girl heading towards the exit. There was no chance he would let her get away. Having signed off the press passes personally, he knew Romy Winner didn’t appear on any of them.
Romy Winner was said to be ruthless in pursuit of a story, but she was no more ruthless than he was. Her work was reputed to be cutting-edge and insightful—he’d even heard it said that as a photojournalist Romy Winner had no equal—but that didn’t excuse her trespass here.
She had disappointed him, Kruz reflected as he closed in on her. Renowned for lodging herself in the most ingenious of nooks, he might have expected to find Ms Winner hanging from the roof trusses, or masquerading as a waitress, rather than skulking in the shadows like some rent-a-punk oddity, with her pale face, thin body, huge kohl-ringed eyes and that coal-black, gel-spiked, red-tipped hair, for all the wedding guests to stare at and comment on.
So Romy could catch guests off-guard and snap away at her leisure?
Maybe she wasn’t so dumb after all. She must have captured some great shots. He was impressed by her cunning, but far less impressed by Señorita Winner’s brazen attempt to gate-crash his brother’s wedding. He would make her pay. He just hadn’t decided what currency he was accepting today. That would depend on his mood when he caught up with her.
Romy hurried on into the darkness. She couldn’t shake the feeling she was being followed, though she doubted it was Kruz. Surely he had more important things to do?
Crunching her way along a cinder path, she reasoned that with all the Acosta siblings having been raised by Nacho, after their parents had been killed in a flood, Kruz had enjoyed no softening influence from a mother—which accounted for the air of danger surrounding him. It was no more than that. Her overworked imagination could take a rest. Pausing at a crossroads, she picked up the lights and followed them. She couldn’t afford to lose her nerve now. She had to get her copy away. The money Romy earned from her photographs kept her mother well cared for in the nursing home where she had lived since Romy’s father had beaten her half to death.
When Romy had first become a photojournalist it hadn’t taken her long to realise that pretty pictures earned pennies, while sensational images sold almost as well as sex. Her success in the field had been forged in stone on the day she was told that her mother would need full-time care for the rest of her life. From that day on Romy had been determined that her mother would have the best of care and Romy would provide it for her.
A gust of wind sweeping down from the Andes made her shudder violently. She wondered if she had ever felt more out of place than she did now. She lived in London, amidst constant bustle and noise. Here in the shadow of a gigantic mountain range everything turned sinister at night and her chest tightened as she quickened her step. The ghostly shape of the wedding tent was far behind her now, and ahead was just a vast emptiness, dotted with faint lights from the hacienda. There were no landmarks on the pampas and no stars to guide her. The Acosta brothers were giants amongst men, and the land they came from was on the same impressive scale. There were no boundaries here, there was only space, and the Acostas owned most of it.
Rounding a corner, she caught sight of the press coach again and began to jog. Her breath hitched in her throat as she stopped to listen. Was that a twig snapping behind her? Her heart was hammering so violently it was hard to tell. Focusing her gaze on the press coach, with its halo of aerials and satellite dishes, she fumbled for the key, wanting to have it ready in her hand—and cried out with shock as a man’s hand seized her wrist.
His other hand snatched hold of her camera. Reacting purely on instinct, she launched a stinging roundhouse kick—only to have her ankle captured in an iron grip.
‘Good, but not good enough,’ Kruz Acosta ground out.
Rammed up hard against the motorcoach, with Kruz’s head in her face, it was hard for Romy to disagree. In the unforgiving flesh, Kruz made the evidence of her camera lens seem pallid and insubstantial. He was hard like rock, and so close she could see the flecks of gold in his fierce black eyes, as well as the cynical twist on his mouth. While their gazes were locked he brought her camera strap down, inch by taunting inch, until finally he removed it from her arm and placed it on the ground behind him.
‘No,’ he said softly when she glanced at it.
She still made a lunge, which he countered effortlessly. Flipping her to the ground, he stood back. Rolling away, she sprang up, assuming a defensive position with her hands clenched into angry fists, and demanded that he give it up.
Kruz Acosta merely raised a brow.
‘I said—’
‘I heard what you said,’ he said quietly.
He was even more devastating at short range. She rubbed her arm as she stared balefully. He hadn’t hurt her. He had branded her with his touch.
A shocked cry sprang from her lips when he seized hold of her again. His reach was phenomenal. His grip like steel. He made no allowance for the fact that she was half his size, so now every inch of her was rammed up tight against him, and when she fought him he just laughed, saying, ‘Is that all you’ve got?’
She staggered as Kruz thrust her away. She felt humiliated as well as angry. Now he’d had a chance to take a better look at her he wasn’t impressed. And why would he be?
‘How does a member of the paparazzi get in here?’
Kruz was playing with her, she suspected. ‘I’m not paparazzi. I’m on the staff at ROCK!’
‘My apologies.’ He made her a mocking bow. ‘So you’re a fully paid-up member of the paparazzi. With your own executive office, I presume?’
‘I have a very nice office, as it happens,’ she lied. He was making her feel hot and self-conscious. She was used to being in control. It was going too far to say that amongst photojournalists she was accorded a certain respect, but she certainly wasn’t used to being talked down to by men.
‘So as well as being an infamous photojournalist and an executive at ROCK! magazine,’ Kruz mocked, ‘I now discover that the infamous Romy Winner is an expert kick-boxer.’
Her cheeks flushed red. Not so expert, since he’d blocked her first move.
‘I suppose kick-boxing is a useful skill when it comes to gate-crashing events you haven’t been invited to?’ Kruz suggested.
‘It’s one of my interests—and just as well with men like you around—’
‘Men like me?’ he said, holding her angry stare. ‘Perhaps you and I should get on the mat in the gym sometime.’
‘Over my dead body,’ she fired back.
His look suggested he expected her to blink, or flinch, or even lower her gaze in submission. She did none of those things, though she did find herself staring at his lips. Kruz had the most amazing mouth—hard, yet sensual—and she couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like to be kissed by him, though she had a pretty good idea…
An idea that was ridiculous! It wouldn’t happen this side of hell. Kruz was one of the beautiful people—the type she liked to look at through her lens much as a wildlife photographer might observe a tiger, without having the slightest intention of touching it. Instead of drooling over him like some lovesick teenager it was time to put him straight.
‘Kick-boxing is great
