Gabriel put his hand on Leonora’s back, guiding her with a barely perceptible touch over to an elevator. Even so, she could feel his hand through her dress, and had the ridiculous urge to sink back against him, let him take her weight.
It unnerved her how much he made her feel, so she stood apart from him in the small space as the doors slid shut and he pressed a button. It rose silently and stopped a few seconds later with a small jerking motion.
The doors slid open and Gabriel put out a hand, indicating for Leonora to precede him. She stepped out and into a stunning penthouse apartment. It had all the original features of the building’s era—around the nineteenth century, Leonora guessed—but none of the fussiness.
It was a very contemporary apartment in the shell of one of Madrid’s classic buildings. Modern art hung on the walls, with spotlights directing the eye to bold slashing strokes and colours. Surprisingly sensual. Something about the design—the lack of clutter, the open spaces—soothed her. The furniture was deceptively plain and unobtrusive, letting the interior speak for itself. She’d never seen anything quite like it.
She watched as Gabriel strode over to French doors, opening them to let some air in. Leonora only realised then how close it was. The late-summer city heat was still oppressive. He took his phone out of his pocket and made a call, speaking in low tones. She assumed he was arranging to have her things collected.
He turned around to face her then, tugging at his bowtie, undoing it. Opening the top button of his shirt. She almost looked away, feeling as if she was intruding on some intimacy.
He gestured with a hand to a couch. ‘Please—sit, make yourself comfortable...’
Leonora stepped further into the room, feeling naked without her wrap or bag. ‘I’m fine, thank you. You have a beautiful apartment.’
No doubt it was just one of the hundreds of properties owned by him and his family all over Spain and the world.
It was well known that he was seen very much as the patriarch of his family, even though his father was still alive. And Leonora was vaguely aware of a rumour about his younger sister going off the rails and how she’d been sent abroad to clean up her act.
She shivered slightly at the thought of what it must be like to face a disapproving or angry Gabriel Torres. She didn’t even know his sister, or if the rumour was true, but she already felt sorry for her.
‘Would you like a drink?’ He walked over to an elaborate drinks cabinet. ‘I have whiskey, brandy, champagne, wine, gin—’
‘I’ll have a little whiskey please,’ she blurted out, needing something to settle her clanging nerves.
He poured dark golden liquid into a small tumbler and brought it over to her. ‘It’s Irish. I believe it’s meant to be very good.’
Leonora took it, distracted by the bowtie dangling at his neck and the open top button of his shirt. She could see dark bronzed skin. A hint of hair.
‘You haven’t tasted it?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t drink.’
She watched as he moved back, giving her space. It fitted that he didn’t drink. He seemed far too controlled. Exacting. Alert. She wondered why he didn’t, but wasn’t going to ask.
As if he could read her mind, though, he supplied, ‘I was put off after watching how alcohol affected people’s judgement and their decision-making. Not least my father’s. He almost ruined the family business.’
So that was why Gabriel now ran their extensive operation.
‘I’m sorry to hear that...’ Impulsively she added, ‘I have some idea of what you’re talking about.’
She wondered why she’d said that, but there was something about being in this space with this man that didn’t feel entirely real.
To her relief he didn’t say anythi
ng, or ask her to elaborate on the fact that her father’s vices had driven them to the brink and over. Anyway, he probably knew the sordid details. Most people did. But for the first time she didn’t feel that burning rise of shame. Maybe it was his admission that his family wasn’t perfect either.
He said, ‘I’m sorry for what happened to you this evening. You didn’t deserve that. You’re too good for a man like Lazaro Sanchez.’
Leonora clutched the tumbler to her chest. She’d yet to take a sip of the drink. ‘You don’t have to be sorry. It wasn’t your fault. And how can you say I’m too good for him? You don’t even know me.’
‘Don’t I?’ he asked softly, raising a dark brow. ‘We come from the same world, Leonora. We might not have had a conversation before now, but we know more about each other than you realise—and I’m not talking about idle gossip. I’m talking about the lives we’ve led. The expectations on our shoulders. The life built on legacy and duty. Responsibility.’
CHAPTER TWO
GABRIEL MARVELLED AT how expressive Leonora was. She clearly hadn’t expected him to say that. He’d caught her unawares. Her eyes were wide on his, as if he’d shocked her.
He realised now that they weren’t dark brown, as he’d assumed. They were grey. Like a stormy ocean. But even as he had that fanciful notion she seemed to come back to herself and her face resumed its serene mask. The same one she’d been wearing earlier, standing beside Lazaro Sanchez. Before all hell had broken loose.