Indeed.’ His tone and the way his gaze raked over her, as though assessing her physical capabilities, implied that he too considered the idea ludicrous. ‘Are you a journalist?’ he asked abruptly.

      ‘No,’ she said, trying to ignore the disconcerting pulse of heat that fired through her body in the wake of his cursory appraisal. ‘Why would you think that?’

      His penetrating gaze locked onto hers. ‘Journalists have a tendency to get creative in their attempts to access whomever they’re pursuing.’

      She frowned. ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow.’

      ‘You claim to be my stepsister.’

      ‘Ah...’ She felt her cheeks grow pink. ‘I can explain that...’

      ‘Can you, Ms Walsh?’ His tone was hard. ‘Because the last time I checked my parents were still happily married—to each other. To my knowledge, neither of them is hiding additional spouses or secret stepchildren.’

      Her blush intensified. She had expected this to be tricky. It was why she’d put such careful thought into what she would say and how she’d say it if she ever got the chance. But now that she was here and he was standing before her, so much more imposing in the flesh than she’d imagined, she couldn’t recall a single one of the sentences she’d so painstakingly crafted in her mind.

      She swallowed. ‘Um... Maybe we could sit down?’ she suggested.

      For a long moment he didn’t move, just stood there staring at her, eyes narrowed to slits of silver-grey as if he were debating whether to have her thrown out or let her stay. Finally, just as her composure teetered on the brink of collapse, he gestured to a chair in front of his desk.

      Relief pushed a smile onto her face. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and noted that he waited until she was seated before sitting in his own chair.

      It was a simple, old-fashioned courtesy that made her warm to him a bit—until he opened his mouth again.

      ‘Start talking, Ms Walsh. I don’t have all evening.’

      The smile evaporated from her face. Good grief. Was he this brusque with everyone? Or only with strangers who dared to ask for a piece of his precious time?

      She sat up a little straighter and said, ‘Jordan.’

      ‘Excuse me?’

      ‘My first name is Jordan.’

      He drummed the long, tapered fingers of his right hand on the top of the desk, then abruptly stopped, curling his hand into a loose fist. ‘Your accent—is it Australian?’

      ‘Yes. I’m from Melbourne.’

      She paused, took a deep breath, then opened her tote bag and pulled out her red leather-bound journal. She undid the clasp and lifted the cover. The sealed envelope and the two photos she’d carefully tucked inside the journal were still there, safe and sound.

      ‘Until recently I lived there with my stepmother.’ She picked up one of the photos and held it out, her arm extended across the desk. ‘Camila Walsh.’

      He glanced at the photo, but no flicker of recognition showed on his face. Jordan didn’t know why that should disappoint her. Of course he wouldn’t recognise her stepmother.

      But her eyes...

      Could he not see they were his eyes?

      ‘Her maiden name was Sanchez,’ she added. ‘She was originally from a small village north of here.’

      ‘Was?’

      A stillness had come over him and Jordan hesitated, all the doubts she’d thought she’d laid to rest suddenly rearing up again, pushing at the walls of her resolve. For the past ten days she’d ridden a wave of certainty, firm in her belief that what she was doing was not only the right thing but a good thing.

      After weeks of feeling lost and alone, adrift, with no job, nothing and no one left in the world to anchor her, she’d booked her flights to Spain almost with a sense of euphoria.

      ‘She died six weeks ago.’

      Somehow she managed to say the words without her voice wobbling. She lowered her arm and stared down at the photo of her stepmother.

      ‘I am sorry for your loss.’

      She looked up. The sentiment in his deep voice had sounded genuine. ‘Thank you.’

      Her gaze meshed with his and the intensity of those sharp, intelligent eyes made her breath catch in her throat. She shifted a bit, unsettled by her escalating awareness of him. He was so handsome. So compelling. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. And that preternatural stillness in his body... It was disconcerting, making her think of the big, predatory cats in the wildlife documentaries her dad had loved to watch.

      She took another deep breath, in through her nose, out through her mouth, the way Camila had taught her to do as a child to combat stress. He was waiting for her to speak—to spell out why she was here. Did he already have an inkling? She searched his face, but the chiselled features were impassive, giving

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