know he’s staring at me but stay silent, waiting for him to unlock the car. A pinging sound erupts from his suit jacket. Taking out his phone, he swipes a tanned finger over the screen and reads something, face tightening and draining to white. Whoever sent him the text should run and hide. Now. He looks dangerous.
‘Excuse me.’ Moving away, he touches the screen again and holds the phone to his ear. ‘I need to speak to you,’ he barks. ‘I need some advice.’
He tilts his head whilst listening to the caller and the sound of something cracking in his neck carries over the space between us. Ouch, tense.
‘She just texted me,’ he lowers his voice, ‘saying I need to agree to the latest demand or I can’t see her.’
Whoever she is, I wonder what her price is. I can’t imagine blackmailing a man to stay with me. Is that how the mega rich run their relationships? Fascinated by the idea, I edge closer. Unfortunately Alex notices and scowls, pointing a beeper at the car and gesturing with his chin for me to get in.
Flushing, I open the door and slide into the bucket seat. Bugger, caught out.
Respect the boundaries, Charley. Be professional at all times.
Easier if the man concerned wasn’t so contradictory – and so bloody intriguing.
He joins me in the glamorous car as I’m sliding my hands over the blue and black interior, fiddling with buttons and admiring the inbuilt SatNav. Caught in the act, I tuck my hands under my legs and bite my lip.
‘It’s fine,’ he growls.
The compact front seat means there are only a few inches between us. Too close for comfort, both for my wild hormones and if he’s going to have a go at me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I offer, when he simply starts the engine with a low purr and says nothing. ‘For overhearing, I mean. Is everything – are you okay?’
Raising an eyebrow, probably at my description of what was actually blatant nosiness, he fastens his seatbelt. ‘Fine.’
Which means no, but he doesn’t want to talk about it. The quiet spins into an elongated silence but thankfully there’s distraction in the vibrancy and colour of Barcelona as we leave the airport. Damp greenery and concrete roads give way to high-rise towers and numerous heaving shops as we enter the city centre. The street lights are like strobes in the night as Alex accelerates through, but I see that some of the trees have twinkling lights threaded through their bare, twisting branches, possibly the remnants of Christmas. It would be nice to be able to explore the city, but I’m not anticipating much downtime.
I glance at Alex, handling the Maserati like a pro, apparently comfortable with driving on the right-hand side. The confidence is attractive. I’d be a quivering wreck at the thought of driving this car; it’s probably worth about five times my old salary. Though I guess when you’re a billionaire the cost of a high-spec luxury vehicle is like buying a pack of chewing gum.
For distraction I whiz down the window and stick my head out, breathing in smoke and the faint tang of cooking food. Normal city smells, not much different from London, although there is one huge difference – the temperature. Jess might disagree with what I’m doing but she still cares, texting earlier to warn me not to pack thick jumpers because, according to the internet, the average temperature in Barcelona for this time of year is twelve degrees. Practically tropical compared to the minus numbers on the thermometer in our home city.
My attention flickers back to Alex as we stop at some traffic lights. He seems less stressed, idly caressing the steering wheel as he waits to pull away. Would he do the same to me if I asked him? No. Stop it. Stay focused. Business. Then I completely ruin it. ‘You really like this car.’
Broad shoulders loosening, he flashes me a wicked grin, kind of wolfish. ‘Wrong.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I don’t like this car, I love it.’
‘I can tell.’ Pausing, ‘I didn’t think you’d drive.’
‘Why, because I have Evan?’ He shrugs, long legs flexing on the pedals as he changes gear effortlessly and pulls away. ‘It makes sense to have a driver back home because I can handle calls and send emails, but on shorter journeys I prefer driving. It’s relaxing.’
‘Even on the wrong side of the road? Do you come to Barcelona often?’ I cringe as soon as it’s out there. It sounds like a cheesy pick-up line.
He doesn’t notice. ‘A few times a year, maybe.’
‘Do you travel a lot for work?’ Curiosity kindles. What’s life as a CEO really like?
‘I’m based in London and Corfu and spend about sixty per cent of my time travelling.’
‘That must be inconvenient for your wife or girlfriend.’ It just slips out.
‘What makes you think I have one?’ Alex throws me a questioning glance.
‘Well, someone like you is bound to.’
‘Someone like me? Elaborate.’
Dangerous territory, back away. ‘Nothing, it doesn’t matter.’
‘It does. I want to know what you were going to say.’
I puff out a breath, fringe ruffling up with the expelled air. Keep it simple. ‘You know,’ I shrug casually. ‘Rich, powerful, professionally successful.’
Alex lets out a harsh laugh. ‘Is that all you think I am?’
I’m not sure what he means. ‘Isn’t it enough? They’re attractive … attributes to some women.’
‘You sound like a politically correct adviser from a dating agency.’
‘Well, what would you have me say?’ I flash. ‘Top Ten Things to Look For in a Guy?’
‘If it’s the honest answer.’
‘Fine.’ I straighten, as much as I can in the tiny seat. ‘For some women—’
‘You included?’
‘What does that matter?’
‘I’m interested,’ he shoots back, ‘humour me.’
I sigh. ‘Okay. For some women those things would be essential, but I think sharing common ground, experiences and beliefs is more important. And I’m more impressed by intelligence, ambition and a good sense of humour than power or money.’
‘Isn’t ambition the same as power?’
‘No. Ambition is about making yourself a better person, wanting to get somewhere. That place doesn’t necessarily have to be somewhere you’ll hold power. What about people who study to become teachers?’ I think of Jess. ‘They’re ambitious enough to get a degree and qualified teacher status but it’s not necessarily about working up to a head teacher post, it’s being passionate about educating children, getting them ready for life.’
‘If you say so.’ He chuckles. It’s not a kind sound. ‘Still, going back to the things you value, you sounded more like an employment agency looking for staff than a woman looking for a man.’
‘You asked for my opinion, I gave it.’ I cross my arms. ‘Besides, I’m not looking, so it doesn’t matter.’
‘My apologies, how dare I suggest it.’ He glances in the rear-view mirror, signals and changes lane. ‘We’ll talk theoretically instead. If you were looking, you’re expecting me to believe those qualities would have priority over a man having a good job and fat wallet?’
Turning to him, I open my mouth to spit out an answer. His eyes are narrowed, bitterness twisting his mouth. He’s obviously had a bad relationship, and it’s made him cynical. I can’t help wondering what happened, who she was. The woman who texted him?
Whatever.