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‘I think you want to live out there because you stood outside those houses, watching those people. Wanting them to notice you. I understand what that must have been like...’
Emotions were rising inside Lazaro—dark, tangled emotions.
Skye was continuing. ‘If you think living amongst them will bring you peace then—’
‘Enough.’
Something had snapped inside Lazaro. He’d never wanted to touch Skye as much as he did in that moment. Worse. He needed to touch her. To quiet the tumult in his head. Which was exactly why he had to resist.
‘I’ve heard enough pop psychology for one evening, Skye. We will discuss this another time. I have some work to catch up on. You should go to bed—it’s late.’
He turned away from her and walked away, with the image of those huge blue eyes, watching him the whole way, branded onto his brain.
* * *
Skye watched him leave. She knew, to her shame, that if he had touched her she would have been too weak to resist him. So she had to give thanks for his not exposing her. And for revealing the chasm that existed between them when he wasn’t touching her. For reminding her that there was far more keeping them apart than together.
CHAPTER TEN
ON THE DAY of the public bid Lazaro’s driver came to pick Skye up from the apartment. She’d chosen a cream silk shirt-dress and matching jacket. Nude court shoes. She’d even gone to a hairdresser to get her hair tamed, not wanting to draw any adverse attention to Lazaro.
When she arrived at the market where the bid was taking place she was met by Sara, who had been there on the day of the wedding. Skye was glad to see a familiar face. She still felt raw after the exchange with Lazaro the other night.
Sara pointed out where Lazaro was standing—looking serious—with a group of other people. Skye recognised Gabriel Torres and scanned the crowd for Leonora, but couldn’t see the brunette beauty.
‘...your logo.’
Skye realised Sara had been talking to her, but she’d been too busy scanning
the space to take in what she’d said. ‘I’m sorry, what was that?’
The girl looked around and said, ‘Señor Sanchez would kill me for saying this, but we all preferred your logo and your design for the project.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ Skye said, touched. ‘But I understand how these things go. If the agency didn’t want to use it then—’
‘Oh, but no—that’s it. Everyone wanted to use it but Señor Sanchez vetoed it in the end, saying that it wasn’t appropriate.’
Skye didn’t have much time to take in that revelation, because Lazaro was walking over to where she was standing and his assistant melted away.
He took Skye by the hand and led her over to where there were some seats. He explained that the two presentations for the bid would be shown and then, after the public had had about a month to view the plans, their vote would be added to the councillors votes and the winner would be announced.
Skye tried to put out of her mind what Sara had said, telling herself it wasn’t important. But the feeling of hurt wouldn’t disappear. Why had Lazaro decided not to use her logo?
The two presentations got underway, with both Gabriel Torres and Lazaro producing very slick videos detailing their plans for the space. Gabriel’s was focused more on maximising the utility of the space, and Lazaro’s centred around it being used primarily as a market, encompassing craft shops, galleries, restaurants and shops, along with a traditional fruit and vegetable market.
As Skye watched his presentation she felt emotional. The man who spoke so lovingly about this space was not a man who wanted to live in a glass box in the stuffy suburbs. She knew it.
Afterwards there was a reception, and Lazaro came over to Skye. She could see the intensity on his face, in his eyes. Going up against his half-brother was taking so much out of him. But he wouldn’t want to hear her pop psychology.
‘It was brilliant,’ she said.
He looked at her, seemed about to say something, but just then his attention was caught by something above her head and he went white.
Skye reached for his hand. ‘Lazaro, what is it? You’re scaring me.’
His lips were bloodless. She’d never seen his eyes look so haunted.
He said, almost to himself, ‘It’s my mother.’
