I lean back against the cold stone of the alcove and shut my eyes, trying to even out my breathing. All the condolences and regrets people keep murmuring to me are difficult to handle, because I know they’re all fake. No one means it. They all hate me.
I’m used to hate, though. It’s just another thing I’ve learned how to protect myself from, since growing up in a series of neglectful foster homes will do that to a person. You either armour yourself or you don’t survive, and luckily I know how to armour myself.
I’m going to need that armour today though, and not only to deal with a church full of people who view me with contempt, but also to deal with the other reason I’m here in this alcove, trying to get a breath.
Santiago Veracruz is here, Antonio’s only son. Who hates me.
I thought he wouldn’t come—Iprayedhe wouldn’t come—but of course my prayers haven’t been answered. I don’t know why he’s here when he and his father hadn’t spoken for more than a year, and they had been estranged for much longer than that. Perhaps to make sure his father is really dead? Or maybe to stare at me hostilely the way he did the last time we met? Though it’s probably about the will, and how Antonio cut him out of it, leaving him with nothing but an empty title, something Antonio didn’t discuss with me until just before he died.
I’m not sure why Santiago hates me so much—it’s not just about the will. It’s got something to do with Antonio’s acrimonious divorce from Santiago’s mother years ago probably, and the fact that Antonio married me.
I didn’t want to get involved in any family drama—the relationship between Antonio and his son had nothing to do with me—but I had no choice in the matter. Santiago involved me whether I wanted to be involved or not.
Then again, this wouldn’t have been quite so bad if he hadn’t been at that same London fundraiser that I attended with Antonio. If we hadn’t locked eyes at the bar. If the taut, electric energy hadn’t sprung between us and if he hadn’t immediately come towards me with all his lethal, predatory grace…
I grit my teeth, trying to force those thoughts from my head.
I can’t think of him, I can’t. The service will be starting soon and I have to get my armour back in place, make sure there are no vulnerabilities. I can’t afford them, not when it comes to him, because he’ll use them against me to cause as much hurt as possible.
You’ve faced worse than him. Don’t be a coward and start hiding now.
It’s true, I have faced worse than him. While Antonio was alive I had some protection, but now that protection is gone and so all I have is myself.
It’s all I’ve always had, after all.
‘Ah, there you are,’ a deep, dark masculine voice says, cold contempt running through the words. ‘Practising your grieving-widow face?’
Every muscle in my body freezes and I open my eyes.
Of course, he’s found me. Of course.
Through the black lace of my veil, I can see Santiago Veracruz standing in the entrance of the little alcove, completely blocking the exit. He’s over six-three, with a body all hard muscle and lean, tensile strength. He’s dressed in funereal black, the suit handmade and tailored perfectly to draw attention to his gladiator’s shoulders, narrow waist and powerful thighs.
His face is a fallen angel’s, both beautiful and cruel, with sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, and a hard mouth. His ink-black eyes are framed by thick, sooty lashes long enough to make a woman jealous, yet there’s nothing soft in the way he’s looking at me. Nothing kind. He’s staring at me as if I’m dirt under his shoe.
I swallow, the gravitational force of his presence and the storm front of his hate almost palpable and pressing against me. I haven’t seen him since that terrible incident a year ago, when he turned up at the estate not long after Antonio and I were married, to ‘pay his respects’, or at least that’s what Antonio told me.
I didn’t hear what was actually said, but I stood by the window and I could see Antonio and Santiago in the hacienda’s driveway, shouting at each other in Spanish. Eventually, Santiago turned to leave and he caught sight of me, and his gaze was a black arrow, flaming with hate, aimed straight at my heart.
No, I know why he hates me. After that fundraiser, while I was in Greece with Antonio, I got a message from him. He must have investigated who I was and somehow found my email address. The message was short and sweet, asking for a meeting. But even as I read the email, even though part of me wanted nothing more than to meet him and see if the electricity I’d felt at the bar that night was still there and still mutual, the practical part of me, the survivor, warned me not to. That Santiago Veracruz had the power to ruin me, to make me his slave, and that’s not something I could allow. The only power I’ve ever had is the power I have over myself, and the overwhelming attraction I felt for him that night felt like a threat to that power. If I wanted to live the life I’d planned for myself, I had to avoid him like the plague.
Except I can’t avoid him right now, and even though Antonio isn’t here to defend me any more, I’m not going to let the loathing of one hateful man get under my skin, no matter how he looks at me. I know how to protect myself. I haven’t forgotten.
I push myself away from the wall and straighten, putting on the cold, hard mask that has been useful in the past when it comes to men. They don’t generally like an ice queen, and steer clear.
‘Santiago,’ I say coolly. ‘I didn’t expect you to be here.’
‘Whyever not?’ He raises one black brow. ‘I’m Antonio’s only child after all.’
‘So you’re here to…what exactly? Surely not to offer your condolences?’
‘No.’ His inky eyes glitter. ‘I only offer condolences to people who are genuinely grief-stricken, not those who perform for the crowd.’
Helpless anger simmers inside me. Normally I can manage my temper, but today is not a normal day. I didn’t love Antonio and he didn’t love me, but I’m upset that he’s dead and I don’t have the emotional energy to deal with Santiago’s snide comments along with everything else.
‘Interesting that you have thoughts about grief,’ I snap, unable to stop myself, ‘considering the last time you spoke to your father was a year ago and it was to shout at him.’
Santiago’s black gaze doesn’t even flicker. ‘Tell me, how does it feel to know that everyone in this church thinks you’re a murderess?’
