heart raced and her hands grew clammy. After all the careful thought she’d put into this, the endless days of agonising indecision, the time spent working out what she’d say when...if...this moment came, she hadn’t expected to feel quite so nervous.
But then it was no small thing she was about to do. She had no idea how Xavier de la Vega would receive her. How he’d react. She wasn’t sure how she’d react herself in his position.
She cast a critical glance at her reflection in the highly polished panels of the lift doors. In a sleeveless white blouse, khaki capris and a pair of comfy shoes, she looked plain and unremarkable next to the tall, stunning Spanish woman. Her one feature worthy of note—her long, copper-red hair—was pulled into a high, no-fuss ponytail, and the tinted moisturiser she’d rubbed into her skin that morning was the closest thing to make-up her face had seen in weeks.
The lift doors opened and all thoughts of her appearance were swiftly forgotten as she followed the other woman into a large suite of offices. They walked along a wide corridor and she was conscious of the guard trailing close behind them, of thick carpet underfoot, high walls hung with expensive artwork and a hushed atmosphere. But the escalating flutter of nerves in her belly made everything else a blur.
And then they entered a big corner office and every shred of her attention was snagged and held by the man sitting behind the massive oak desk.
Jordan had seen photos of him online. Not many, mind you. Unlike his younger brother, of whom there were literally hundreds of photos scattered across the Internet, Xavier de la Vega appeared to value his privacy. But as her breath caught and her hands inexplicably shook she realised those two-dimensional images had not in any way prepared her for a personal, up-close encounter with this devastatingly handsome man.
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
