“We?Everyone keeps giving me way too much credit.”
He shook his head, ever so slightly. “That’s not true.” Then, quietly, he added, “I couldn’t even picture it without you.”
Grace felt the heat rushing between her legs. God, his lips. His whole…everything. He was too gorgeous for his own good. Forherown good certainly. She could barely stand it. If only she didn’t know how much he’d changed since the first time they’d met. If only she could keep pretending he was just some stuck-up douche with no sense of humor. But it wasn’t true. He was so dedicated and caring, and hedidhave a sense of humor. She was so desperate to make him laugh.
“It’s amazing, Raf,” she said. “And as much as you try to say I helped you, you’re really the one who made this happen. You put all the pieces together, and it’s absolutely beautiful.”
And I want to kiss you until my lips implode.
Rafael kept his eyes on her, and she couldn’t manage to look away. She could hear her breath quickening as he licked his lips. The foot of air between them seemed to rise in temperature, and then Alma cleared her throat, stepping closer.
Grace backed away a step and pretended to look at the nearest painting, trying to look at the entire exhibit with a more critical eye, as if she didn’t have feelings for the man who’d organized it, as if she’d hadn’t been part of it herself. Maybe the exhibit wasn’t perfect. Maybe there were still problems that concerned her—the way it would be received, if the guests would really pay attention to the whole story, to the words Raf had put on plaques in Spanish and in English. And maybe it was still too exclusive and snobbish, too much of a commodity, like great art so often was. Still, she was proud of how it had turned out, of all the work Raf had done. She was in awe of him.
“So what’s the best part, Rafael?” Alma asked. “Is there a space you’re particularly fond of?”
“There is,” he said, gesturing toward another room. Grace swallowed, becoming more aware of where Rafael was leading them with every step. Her body tensed as they approached the little alcove where they had kissed, where one of the largest paintings of the collection loomed over them.
“Ah,” Obinna commented. “That’s—uh—interesting.”
It was a painting of another of Picasso’s mistresses, and it was somehow incredibly sensual and peaceful at the same time. The woman looked completely comfortable as she sat in repose with one of her breasts exposed, of course. But Rafael wasn’t looking at the painting. He was staring at a blank space on the wall, a spot that held nothing except for a searing memory. Then he turned to Grace and locked eyes with her again.
“This is your favorite piece?” Alma asked.
“Not necessarily,” Raf replied. “I just love this alcove. It’s a great little hideaway where you can sneak off and admire the work. You feel like you’re all alone with it for a moment.”
Alma looked around, examining the alcove. “That’s true. I suppose I?—”
Grace looked up, trying to ascertain why Alma had stopped speaking. She peered out of the alcove and soon discovered they weren’t alone after all. One of the most intense and intimidating men Grace had ever known was heading straight for them with long powerful strides.
“Hola, Papá,” Alma said.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR
Rafael knithis brow in confusion. He certainly hadn’t invited his father to the event, so what in the hell was he doing there?
Simón Ferrer-Martín wrapped Alma in a hug before glancing around at the rest of their little group, assessing each of them in turn.
“You remember Grace, right Papá?” Alma asked, using English for Grace’s benefit.
His father reached out and took Grace’s hand, kissing it. “Of course,” he said. “How nice to see you again.”
“You as well,” Grace said, but Rafael noticed she stole a glance at him. She was checking on him, making sure he was okay with this new development. He didn’t know if it made him hurt more or less that she still cared.
“And Rafael, am I to understand that you’ve had something to do with this little project?”
Rafael tried to school his face so as not to reveal his irritation.Little project. Of course his father would belittle it in any way he could. And maybe he was right. What was designing cultural experiences and events compared to running a multi-million dollar company? Rafael knew his father thought he was wasting his potential, that he was just messing around until it was time to move on to a more lucrative and powerful career option.
“I did,” Rafael said, his entire body rigid.
His father arched a brow. “Hmmm.”
“And to what do we owe the pleasure of your attendance this evening?” Rafael asked. He liked sticking to English. At least he had a little edge on his father there, even if it wasn’t much.
“Christian is a friend of a friend, I suppose. How intriguing that the invitation didn’t come from you.”
Rafael raised a shoulder. “Didn’t know you’d be interested.”
He wouldn’t have been interested if the whole thing wasn’t a rich dude schmooze fest. Simón only interacted with the people he deemed worthy, and it just so happened that this event was one that included quite a number of those “worthy” people. And even if he’d created most of it, Rafael wasn’t a guest. In his father’s eyes, he was more like the help. It was beneath him. It didn’t matter if Rafael loved what he did, if making his vision come to life and curating the perfect setting, made him happy. It would never be enough.
