Filthy Rich Revenge: A Filthy Rich Billionaires Book Page 5

  His eyes caught and held hers. He took a step closer, still not touching her, but invading her space with his overwhelming physicality. “Your nipples bud for me. Feel how they want my touch. Should I kiss them?”

  “You’re mistaken,” she choked out, forcing herself not to glance down, not to see the proof of his words.

  A sensual grin creased his handsome features. “I am never mistaken about such things. Your heart pounds for me. I can see it. It is like a frightened rabbit.”

  “You’re standing too close. I don’t like it.”

  He stepped in again, until the hard length of his body hemmed her against the conference table. He placed his arms on either side of her, trapping her. “I think you do. I think, in fact, that you want me desperately.”

  “You’re wrong, Alejandro,” she said, lifting her head to look him in the eye and deliver what she prayed was a stern look. “I hate you. I don’t want you.”

  And yet her skin sizzled from his nearness. Her brain threatened to disengage completely. Her body trembled in spite of her resolve and an ache bloomed in her sex, rippled outward on currents of liquid heat.

  Alejandro’s smile was too knowing, too masculine. “Sí, I feel your hatred. It is very strong. Very frightening for me.”

  His head dipped toward her. Her eyes drifted closed and he chuckled low in his throat, a sound of male triumph. Any second, he would kiss her. Any second, she would allow it. In spite of all she’d said. She was too weak, too lonely and needy—

  No.

  She found the strength to lift her palms, to push against his chest. At the same instant, a buzzer sliced through the room. Alejandro stepped away, Spanish curses falling from his lips as he reached for the phone.

  “Sí?” he barked.

  Rebecca snatched up her briefcase and purse. She had to get away from here. She had to get home, back to New York, before Alejandro stripped her of far more than her company.

  Her hand was on the door when his fingers closed over her shoulder. She gasped as he spun her around, pressed her against the door, his hard thigh wedged between her legs. He gripped her chin, pushed her head back until she was staring him in the eye.

  “You will not leave me again, Rebecca. I call the shots, comprende?”

  His voice was low, intense. She had the feeling his words were more than a statement of fact. They were a vow.

  In spite of the heat between them, a chill slid over her. “I’m going to the airport, Alejandro. There’s nothing for me here.”

  His eyes were colder than frost as he let her go and took a step back. “Walk out that door and I will destroy Layton International. Your employees will be without jobs, your hotels sold or demolished, your assets carved up and absorbed into Ramirez Enterprises. I will make sure you never work in this industry again. No one will ever hire you, Rebecca. Walk out and it’s over.”

  The depth of his fury stunned her. She wished she had the strength to do it, to walk out and not give a damn. But she couldn’t let him take away the livelihood of the people who depended on her. At this moment, she didn’t care about herself—being anywhere but here, with him, would be less painful to her—but she couldn’t desert them.

  “What do you want from me?”

  He glared at her without speaking for so long that she wondered if he’d heard her. When she started to repeat the question, he turned away.

  “All in good time, Señorita Layton.” He flicked a hand as if shooing away a bothersome fly. “You may go now.”

  7

  What did he want from her? Alejandro stared at the blinking skyline of Madrid at night. Problems in Dubai should take precedence. He had a hotel to build and permits to straighten out before he could do so, and yet he couldn’t seem to get the problem of Rebecca Layton out of his mind while he worked late.

  He reached for the pale sherry he’d poured over twenty minutes ago, took a sip.

  Damn her and her lies.

  It was her fault he’d married Caridad. He would never have agreed to it had Rebecca not left him. Had she not stolen from him.

  It wasn’t just that she’d yanked the safety net out from under him. While it would have taken him far longer to take Ramirez Enterprises global without the Cahill Group’s backing, he still could have done it without Caridad’s family contributing to his coffers.

  No, what Rebecca’s betrayal confirmed was the folly of allowing emotion to rule his head. He’d cared for her, had even envisioned the children they would have if he married her. He’d grown up with parents whose daily emotional drama should have inured him to any hint of sentiment, but Rebecca’s smokescreen of naïve charm had pulled him into her web.

  What a bloody idiot.

  And then he’d returned to his suite one afternoon and found a severe-looking woman waiting for him and no sign of Rebecca. The woman fanned open a thick folder and nattered at him about planning a wedding.

  It’d taken him several more minutes to realize Rebecca’s suitcases were gone. The woman simply shrugged. “Sí,” she’d said. “There was a pretty young woman. She wished you a happy marriage to Señorita Mendoza.”

  That’s when it dawned on him. His father, the old fool, had been urging him to marry Caridad since Roberto’s death. Arranged marriages were no longer commonplace, but they did happen from time to time. His father had seen it as a measure of his own importance to find a bride for his eldest son. Roberto hadn’t had the guts to object, which Juan Ramirez had known full well. He’d never have tried it with Alejandro—until Roberto died and he wanted to save face with the Mendozas. Señor Mendoza had loaned him a lot of money, and Juan intended to deliver his famous son as payment if it was the last thing he did.

  Alejandro had steadfastly refused. Apparently, Juan had decided to step up the campaign. The timing could not have been worse.

  Alejandro’s first thought was to go after Rebecca. But she had a head start and he had no idea where she’d gone. His calls to her mobile phone went unanswered. Two days later, she finally picked up. From London. She’d been cool and aloof, and he’d lost his temper. How dare she expect an explanation? All she needed was to accept that what he told her was the truth. He was not engaged.

  Not surprisingly, she hadn’t believed him. He’d realized later that his alleged engagement was merely a convenient excuse for her to do what she’d always intended to do. The next day, Roger Cahill told him they were backing Layton International instead.

  Rebecca had said she loved him, but she’d lied. He wasn’t good enough for her and never would be in her eyes.

  You weren’t important enough.

  It had pricked his pride, sliced a wound in his soul, the knowledge this woman he’d cared about had used him. Never again would he believe protestations of love from any female. Since love was a fool’s dream, he’d agreed to marry Caridad. Why not? Her breeding and social standing were impeccable. She would be the perfect hostess, the perfect tycoon’s wife, and the perfect mother to his children.

  He’d certainly been mistaken on that point. He could not have chosen a colder, more unfeeling woman for his wife if he’d tried.

  Alejandro swallowed a mouthful of sherry, welcomed the burn as it slid down his throat. Who could have guessed how much pain he would have to endure before his marriage was over? He’d never known such despair, such aching emptiness until he married Caridad. Everything that happened to him, everything that sliced his soul to shreds and left him hollow inside could be traced to that moment when Rebecca had left him. If not for her, it would have turned out so differently.

  He’d vowed long ago that every ounce of pain she’d ever dealt him would be returned to her before he was through. That’s what he wanted from her. Nothing less than complete revenge.

  Rebecca had no real destination as she wandered through Alejandro’s darkened house. It was after ten and everything was quiet. A small lamp burned on the desk in the home office she’d first seen him in yesterday. She went inside, thinking to find a book to read since
she wasn’t sleeping so well.

  She studied the titles lining the bookshelves with interest. What did Alejandro like to read? It surprised her to realize she hadn’t known before. Hadn’t known much about him, in fact, if she thought about it. He’d come far indeed in the five years since she’d last seen him.

  But his fury and hatred stunned her. Clearly, he believed she had ruined his deal with the Cahill Group. But even if it were true, which it was not, why would that be enough to make him hate her so much? The business world was often unfair. Life was unfair. Sometimes, it was downright cruel. Plenty of times in the last few months she’d wanted to bury her head in her hands and scream at the unfairness that left her in charge of Layton International so soon. The monstrous bad luck that had her father climbing on a tiny plane in Thailand so he could tour the resorts he’d just acquired.

  But she hadn’t. She’d picked herself up and dusted herself off and got back to work. There was no other choice.

  Most of the books were in Spanish. Don Quixote, naturally. The Count of Monte Cristo in English. Interesting. She started to reach for Dumas’ tale of wrongful imprisonment and revenge, but another book caught her eye. This one had “Photos” emblazoned on the spine.

  What sort of photos would a man like Alejandro find important enough to keep in an album? Bullfighting ones, no doubt. Curious, she pulled the book from the shelf and placed it on the desk in front of her.

  She opened the cover—and sank onto Alejandro’s chair, her knees no longer strong enough to hold her up. A little girl smiled back at her. A beautiful, black-haired child with grey eyes and a smile so familiar it hurt to see it.

  But to see it in a toddler?

  His child. Without a doubt, this girl was Alejandro’s child. She had his smile, his eyes, the stubborn tilt of his chin. When he appeared in a picture with her, the resemblance was unmistakable. Tears sprang to Rebecca’s eyes. Why? She wiped at them furiously, flipping pages until she came to a photo that made her heart stop. Alejandro holding the little girl on a beach. He was healthy and tan, his smile glowing as he gazed at his daughter. The girl stared at whoever took the photo, a finger in her mouth, her eyes wide.

  Rebecca chewed absently on a knuckle. My God, he’d had a child after she’d gone back to America. He’d married the woman and had a beautiful little girl with her. Jealousy speared Rebecca like a poisoned barb. You have no right, she told herself. You left.

  But she’d had to go. He’d been engaged.

  He said he wasn’t, a voice whispered. You gave him no chance to prove it.

  She shook her head. If he hadn’t been engaged, why did he go through with it? You didn’t marry someone and have a child with her if you weren’t committed somehow.

  Rebecca forced herself to flip more pages. It was mostly the little girl, though her mother appeared in a couple. Never smiling, this woman. Never looking anything other than irritated.

  A nanny, perhaps?

  But no, the little girl had her mother’s bone structure. Rebecca turned the pages faster. She could almost be glad that Alejandro had a sour-faced wife. If not for the little girl who was probably tugged between divorced parents even now. No child deserved to have parents who disliked each other.

  At least her own parents had been in love, even if her father had never been home long enough to pay any attention to a disappointing girl-child who craved his affection and approval. Her mother, who was addicted to shopping and socializing, often left Rebecca in the care of a nanny. She’d been a lonely, lonely child.

  An awkward child, too. People had told her she was pretty, but she’d never felt pretty. Her entire sense of self-esteem had been badly damaged by her parents when she’d been young. She wasn’t certain it had ever fully recovered, though she’d hid her doubts well the older she got. But the lonely child had turned into a lonely adult. She swiped a hand beneath her nose, sniffed back her tears. Get over it.

  There was no sense in dwelling on the past. It couldn’t be fixed. All she could control was the present—and apparently she couldn’t control that very well because look at where she was and what had happened.

  She turned the pages a little more quickly, pushing away any self-pity. There was no time for it. Not if she wanted to get herself out of this mess. On the last page of the album was an official-looking document, but it was in Spanish and she couldn’t read it. Certificate de defunción. What did that mean?

  “What are you doing in here?”

  Rebecca jumped, her head whipping up at the angry demand. She’d been so focused she hadn’t heard him come in. She slapped the album closed a little too hard, a guilty reaction at being caught.

  Alejandro strode into the room and snatched the album from the desk. “You are never to touch this again, comprende? Cristo!” He spun from her and disappeared through the door.

  She sat in stunned silence. She’d invaded his privacy. She’d expected him to rail at her and throw her out on her ear. She had not expected him to storm away in a towering rage. She shot to her feet, intending to get back to her room before he returned.

  But she’d waited too long. Alejandro loomed in the entry, anger rolling off him in waves.

  “You dare to go through my things? After what you did the last time?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. She hadn’t meant to pry, but when she’d seen the album, she’d simply been too curious to stop. “Your daughter is very pretty, Alejandro. I’m sorry if I upset you by looking at her photos.”

  He passed a hand over his face, swore under his breath while shaking his head. It made no sense to her, but when his hand dropped away, what she saw on his face twisted her heart.

  Pain like nothing she’d ever experienced. Longing and regret.

  Loneliness.

  He pulled in a ragged breath. “Sí, Anya was very pretty. She was the best thing I have ever done.”

  Was? Rebecca’s heart squeezed hard. Oh dear God. The official document was a death certificate. Defunción. Death. How had she blundered so badly?

  She swallowed the knot clogging her throat. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  “Get out of my sight.” The words fell like empty bullets onto the floor. Hollow, dull. He sounded suddenly very tired, very worn. Very unlike the vibrant man she knew.

  She came out from behind the desk and walked to the door. He flinched when she put her hand on his arm. The movement saddened her. Once he would have welcomed her touch. No longer. “I’m sorry for your loss, Alejandro.”

  She truly was. No one should have to endure such a thing. The experience had changed him, she could see that. It made him harder, colder, less sympathetic than he’d once been.

  It explained so much. She ached for him.

  His hand closed over hers before she could pull it away, held it there as his pain-filled eyes raked her.

  “You think I am like the lion with the thorn in his paw, yes? You think if you pull it out, I will be forever in your debt?”

  Rebecca swallowed. As much as he tried, the malice was missing. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  The knot in her throat was tight. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. No one should lose a child. I can’t know your pain, but I’m sorry for it.” She knew what it was like to lose a parent unexpectedly, but her father at least had a life first. Alejandro’s little girl never got the chance.

  His fingers tightened. “You would offer to comfort me, perhaps? Take me to bed and make me forget?”

  Rebecca couldn’t speak. She watched him, her breath tight in her chest, her eyes filling with unshed tears. A part of her was ready to hold him, to let him take whatever he wanted from her. Another part, the angry, betrayed part, wanted to hold onto her fury at him. She was paralyzed by opposite urges.

  Alejandro was not. “You can keep your pity and comfort to yourself, Rebecca Layton. I do not need it.”

  He let go of her hand.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. Because there was nothing
else to say.

  “Go.”

  She hesitated. And then she walked out and left him alone to grieve.

  8

  Why couldn’t she sleep?

  By the time Rebecca stood at the pool’s edge and considered taking off her robe and underwear and going for a swim, it was nearly three in the morning. She’d tried to sleep. She’d turned on the television and watched a Spanish-language movie—not that she understood a word—and hoped it would bore her enough.

  It hadn’t. But was it jetlag or Alejandro that kept her awake?

  She swirled a toe in the water and thought of the look on his face when he’d told her his child was gone forever. No one should ever have to endure such a thing. A hand drifted over her abdomen. Once upon a time, she’d thought she would be the mother of Alejandro’s children.

  Her heart swelled with sorrow. His poor, poor wife. Rebecca had never spared any good will for the woman who’d crushed her dreams with her mere existence, but she hurt for the former Mrs. Ramirez now. Had their child’s death torn their marriage apart?

  Alejandro had been so angry earlier, so defeated. Not at all the man she knew. She’d had no idea what to say to him, no words to breach the barrier of anger and mistrust between them. She’d been focused on her own problems since arriving. The shock of realizing he was very much as human and vulnerable as anyone was hard to reconcile with the brutal tycoon who wanted to destroy her life.

  His loneliness had reached out to her and she’d been almost powerless to resist it. In spite of the hurt, in spite of all he’d done to humiliate and control her, she’d felt in that instant like they shared a connection.

  A very, very dangerous feeling.

  Rebecca blew out a breath. What had happened to little Anya? She’d been such a beautiful child, so sweet looking. Then again, weren’t all babies sweet looking? She didn’t know much about babies. She was an only child and she had no close girlfriends who had children.

  Tears threatened, lodging in her throat, a ball of pain she couldn’t swallow. Damn it, she had to stop thinking about this. About him.