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How could he let it hurt?
His cell phone was ringing and he snatched it out of his pocket, a faint feeling of disappointment washing over him when he saw it was Maximo Diaz, even though he was a good friend from way back. He was tempted to ignore the call, but why ruffle the feathers of one of the most powerful men in Spain, and one with a notoriously tight schedule?
He clicked on the ‘accept’ button. ‘Maximo?’
‘Usually, my phone calls are accepted with a little more enthusiasm that that, my friend,’ mocked the rich voice of the wealthy industrialist.
Salvatore gave a short laugh. ‘Forgive me. It has been a long week. Good to hear from you, Max. What can I do for you?’
‘I’m coming to San Francisco at the end of the month. I thought that maybe we could catch up. Unless you’re too occupied with this woman I’ve seen you pictured with in the papers.’
Salvatore’s mouth hardened. ‘Absolutely not,’ he said firmly. ‘That ship has sailed and I’d love to spend a night on the town with you, like the old days.’
Why not? he thought as he terminated the call. They were both virile and eligible men.
And they were both single.
His jaw tightening, Salvatore put the phone back down on his desk.
* * *
Haight Ashbury was certainly buzzy.
Sean’s apartment was directly above a Chinese restaurant—which offered them a discount on its delectable food. To Lina’s surprise there was a beautiful tree planted on the pavement outside—along with numerous stalls selling rainbow flags and badges, and music by people she’d never heard of. It was a bit strange to get used to jostling tourists taking photos of the iconic building whenever she went outside, but Lina convinced herself it made good sense to have such a startling change of circumstance.
Because this is my new life, she told herself fiercely.
With Sean’s help she pushed her bed up against the wall, creating as much space as possible for her sewing machine, her velvet and beads. Her actor flatmate’s hours were long. He started early, didn’t get back until late, then spent much of the evening learning his next day’s lines. It certainly disabused Lina of the idea that an actor’s life was one of glamour.
He’d asked her questions, of course. Or rather, he’d tried. But she had explained very firmly that she didn’t want to talk about Salvatore. She didn’t feel ready to and her emotions were still so volatile that she was terrified of bursting into tears.
Anyway, it was over. Salvatore hadn’t bothered ringing after she’d left him that letter, or tried to get in touch. She’d told herself she hadn’t been expecting him to and had tried very hard to crush her aching disappointment. What had come as a bit of a surprise—a gut-twisting shock, if she was being honest—was when, yesterday morning, Sean had shown her a picture taken of Salvatore and some darkly-handsome man, emerging from a famous San Franciscan nightclub. Lina had stared down at the photo with a feeling of growing dismay, because behind the two men it was possible to glimpse the tanned and toned legs of two gorgeous blonde women. The twist in her gut had tightened. That hadn’t taken him long, had it? Less than a month and it appeared he was dating again.
She had spent a miserable night after seeing that, waking up this morning bad-tempered, with a headache and craving a sugar rush, which was why she’d gone down to the nearby bakery to buy herself some breakfast. She was just offloading her frangipane croissant onto a plate in Sean’s cluttered kitchen, when she heard the sound of the doorbell.
It was probably a delivery, Lina thought as she ran down the rickety wooden staircase to answer it. Sean seemed to spend his life ordering things online, then sending them back again.
It wasn’t.
Standing on the doorstep, and somehow managing to own every bit of the
space around him, was Salvatore. In his immaculate suit, snowy shirt and silk tie, he looked very formal against the colourful backdrop of Haight. But then she noticed his unshaven jaw and the dark shadows beneath his tired eyes and a very instinctive spiral of jealousy made her want to slam the door in his face.
But that wouldn’t be dignified. It would be tantamount to showing him she cared—and why on earth would she do that?
Instead, she injected her voice with friendly enthusiasm, as if they were old friends who’d just met again after a long absence. ‘Salvatore, this is a surprise! Did you bring my mail?’
‘Your mail?’ he repeated blankly.
‘From my mother. You remember? I said I was expecting a letter. You could have forwarded it, you know.’
‘There is no mail.’
‘Oh. Right. She’s obviously still sulking. She has ignored every letter and email I’ve sent her.’
‘I didn’t come here to talk about your mother.’
‘Oh?’
