actually—but he was about the most powerful publisher on the planet … He was—’ He glanced towards Lucy.
‘My dad died last year,’ she explained to Carmella. ‘He’d been retired for a while.’
Santiago continued to feel annoyed with himself for not making the connection sooner. He had not met the man, but Ramon was right—in financial circles he had been pretty much a legend, a man who had started the publishing house that had become the biggest and most successful in the world and still remained in the hands of the same family today.
He felt an unexpected stab of sympathy for Fitzgerald, who had been known to guard his privacy jealously. It must have been hell for him to see his daughter publicly humiliated and her sordid secrets shared with the world, and of course it was always the parents’ fault—a universally accepted premise that every parent was conscious of.
Santiago had lost count of the sleepless nights he had spent second-guessing his parenting decisions and Gabriella was not even in her teens yet. As a man who could afford to indulge his own child, Santiago knew only too well the pitfalls that were out there for a father who did not want his love of his child to ruin her.
If the results were anything to go by, Patrick Fitzgerald had fallen into every pitfall there was. If the man had still been around he might have rung him to ask him how he brought up his daughter so that he could do the exact opposite.
God knew what motivated a woman like Lucy Fitzgerald, but apparently it wasn’t money after all. His eyes drifted in her direction just as the maid who had been making a discreet exit with her dustpan paused by Lucy’s chair.
‘Oh, I am so sorry, miss … your lovely dress. I’ll …’
Lucy glanced without interest at the splash of blood stains on her dress and rose to her feet. ‘Forget the dress—your hand!’ She removed the dustpan from the girl’s hand, put it down on her seat and took the injured hand in her own. ‘Your poor hand.’
She grabbed a clean napkin from the table and pressed it to the small laceration still oozing a little blood on the girl’s palm.
‘No, miss, I’m fine, just clumsy.’
‘You’re not fine …’
Santiago found himself the focus of an accusing icy blue stare that could not have been more condemning had he taken a knife and cut the girl himself.
‘It must have hurt like mad and she didn’t say a word.’ The girl’s silence was obviously a symptom of an atmosphere of oppression in the workplace, she decided.
She turned back to the girl, the frost in her eyes warming to concern. ‘Look … sorry, I don’t know your name?’
‘Sabina.’
‘Well, Sabina, I think your hand needs cleaning—there might be some shreds of glass in it—and it needs dressing.’
The girl looked confused and Lucy turned to her fellow diners with an expression of exasperation. ‘Will someone help me out here?’ Her Spanish did not stretch to a translation.
It was Santiago who reacted first. Pushing aside his chair, he moved across to the timid-looking maid and spoke to her in Spanish. Lucy listened, unable to follow the rapid flow of words, noticing how different his voice sounded when he spoke to the girl, how kind and gentle.
Whatever he said made the girl smile and look less terrified. Across the table Ramon added something that drew a weak laugh from her.
Lucy was still holding the napkin to the wound but the girl was staring with starry-eyed devotion up at Santiago. Lucy bit her lip and looked away. Was there a female on the planet who didn’t think he walked on water? She thought, Am I the only person who sees him for what he is?
‘You can let go now, Miss Fitzgerald.’
Lucy started as the sound of Santiago’s deep voice jolted her out of her brooding reverie.
‘Josef will take over from here.’
‘What? Oh, yes, of course.’ She nodded to the sober suited solemn-faced man standing at her side and removed her hand from the makeshift dressing. ‘You need to apply pressure.’
‘Josef is more than capable, Miss Fitzgerald.’ Santiago’s dismissive glance swept across her face before he turned back to the girl, his manner changing as he spoke to her softly before she was led from the room by the older man.
‘Perhaps you would like to clean up, Miss Fitzgerald?’
She glanced down to hide her hot cheeks, mortified as her body reacted with dramatic tingling awareness to the critical clinical stare directed at the smears of blood on the upper slopes of her breasts.
She could see his point, a little blood could go a long way and the smears did look awful.
‘And obviously you will send me a bill for the cleaning.’
Actually he was just realising that nothing about this woman was obvious.
She had had an expensive dress ruined and, obviously, spoilt, self-absorbed materialist that she was, there should have been tantrums. But no, what did she do? Go all Mother Teresa on him! And he’d seen her face—her concern was either genuine or she was the best actress he had ever seen.
So maybe she was not all bad, but her redemption was not his business. Saving his brother was.
For Lucy the faint sneer in his voice was the last straw. She could almost hear the sound of her control snapping as she turned on him, eyes blazing, bosom heaving.
‘I can pay my own bills. Do you think I give a damn about the dress? I …’ She stopped, horrified to feel the prick of tears behind her eyelids. ‘I’ll go wash up!’ she blurted, making a dash for the door.
OUTSIDE the room Lucy had composed herself enough to ask for directions to the bathroom when she was approached by a staff member in the bewildering baronial hallway.
In the decadently appointed bathroom she had been directed to, Lucy stood with her hands under the running water, waiting for the desire to cry her eyes out to subside.
Finally feeling marginally more composed, she looked at her reflection in the mirror above the marble washbasin. The lighting above it emphasised the waxy pallor of her oval face; she didn’t even have her bag with her to make running repairs to her make-up.
With a deep troubled sigh she set about sponging the smears of blood from her skin and clothes.
Reluctant to leave the marble lined sanctuary, Lucy stood with her back against the cool wall. She shook her head, still totally bewildered. She had no idea what had been going on in there, didn’t have a clue why she had blown up that way.
Her efforts to analyse what had happened and why were hindered by the fact that every time she felt an answer to the puzzle was in reach, the image of his dark face and sleek body rose in her head, effectively blanking everything else.
What
