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‘I didn’t want to invade your privacy.’
‘By stepping into my bedroom? I’ll live.’
But she might not have. She was already finding it hard to breathe. The thought of seeing his private space, of being surrounded by its masculinity, made her head spin. When he’d stayed with them all those years ago, he’d slept in a dormitory her father had repurposed for runaways in need of safe haven—at least, that’s what her father had said. Now, she saw it more as exploitative. Free labour. There had frequently been two or three hand-picked teens staying with them at any one time. Graciano hadn’t had a bedroom of his own. Nor had he had any possessions, so Alicia hadn’t ever seen his room, nor could she imagine what it would be like. But she was better not knowing.
‘How long have you lived here?’ she asked after a moment.
‘I don’t live here.’ Isabella appeared with an elaborate tray—octopus, rice salad, fruit, cheese and bread. When they were alone again, he continued. ‘I split my time between the island, Barcelona and London.’
Her heart went into overdrive far too fast for her to cope with. She pretended interest with the glass of mineral water he was pouring, her eyes tracing the bubbles, all the while her pulse frantically moving into dangerous territory. ‘London?’ she murmured, hoping for nonchalance but aware the word came out strained.
‘I have an office there.’
She swallowed, but her throat was thick, nerves all bunched together.
‘Do you go often?’
‘For about a week every month. Why?’
She bit down on her lip, toying with her fingers in her lap. She lived in a sleepy little part of zone three, in a hook on the river. It wasn’t as though they were likely to run into each other. But the idea of Graciano having been within a tube ride of Alicia—and Annie—all these years, and Alicia having not known, made her head spin, and her heart ache. It was all so impossible.
‘I’m just trying to get a picture of your life now.’
‘Does it help you plan the event?’
‘It doesn’t hurt,’ she said honestly, then sighed, deciding honesty was the best policy—at least with this. ‘But more so, I’m just curious. You’ve come so far. I’m interested in how you live. In how you did it.’
‘I worked hard.’
‘But doing what?’ she pushed. ‘Within six months of leaving Seville, you were a high-end realtor. That’s not something you had experience with.’
‘Real estate is about people, and I had a lot of experience with them.’
It was casually said, but she felt the sting in the words. She thought of the experience her father—and Alicia—had given him, and fought an urge to wince.
He took a drink of water. ‘I found it easy,’ he said after a moment. ‘I was good at understanding what people wanted, how to give it to them. I’d spent years on the streets—I had an innate understanding of property, values, the quality of one neighbourhood versus another, and I was strongly motivated to succeed. I didn’t sleep for at least three months. I chased down every lead, sold every house, met every vendor, drove buyers from the airport all around Madrid. By the end of the first year, I was earning more than a million euros in commissions.’
Her lips parted on a rush. ‘You must have been so...thrilled.’
‘Thrilled? No, Alicia.’ She shivered as he caressed her name. ‘I was hungry. I wantedmore. You couldn’t possibly understand. You’ve never felt that way—to worry about when you will eat again, where you will sleep. To me, it wasn’t possible toeverearn enough. It’s still not.’
She shook her head sadly. ‘But you’re worth a fortune.’
‘Yes.’
‘And this place?’
She gestured around them.
His smile set her blood on fire. It was so intimate, so natural. So genuine. It made her crave the connection they had once shared.
‘I wanted it the minute I saw it.’
She nodded slowly. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Yes.’ He leaned back in his chair, looking around them. ‘The history is unique.’
‘What is the history?’
