so he’d got up to leave—
Gazing at his reflection, he felt his face grow warm.
She might have spilt his drink but she’d been right. It had been his fault. He’d been so desperate to leave that he hadn’t been thinking about anything but getting as far away as possible from her gravitational pull. He certainly hadn’t been looking where he was going.
Breathing in sharply, he ran his hand slowly over the stubble grazing his face.
Only instead of apologising he’d acted like a jerk.
His heartbeat slowed. He had lost her then, and that might have been the end of it—would have been if his bike hadn’t refused to start.
He stared at his reflection, steadying himself, pushing aside the thought of what might have happened, or rather not happened, if his bike hadn’t been washed or she hadn’t come outside.
But she had, and she’d rescued him.
He swallowed.
Rescued him and then kissed him.
Or were they one and the same thing?
Glancing out of the window, he felt his heartbeat accelerate. He was naturally cautious by nature, but even if he hadn’t been life had taught him in the most brutal and devastating way not to act impulsively. He didn’t do spur-of-the-moment or random.
Yet last night he’d done both. Only instead of regret or shame he could feel a kind a radiance inside his chest. It took him a moment to realise that it was happiness, and that for the first time since stepping off the plane in Athens he was ready to face his past.
Picking up his phone, he punched in a number.
‘Carlos. It’s Luis...’
Having settled his bill, he made the hotel’s owner day by giving him his bike, and then, having finally extricated himself from the man’s grateful and disbelieving embrace, he strolled down the street towards the peluquería.
It was just opening, and the old guy who ran it seemed slightly astonished to have a customer so early, but he was happy to do what Luis asked.
Thirty minutes later Luis stepped out into the sunshine, his dark hair cropped close to the head, his face smooth. Catching sight of himself in the window, he felt a flicker of panic. He looked so young. Almost as though the last five years had never happened.
Only so much had happened. So much he could never change. He ran his hand slowly over his jawline. The last time he’d been clean shaven had been for his brother’s funeral.
It hadn’t been a conscious decision to stop shaving—he’d just found it so hard to look at himself as life—his life—had carried on.
He had set up a hedge fund, a lucrative, global business. And he’d bought a house—several, actually. He’d even had the occasional girlfriend.
But none of it had mattered. None of it had felt real. Without Bas there to tease him about his tie, or drag him out at the end of a busy week, he’d felt empty, hollow.
Until last night.
With Cristina.
Picturing her beneath him, her eyes darkening as he’d thumbed her legs apart, he almost lost his footing on the pavement. Her passion had been primal; it had blindsided him, left him grappling for breath and self-control.
Over his shoulder, he felt rather than saw a dark saloon car peel away from the opposite side of the square and head towards him. For a moment he carried on walking, and then, slowing down, he turned and waited as the car drew up beside him.
Before it had even come to a stop a thickset man wearing a dark grey suit stepped out onto the pavement and pulled open the back passenger door. Luis nodded at him and climbed inside.
‘Thanks for picking me up, Carlos,’ he said softly, turning his head towards the window. ‘Now, let’s go home.’
The journey took less time than he remembered, but it was still long enough for his stomach to turn over and inside out. As the car passed slowly beneath a large stone arch and into a courtyard he had a familiar glimpse of yellowed walls and tall windows, and then he was stepping onto the cobbled paving.
Trying to rein in the beating of his heart, Luis made his way through his childhood home. It might be five years since he’d been back, but he knew exactly where his parents would be waiting.
But he was wrong.
As he walked into the sitting room he frowned. It was empty.
It looked the same, though. He stared round dazedly, barely taking in the opulent interior with its beautiful tapestries and paintings by Goya and Velázquez. Only where were his mother and father?
Behind him a door opened softly and, turning, Luis felt his heart squeeze with a mixture of love, respect and dismay as a silver-haired man walked into the room.
His father, Agusto Osorio, might be nearly seventy, but he was still handsome. And his dark, austere grey eyes and upright bearing were a reminder that he was a man who was used to demanding and getting his way.
But although he was still tall, and immaculately dressed, there was a hesitancy and unsteadiness in his manner that hadn’t been there before. Unable to watch his father’s faltering progress any more, Luis crossed the faded Persian carpet and embraced the older man gently.
‘Papá!’
His heart gave a lurch as he hugged the older man. His father smelt of shaving soap, and that old-fashioned cologne his mother loved, and there was a reassuring familiarity to his father’s shoulders. As a child he’d loved to be carried up there; for a long time it had been the only way he could be taller than Bas.
His chest tightened as Agusto released him and smiled.
‘We were expecting you earlier. Your mother was worried until she got your text. She misses you. We both do,’ he said simply. ‘It’s good to have you home, Luis, even if it is just for a week.’
Trying to suppress the ache inside his chest, Luis nodded. ‘It’s good to be back, Papá. And I’m sorry I can’t stay longer—’
His father patted him on the arm. ‘We understand.’ He gestured towards a trio of sofas and armchairs. ‘Sit! I’ll ring for coffee.’
Watching his father’s face crease in pain as he turned and tentatively lowered himself into one of the chairs, Luis held his breath. As a child, Agusto had seemed to him like one of the mythical knights in the books he’d used to read to his sons. A man of honour, vital, inviolate and invincible.
Now, though, his father looked frail and tried—smaller, somehow. Only it wasn’t just the passing of time that had caused these changes, but the pain and grief of losing his oldest son.
He felt another stab of guilt and, glancing past him, said quickly, ‘Where’s Mamá? Should I go and find her?’
‘You don’t have to, mi cariño, I’m right here.’
Across the room, his mother Sofia was standing in the doorway. Before he’d even realised what he was doing he was on his feet and moving. As they embraced he felt a tug at his heart, for he could sense that she had changed more than his father. Not physically—she was still beautiful, slim and elegant—but her sadness was palpable. It seemed to seep into him so that he was suddenly struggling to breathe.
‘Luis, you look so well. Doesn’t he, Agusto?’ She turned to her husband.
Smiling, Agusto nodded as the housekeeper arrived with a tray. ‘Yes, he does, querida! Ah, here’s the coffee. Gracias, Soledad. Just there will be perfect.’
Luis waited until they were alone again, and then, turning towards his mother, he smiled. ‘So, how many people are coming to the party?’
‘Sixty, of course—that’s why we had to arrange