change that.’
And in thirty-five years nothing ever had. Not even the unexpected arrival of his younger brother, Ramon, the ‘miracle baby’ the doctors had told his mother she’d never have.
His parents had also told him that if one day he decided he wanted to trace his biological family they would support him in that quest. He’d never chosen that path, but he knew that if he had they would have stayed true to their word.
Because Vittorio and Elena de la Vega were good people. Good parents.
Xav had worked hard over the years to make them proud. Worked harder still to prove to those members of the extended family who’d never accepted him as one of their own that he was worthy of the de la Vega name.
As a boy, seeing how the veiled barbs and sly taunts upset his mamá had made him even more determined to prove he was just as good as, if not better than, any of them.
Years later, he still faced the same insidious prejudices—but now he had the pleasure of rubbing his detractors’ noses in his unrivalled success.
No. Despite the solicitor’s discomfort, Xav would not involve his parents at this point. He would shield them. Protect them. At least until he understood what—or rather who—he was dealing with.
He sat down at the handcrafted oak desk that had been handed down from father to son, along with the role of Chief Executive, through four generations of de la Vega menfolk over a span of more than sixty years.
‘This conversation remains strictly between you and me,’ he said. ‘Are we clear?’
‘As you wish,’ the older man said, resigned but respectful. ‘Just a moment...’
Xav heard the sounds of papers being shuffled before Roberto spoke again.
‘Ah... I remember now. Miss Sanchez was the niece of your parents’ housekeeper at the time. The adoption was private, the paperwork drawn up through this office.’
Xav was silent a moment, his mind processing. Assimilating. Finally, he said, ‘Gràcies, Roberto. I appreciate your help—and discretion,’ he emphasised, and then he ended the call and immediately made another.
The security specialist the Vega Corporation kept on retainer answered on the first ring. ‘I just emailed the dossier through to you,’ the man said without preamble.
‘Any red flags?’
‘None. A couple of parking offences, but nothing more serious. She’s single, a qualified trauma nurse currently unemployed. Presence on social media is sporadic and low-key. Mother lives in North America. Father’s dead—and, yes, he was married to a Camila Walsh, nee Sanchez, now also deceased.’ He paused. ‘Without knowing what your specific concerns are, I’d say she’s pretty harmless.’
Xav twisted his lips. Any man who believed women were harmless was a fool. He knew from experience they weren’t. It was why he’d taken exceptional care in choosing his lovers over the last decade—and why he was being equally judicious in choosing a wife.
‘And the surveillance?’ he asked.
‘We’ve still got eyes on her. She was at a dance club till one a.m. She hasn’t left the hostel yet this morning.’
Xav narrowed his eyes. Jordan Walsh was an unemployed party girl? ‘Keep me apprised of her movements.’ He tapped his keyboard to bring his computer screen to life. ‘I’ll let you know if I need anything further.’
He put his phone down, located the email in his inbox and opened the attachment. The first section of the document covered basic stats—name, age, marital status, occupation—and included a photo: a full-colour head-and-shoulders shot that had probably come from one of her social media accounts. She was smiling into the camera lens, giving the illusion that she was smiling straight at him, and just looking at the image gave him the same visceral gut-punch reaction that he’d experienced last night when she’d walked into his office.
Right before she had turned his world on its head and then stalked out.
Over the years he’d met hundreds of beautiful women, had slept with a select few, but never had he been so immediately or powerfully arrested by a woman’s looks before.
Her colouring was striking, with a head-turning combination of Titian hair and extraordinary hazel eyes which were a fascinating blend of green and gold. Her features were strong and symmetrical, with bold cheekbones, a straight nose and a wide, generous mouth.
Not pretty by conventional standards, perhaps, but stunning nevertheless.
Abruptly he sat back, irritated at his unusual lack of focus. Jordan Walsh’s looks, however remarkable, were irrelevant. She was a problem to be handled—that was all. One he needed to contain until he understood what threat, if any, she posed. Just as his feelings about his birth mother would have to be shelved and examined at a later stage. He didn’t have time for distractions. He had a global corporation to run. A multimillion-dollar acquisition to negotiate—a major deal that at least one member of the board would relish seeing him fail to close.
He opened the drawer where he’d shoved the photo and the piece of paper she’d left on his desk last night. He picked up his phone to punch in the number she’d written down, but then suddenly changed his mind, slipped the paper and his phone into his jacket pocket and stood.
In the anteroom outside his office he paused by Lucia’s desk and checked his watch. It was ten-twenty a.m. ‘I’m heading out,’ he told her.
Her heavily made-up eyes blinked as if he’d said something unintelligible. She glanced at her computer screen. ‘But...you have a ten-thirty meeting with the Marketing Director.’
‘Reschedule it. And arrange for Juan and Fernando to meet me with the car downstairs straight away.’
Lucia gaped at him, nonplussed. ‘And your video call with Peter Reynaud at noon?’
‘I’ll be back in time for that,’ he said, because he had to be. His intended acquisition of Reynaud Industries took priority over everything.
Buttoning his jacket, he turned to go.
Lucia shot up from her chair, her expression vaguely panicked. ‘But where are you going?’
‘To deal with a problem,’ he replied, and strode towards the lifts, leaving his wide-eyed, slack-jawed secretary staring after him.
* * *
Barcelona was basking in the heat of a blazing sun beneath a glorious blue sky when Jordan emerged from the hostel just before eleven a.m. She’d risen late and then lingered over breakfast, chatting with a Canadian guy and a young German couple who’d wanted to ask her a bunch of questions about Australia.
Pausing on the pavement outside the hostel, she rummaged in her tote bag for her sunglasses and slid them on. She had a mild headache, and her ears still rang from the overloud music in the club last night, but at least she wasn’t suffering with a hangover. She’d had one tequila shot with the girls, then stuck with lime and soda water for the rest of the time.
The dancing had been fun, but the clubbing scene wasn’t really her thing. She’d
