Kruz commented.
She shrugged, neither wanting nor able to confide in him. ‘I just need to do a little more work,’ she said. ‘That’s if you’ll let me stay to do it?’ she added, turning to face him, knowing it could only be a matter of minutes before they went their separate ways.
This was the moment she had been dreading and yet she needed him to go, Romy realised. Staring at those photographs of Grace and Nacho had only underlined the fact that her own life was going nowhere.
‘Here,’ she said, handing over the memory stick. ‘These are for you and for the charity. You will keep that special shot?’ she said, her chest tightening at the thought that Kruz might think nothing of it.
‘So I can stare at myself?’ he suggested, slanting her a half-smile.
‘So you can look at your family,’ she corrected him, ‘and feel their love.’
Did he have to stare at her so intently? She wished he wouldn’t. It made her uncomfortable. She didn’t know what Kruz expected from her.
‘What?’ she said, when he continued to stare.
‘I never took you for an emotional woman,’ he said.
‘Because I’m not,’ she countered, but her breath caught in her throat, calling her a liar. The French called this a coup de foudre—a thunderbolt. She had no explanation for the longing inside her except to say Kruz had turned her life inside out. It made no sense. They hardly knew each other outside of sex. They didn’t know if they could trust each other, and they had no shared history. They had everything to learn about each other and no time to do so. And why would Kruz want to know more about her?
They could be friends, maybe…
Friends? She almost laughed out loud at this naïve suggestion from a subconscious that hadn’t learned much in her twenty-four years of life. Romy Winner and Kruz Acosta? Ms Frost and Señor Ice? Taking time out to get to know each other? To really get to know each other? The idea was so preposterous she wasn’t going to waste another second on it. She’d settle for maintaining a truce between them long enough for her to leave Argentina in one piece with her camera.
‘Thanks for this,’ Kruz said, angling his stubble-shaded chin as he slipped the memory stick into his pocket.
She felt lost when he turned to go—something else she would have to get used to. She had to get over him. She’d leave love at first sight to those who believed in it. As far as she was concerned love at first sight was a load of bull. Lust at first sight, maybe. Lack of self-control, certainly.
Her throat squeezed tight when he reached the door and turned to look at her.
‘How are you planning to get back to England, Romy?’
‘The same way I arrived, I guess,’ she said wryly.
‘Did you bring much luggage with you?’
‘Just the essentials.’ She glanced at her kitbag, where everything she’d brought to Argentina was stashed. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘My jet’s flying to London tomorrow and there are still a few spare places, if you’re stuck.’
Did he mean stuck as in unprepared? Did he think she was so irresponsible? Maybe he thought she was an opportunist who seized the moment and thought nothing more about it?
‘I bought a return ticket,’ she said, just short of tongue in cheek. ‘But thanks for the offer.’
Kruz shrugged, but as he was about to go through the door he paused. ‘You’re passing up the chance to take some exclusive shots of the young royals—’
‘So be it,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t dream of intruding on their privacy.’
‘Romy Winner passing up a scoop?’
‘What you’re suggesting sounds more like a cheap thrill for an amateur,’ she retorted, stung by his poor opinion of her. ‘When celebrities or royals are out in public it’s a different matter.’
Kruz made a calming motion with his hands.
‘I am calm,’ she said, raging with frustration at the thought that they had shared so much yet knew so little about each other. Kruz had tagged her with the label paparazzi the first moment he’d caught sight of her—as someone who would do anything it took to get her shots. Even have sex with Kruz Acosta, presumably, if that was what was required.
‘Romy—’
‘What?’ she flashed defensively.
‘You seem… angry?’ Kruz suggested dryly.
She huffed, as if she didn’t care what he thought, but even so her gaze was drawn to his mouth. ‘I just wonder what type of photographer you think I am,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘A very good one, from what I’ve seen today, Señorita Winner,’ Kruz said softly, completely disarming her.
‘Gracias,’ she said, firming her jaw as they stared at each other.
And now Kruz should leave. And she should stay where she was—at the back of the coach, as far away from him as possible, with a desk, a chair and most of the coach seats between them.
She waited for him to go, to close the door behind him and bring this madness to an end.
He didn’t go.
Leaning over the driver’s seat, Kruz hit the master switch and the lights dimmed, and then he walked down the aisle towards her.
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