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But Jordan was no jilted lover or wannabe mistress. ‘Please,’ she persisted, hating the desperate note that crept into her voice. ‘Can you just call his office one more time?’
Somebody must still be up there. Sure, it was almost six-thirty p.m., but didn’t working hours in Spain differ from the norm at home? And hadn’t she read an online article just yesterday in which the CEO was quoted as saying he not only worked long hours himself, but expected key members of his staff to do the same?
But the guard shook his head. ‘Call tomorrow,’ he said.
Jordan felt the sharp bite of frustration in her belly. She’d already phoned the day before, and the day before that. Each time she’d been stonewalled by the CEO’s uppity assistant. Which was why she had trekked across the city in the stifling mid-August heat this afternoon and shown up in person.
She planted her feet and locked her knees, but her strength was no match for the guard’s. He started walking and she was forced to stumble along beside him, clutching her tote bag and the shreds of her dignity as he marched her towards the automatic sliding glass doors.
Her heart lurched. A few more steps and she’d be out on the street, back to square one.
The glass doors parted before them, letting in a blast of hot air, and she thought of the envelope in her bag—the letter she’d carried ten thousand miles across the globe—and a crushing sense of failure engulfed her.
All because she couldn’t find her way to the top of this imposing corporate fortress to see one man.
Her body stiffened in protest. ‘I’m Mr de la Vega’s stepsister!’ she cried out, and the guard pulled up short, surprise making his grip slacken just enough so she could wrench herself free.
Around them the cavernous foyer came to a standstill, the other security personnel behind the desk and the few office workers making their way to and from the lifts having paused and fallen silent in the wake of her outburst.
A tidal wave of heat swept up her body and into her face. Doing her best to ignore the curious stares, she levelled her gaze at the guard and said quietly, ‘I’m sure neither his assistant—nor you—would like to inform him that you’ve turned me away.’
The man rubbed the back of his neck, his face screwed up in a grimace of indecision. Finally, he said in a gruff voice, ‘Please wait.’
He returned to the desk to make a phone call and two minutes later a tall, elegant woman wearing a sleek navy shift dress and high heels emerged from a lift. She looked to the guard, who steered her in Jordan’s direction with a tilt of his head.
Jordan saw the woman give her an assessing, narrow-eyed once-over before striding across the marble floor towards her.
‘Ms Walsh.’ Her tone was cool. ‘Mr de la Vega is extremely busy, but he is willing to give you ten minutes of his time.’
Her English was accented, but good, and Jordan recognised the voice at once. She was the assistant who’d screened her phone calls and refused to give her an appointment.
Jordan forced a smile and resisted asking if Mr de la Vega was sure he could spare a whole ten minutes from his extremely busy schedule. Instead she offered a gracious, ‘Thank you,’ but the woman had already pivoted on a spiked heel and started back across the foyer, leaving Jordan to follow.
The guard held the lift doors open and then boarded with them, taking a position at the rear as they hurtled upwards to the forty-fourth floor.
Jordan’s heart raced and her hands grew clammy. After all the careful thought she’d put into this, the endless days of agonising indecision, the time spent working out what she’d say when...if...this moment came, she hadn’t expected to feel quite so nervous.
But then it was no small thing she was about to do. She had no idea how Xavier de la Vega would receive her. How he’d react. She wasn’t sure how she’d react herself in his position.
She cast a critical glance at her reflection in the highly polished panels of the lift doors. In a sleeveless white blouse, khaki capris and a pair of comfy shoes, she looked plain and unremarkable next to the tall, stunning Spanish woman. Her one feature worthy of note—her long, copper-red hair—was pulled into a high, no-fuss ponytail, and the tinted moisturiser she’d rubbed into her skin that morning was the closest thing to make-up her face had seen in weeks.
The lift doors opened and all thoughts of her appearance were swiftly forgotten as she followed the other woman into a large suite of offices. They walked along a wide corridor and she was conscious of the guard trailing close behind them, of thick carpet underfoot, high walls hung with expensive artwork and a hushed atmosphere. But the escalating flutter of nerves in her belly made everything else a blur.
And then they entered a big corner office and every shred of her attention was snagged and held by the man sitting behind the massive oak desk.
Jordan had seen photos of him online. Not many, mind you. Unlike his younger brother, of whom there were literally hundreds of photos scattered across the Internet, Xavier de la Vega appeared to value his privacy. But as her breath caught and her hands inexplicably shook she realised those two-dimensional images had not in any way prepared her for a personal, up-close encounter with this devastatingly handsome man.
And his eyes.
Grey...just like Camila’s.
Her throat thickened and she had to
swallow hard and blink fast to contain her emotion.
He stood, and she was struck by his height. Six foot at least, which surprised her. Her stepmother had been tiny, her figure perfectly proportioned but petite. By the time Jordan had turned sixteen she’d easily been able to rest her chin on top of Camila’s head when they’d hugged.
He walked around the desk and she saw that everything about him, from his neatly cropped black hair to his tailored grey suit and expensive-looking leather shoes, was immaculate. Even the full Windsor knot in his tie looked as if it had been flawlessly executed.
