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“I believe in myself.”
“You’re a terrible cynic.”
“I see the world as it is, rather than as I wish it could be.” Eternal love? A happy family? At thirty-five, Santiago had seen enough of the world to know those kind of miracles were few and far between. Tragedy was the normal state of the world. “Do you already regret sleeping with me?”
Shaking her head, she smiled up at him, looking kittenish and shy and so damned beautiful that his heart caught in his throat. “You feel so good to me. I’m glad you’re here.” She yawned, closing her eyes, cuddling against him. “I couldn’t bear to be alone tonight. You saved me...”
Pressing against his chest, she fell asleep in seconds.
Santiago yearned to sleep, as well. His body wanted to stay like this, with her, cuddled in this warm bed, taking solace in each other against the cold January night and all the other cold nights to come.
Warning lights were flashing everywhere.
He looked down at her, sweetly sleeping in his arms, so soft and beautiful, so opinionated and dreamy and kind. So optimistic.
You saved me.
Santiago felt bone-weary. Carefully, he disentangled himself from her. Rising from the bed, he walked naked to his coat crumpled on the floor. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he dialed the number of his pilot.
The man struggled not to sound groggy. It was eleven o’clock on a cold winter’s night. “Sir?”
“Come get me,” he replied. “I’m at Fairholme.”
Without waiting for a reply, Santiago hung up. He looked back at Belle one last time, sleeping in his bed, so beautiful in the moonlight. Like an innocent young woman from another time. He couldn’t remember ever being that innocent, not with the upbringing he’d had.
Whatever Belle might say, she would want to love him. She would try, like a moth immolating herself against an unfeeling flame.
Of course she would. He was her first.
His jaw tightened. He never would have seduced her if he’d known. He had a rule. No virgins. No innocent hearts. He never brought anyone to his bed who might actually care.
And he’d just seduced an innocent virgin. The friend of Darius’s wife.
He felt a low self-hatred. After Nadia, he’d vowed never to get involved with anyone again. Why risk your capital on an investment that was a guaranteed loss? Might as well flush your money—or your soul—straight down the drain.
He thought again of Wuthering Heights. He’d never read the book, but he knew it ended badly. It was romance, wasn’t it? That always ended badly. Especially in real life.
Santiago silently dressed, then picked up his overnight bag. But he hesitated at the door, still hearing the wistful echo of her voice.
Don’t you believe in anyone? Anything?
He’d lied to her. He’d told her he believed in himself. But the real answer was no.
Belle would wake up alone in bed and find him gone. No note would be needed. She’d get the message. He really was the heartless bastard he claimed to be.
As if there was ever any doubt, he jeered at himself. Regret and self-loathing filled him as he turned down the hall.
He wished he’d never touched her.
CHAPTER TWO
SHIVERING IN THE warm July twilight, Belle stood on the sidewalk of Santiago’s elegant residential street on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. She watched well-dressed guests step out of glossy chauffeured cars, climbing up the steps and ringing at his door, to be greeted by his butler.
A butler, she thought bitterly. Who had a butler in this day and age?
Santiago Velazquez—that was who.
But the butler wasn’t the problem. Belle watched a crowd of beautiful young socialites, giggling and preening, hurry up the steps of his brownstone in six-inch heels and designer cocktail dresses.
