Surrender To The Ruthless Billionaire. Louise Fuller

THREE

      ‘IS THERE ANYTHING else I can get you, Ms Shephard? More coffee?’

      Closing her laptop, Cristina smiled up at the air stewardess and shook her head. ‘No, thank you. I’m good.’

      The stewardess smiled back at her. ‘Okay, but just let me know if you need anything.’

      Watching the woman move gracefully away down the cabin, she resisted the urge to pinch herself again, and instead gazed out of the window at the cloudless blue sky.

      She’d never flown business class before, and frankly it would probably be a long time before she did so again. But the Osorios had insisted, and it was a treat to have the extra legroom and a lunch that was actually edible.

      The Osorio name had helped in other ways too. She’d been fast-tracked through baggage and security, and a limousine would be waiting at Valencia airport to take her to the marina.

      It was all very civilised. But then people like Agusto and Sofia didn’t queue for taxis or hang around waiting for luggage. The rich and the powerful valued their time almost as much as their privacy, and unlike normal people they only did what they wanted to do.

      As she knew from experience.

      She felt her face stiffen, the muscles tightening involuntarily, and, reaching down, she picked up her cup—china, not cardboard—and took a sip of coffee.

      What other reason could there be for her father never bothering to get in touch with her?

      Still gazing listlessly out of the window, she thought about how at the beginning she’d tried to make sense of his actions. Husbands divorced wives, not children, so why didn’t he want to see her?

      At first she’d made excuses for him, and then she’d blamed her mother. Later, though, there had been only one explanation. Her father didn’t love her and he probably never had.

      Frowning, Cristina flipped open her laptop and gazed determinedly down at the screen. She wasn’t going to let her father’s rejection ruin this moment for her. This was her last chance to do her final preparation before the photo shoot, and she wasn’t going to waste it brooding about the past.

      She began scrolling through the background notes that Grace had emailed to her. It didn’t take long. It was mostly historical facts about the Osorio banking dynasty. Personal, biographical details about the family were frustratingly sparse.

      Her heart gave a lurch. Panic was beginning to uncoil inside her stomach. It wasn’t the first portrait that she’d taken—Grace wasn’t that trusting. But it was the most important to date, and she wanted it to work. Not just for the magazine but for herself. She so badly wanted to prove that she could do this.

      Her fingers shook slightly above the keyboard.

      No, that wasn’t true. She wanted more than that. She wanted to matter, to be somebody, to be noticed. And not just by her peers.

      Only how could she do that if she couldn’t find the key to their story?

      She felt her stomach clench.

      It was her job as a photographer to seek the truth—that was why she’d so foolishly become a paparazza. But with portraits the truth was elusive. In the intimacy of a studio-style setting people grew guarded, and of course there was always an obstacle between her camera and the sitter. It wasn’t just a matter of point and click; the shutter was like a tiny little door that she needed to open.

      And that required a key.

      She had hoped to find one, talking to Agusto and Sofia. But although they had been polite, and helpful, they had fairly conservative ideas about what they wanted from the photo shoot—and, looking down at the pictures that Grace had sent her, she could see why.

      To her photography was magic. But the Osorios were clearly intensely private people who simply wanted a record of a particular moment.

      She needed to see beyond the staged poses. She needed to do a little supplementary research of her own. But as she typed in the Osorio name she felt heat spread over her cheeks as the screen filled not only with photos of Agusto and Sofia, but Luis too.

      She stared at them greedily.

      There were a couple of him as dark-eyed teenager, watching the polo at Sotogrande with his parents and brother. Another as a student in America, rowing at Harvard. And then, leaping forward several years, there were several more of the adult Luis. Publicity shots of him in his role as CEO of the quantitative hedge fund he’d founded.

      Clearly turning his back on one fortune had been no obstacle to amassing another. His business was less than three years old but it had already made him a billionaire.

      The thought of Luis behind a desk, with some glossy PA hovering over his shoulder, made her feel as if she was pressing on a bruise. But now that she knew the truth about him his career choice made perfect sense.