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His car, naturally, is sleek and black, a beautiful sports car with heavily tinted windows, a golden badge I don’t recognise on the bonnet. The headlights flash as we approach. He surprises me with his manners as he comes to the passenger door and opens it for me. When I move to step inside, he puts a hand on my arm. Every part of me goes haywire.
‘I’m glad you came.’
My stomach twists. I stare at him, right back to where I was a week ago, torn between what I want and what I know I must do, how I know I must act.
My smile is tight, my body hot. ‘It’s a good opportunity to appraise your casino. Thank you for suggesting it.’
The suggestion of a smile plays on his lips. I feel his cynicism and slip into the car before I can say something else, drawing the seat belt into place.
He rounds his side, flaring the engine to life a moment after taking a seat. The car instantly feels smaller, his presence overpowering. I am conscious of the strain of his trousers across his thighs, his hyper-masculine fragrance, his capable hands on the wheel. He tilts me a sidelong glance, then checks his rear-view mirror. A car is approaching, black with windows tinted just as dark as these.
‘Your staff?’
I flick a glance in the mirror as Alex puts down the driver window so I can identify his face. I nod. Santiago puts the car into reverse and backs out in one swift, easy motion, then accelerates forward. With every rev, I feel the car’s power beneath me, thrilling and raw, just like Santiago. His hands shift the gear stick as he drives, so my eyes are drawn to his fingers, tanned and confident, and his leanly muscled forearms. At the bottom of the car park, he presses a button and the driver window lowers, allowing him to tap his phone to the boom gate. It opens in response, but he waits on the other side, conscious of the security agents, allowing them time to come through behind us before he accelerates into traffic.
I’ve been to Spain before, but there’s something about being here like this—incognito, no official schedule of visits, no state engagements, undercover and unknown—that makes the whole outlook glisten with magic. The buildings are at first industrial, but as we draw nearer to the centre I see the hallmarks of this famed city. Baroque buildings in various states of repair are juxtaposed with modern constructions and Renaissance churches remain, their stone features beautiful, the perfect contrast to the Gaudi and Gaudi-influenced buildings we zip past in the city centre.
We drive through a restaurant precinct, the buildings close together, with red awnings and flower pots adding bursts of colour. The street is paved and narrow, so Santiago slows down, and I glimpse tables all set to face the street, the umbrellas dotted around to ward off the sun. Diners are dressed with casual elegance, and suddenly I long to be amongst them, eating tapas and drinking wine, making conversation with like-minded friends. A pang of longing assails me for the type of simple friendships most people take for granted.
‘A sigh?’
I spin to face Santiago, a frown pulling at the corner of my mouth. ‘Excuse me?’
He turns to look at me and my breath catches in my throat. His eyes are as golden as the Barcelona sunshine today, framed by thick, dark lashes. Those freckles on the bridge of his nose draw my attention.
‘You sighed.’
‘Oh.’ I swallow. ‘It’s just—this looks so lovely.’
His eyes shift beyond me to the tables strewn with afternoon diners.
‘We can come here for dinner.’
My spine jolts with warmth. It’s not a dinner invitation. It’s so much more intimate than that. It’s a presupposition that we’ll share a meal.
‘I came to assess the casino,’ I remind him primly, already forgetting that this is also, in part, a chance for me to kick up my heels—discreetly, of course. ‘Dinner on the streets of Barcelona, while charming under different circumstances, is unnecessary.’
His eyes hold mine for a moment longer and then, with a slight smile, he turns back and continues driving. The world beyond the car has lost its ability to hold my attention. All my focus is now on Santiago.
‘Is there something in your royal rule book that precludes fun?’
Despite the question, I smile. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, there’s no such thing as royal rule book.’
‘Isn’t there?’
The question is insightful. I sigh again, a soft exhalation of breath this time. ‘There are...conventions and expectations,’ I murmur. I don’t explain to him that my life is guided by the expectations of my parents; he’d probably mock the sentiment, and I don’t think I could bear that.
‘And these rules mean you cannot come for dinner with me at a restaurant like this?’
‘I wasn’t planning on having dinner with you at all, actually.’
His laugh is a throaty sound.
‘Why is that funny?’
‘Because you are determined to act as though you don’t want to spend time with me when we both know that is not true.’
And his hand shifts off the gear stick and towards my knee, grazing my skirt lightly so I startle, my veins immediately rushing with lava.
