Only fools put faith in love. Fools and masochists. If he let himself love her, he knew how this would end.
And yet... His heart cried out for her.
He wanted to believe. His long-ago engagements felt like nothing—just the hasty, shallow infatuations of a young man—compared to what he felt for her now.
The thought shocked him.
Rodrigo’s gaze fell to the diamond engagement ring gleaming on Lola’s left hand. He couldn’t let himself love her. What if she betrayed him?
No. He took a shuddering breath. He couldn’t live through it. It would destroy him.
Rodrigo forced himself to give her a casual, crooked smile. “Lola, you don’t need to say you love me. I’ve already bought you the house. You can relax.”
Lola’s beautiful face, which had been hopeful and bright, closed up instantly. He felt an answering wrench in his chest that almost made him sick.
He knew she wasn’t pretending or buttering him up. She actually believed she loved him.
But he also knew it wouldn’t—couldn’t—last. He could not take the chance of loving her. They were married. They had a child. There was too much at stake to risk it on something so deceitful and destructive as love.
His jaw tightened. “We have guests. We should go inside.”
“Guests?” she said, with a tiny sliver of hope in her voice. “What guests?”
“It’s part of your surprise. A housewarming party.”
“Who did you invite?”
“Everyone.”
Her eyes lit up. “My sisters? My friends?”
Rodrigo suddenly wished he had. He should have invited the Morettis and Zaccos and those sisters of hers. It hadn’t even occurred to him.
“No,” he said quietly. “Industry people.”
The light in her eyes faded. “Oh.”
Looking down at her, he felt it again, that punch in the gut. And all of his Christmas plans he’d been arranging for weeks with Marnie, the mansion he’d been so excited to give his wife tonight as a surprise, suddenly seemed meaningless and cheap.
His shoulders tightened in his tuxedo jacket. Getting heavily out of the car, he opened her door. Holding out his hand, he said, “Come.”
Her hand shook as she placed it in his. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. As they entered the house’s glittering foyer, beneath the wrought iron Spanish chandelier high above, he felt a ragged blade in his throat.
“Mr. Cabrera!” Marnie McAdam strode toward them in black stilettos, her skinny frame swathed in a black sheath dress. “You’re here!” She looked at him happily, then glanced at Lola. “Mrs. Cabrera, I hope you like your party.”
There was a strange note of satisfaction in Marnie’s voice that Rodrigo didn’t understand.
She’s just being a good assistant, he told himself. Marnie cared so much about her job, of course she wanted to make sure his wife has a good time. And yet it struck Rodrigo as odd.
Then he looked around them.
The enormous grand foyer, framed by a sweeping wrought iron staircase on each side, was filled with the most powerful people in the entertainment and media worlds: studio heads, directors and movie stars. He’d invited them because he wanted to properly introduce Lola, not as his assistant, but as his wife—to gain their respect for her as a power in her own right.
But now, as he glanced at Lola on his arm, Rodrigo realized his mistake.
The Spanish-style mansion was decorated in glamorous Christmas finery, with holly and ivy draped along the wrought iron handrails of the dual staircases. In the center of the enormous foyer, a twenty-foot Christmas tree was decorated with sparkling ornaments and lights glittering like stars. Beneath the tree was a veritable Himalayan mountain range of gifts, all for Lola and the baby, elegantly wrapped in red, as the decorator had arranged for maximum effect.
For weeks now, Rodrigo had imagined Lola’s face when she saw this. He’d been determined to give her everything she’d once dreamed of when she’d come to this city at eighteen, broke and alone.
But now, Lola’s beautiful face was sad. Her big hazel eyes looked heartbroken and numb. He’d never seen her look so vulnerable. Her lovely face still was tracked with dried tears, from when she’d told him she loved him just moments before, when she’d been crying with joy.
And now, of all times, he was forcing her to face judgmental strangers, his business partners and rivals. Now, at the very moment he’d hurt her so badly.
Rodrigo suddenly hated this stupid party. And this stupid house. He wished he’d never thought of this gift. He would have given anything to have the two of them back at the beach house. Alone.
All the people in formal gowns and tuxedos, drinking expensive champagne, turned toward them with a cheer.
“To Mr. and Mrs. Cabrera!” someone cried from the back, and everyone held up champagne flutes.
“Congratulations!” The shout rang across the enormous foyer.
“You did it, old man!” laughed a hot young filmmaker, barely out of USC film school, holding up his flute.
“And Merry Christmas!” cried someone else. “Wishing us all fat profits in this happy season!”
Lola suddenly burst into tears.
“Excuse me,” she choked out, covering her face.
“Lola, wait,” Rodrigo said desperately, but she ran out of the foyer. He tried to follow but found his passage blocked by ten different people, all of them coming forward to congratulate him—that was to say, determined to network with the powerful Spanish film mogul in hopes of getting their various projects made.
“Don’t worry, sir.” Standing beside him, Marnie flashed a sympathetic look. “I’ll go check on her.”
He tossed her a glance. “No, wait—”
But his assistant was already gone.
Five minutes, he told himself grimly. He’d let Lola have five minutes to gather herself. He’d never seen her sob like that before. He knew her pride. She wouldn’t want him to see.
But he’d already seen the tears overflowing her lashes. Just as he’d already seen her vulnerable heart.
I love you, she’d whispered. Only you. And I’ll love you forever.
“And in the spirit of Christmas, Cabrera—” a Hollywood power agent was saying eagerly, pumping his hand “—I’ll let you read my client’s screenplay. You’re a lucky bastard, because it’s truly spectacular—”
Screw five minutes, Rodrigo thought. He couldn’t wait. He couldn’t know Lola was somewhere, crying alone, while he did nothing to comfort her. It was unbearable. He had to protect her. Comfort her. He had to make it right.
“Excuse me,” he said to the agent as he droned about his client’s high-concept plot. “I have to find my wife.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned and pushed his way through the crowds of glamorous, wealthy guests, in the direction Lola had disappeared. Suddenly, Marnie blocked his path. Her thin face was anxious and worried.
“There’s an uninvited guest.”
“Take care of it,” he told her harshly. “I need to find Lola.”
But as he impatiently started to pass her, his assistant stopped him with a tug at his arm. “It’s Sergei Morozov.”
His wife’s old boss from New York? The Russian tycoon who’d wanted to