A Night, A Consequence, A Vow. Angela Bissell
Читать онлайн книгу.
of wall-to-wall glass framed a sweeping view of Barcelona that drew no more than a brief, disinterested glance from Ramon. Instead, he focused on his brother, who looked impossibly cool and immaculate in a dark tailored suit in spite of the mid-August heat. As always, Xav’s features were stern, his posture stiff. Only his right hand moved, his fingertips drumming an incessant beat on the desktop’s fine leather inlay.
The sound, amplified by the dearth of any other in the vast corner office, penetrated Ramon’s eardrums like a blunt needle and reminded him that flying and alcohol made for an unwise mix.
‘Doing what?’ Xav’s voice carried the hint of a sneer. ‘Gambling or womanising?’
Ramon ignored the disdain in his brother’s voice and unleashed his grin—the one he knew could fell a woman at fifty paces. Or tease the tension out of an uptight client in a matter of seconds. Against his only sibling, however, the impact was negligible. ‘It is called recreation, brother.’ He kept his tone light. ‘You should try it some time.’
The deep plunge of Xav’s eyebrows suggested he’d sooner lose an arm than indulge in such hedonistic pursuits. His fingers stopped drumming—mercifully—and curled into a loose fist. ‘Get your feet off my desk.’ His gaze raked over Ramon’s jeans and shirt before snapping back to his feet. ‘And where the hell are your shoes?’
Ramon dropped his feet to the floor. His loafers were... He squinted, trying to remember where he’d left them. Ah, yes. In the outer office. Under the desk of the pretty brunette whose name had already escaped him. He considered the rest of his appearance: stonewashed designer jeans; a loose open-necked white shirt, creased from travel; and a jaw darkened by eighteen-plus hours’ worth of stubble. A far cry from his brother’s impeccable attire and his own usual standard, but a man had to travel in comfort. Especially when his brother had had the nerve to issue an urgent summons and then deny him use of the company jet.
Ramon made a mental note.
Buy my own plane.
At least the curvy redheaded flight attendant in First Class who’d served him meals and refreshments during the flight from New York hadn’t minded his attire. But, yes, for the Vega Corporation’s head office in the heart of Barcelona’s thriving business district, he was most definitely under-dressed.
Still, Xav needed to chill. Cut him some slack. He had ditched everything, including a weekend in Las Vegas with his old Harvard pals, and flown nearly four thousand miles across the North Atlantic—all because his brother had called out of the blue and told him he needed him.
Needed him, no less.
Words Ramon had once imagined would never tumble from his proud brother’s mouth.
Yet, incredibly, they had.
Beyond that surprising entreaty, Xav had offered no more by way of explanation and Ramon had not demanded one. As CEO, Xav technically outranked him but it wasn’t his seniority that commanded Ramon’s loyalty. Xav was family. And when it came to family there was one truth Ramon could never escape.
He owed them.
Still, he allowed his grin to linger. Not because his mood leaned towards humour—nothing about being back in Spain tickled his funny bone—but rather because he knew it would irritate his brother. ‘Flying makes my feet swell,’ he said, ‘and your secretary offered to massage them while you were wrapping up your meeting.’
A look of revulsion slid over Xav’s face. ‘Please tell me you are joking.’
‘Sí, brother.’ Ramon broadened his grin. ‘I am.’
Though he had got the impression as he’d kicked off his shoes and settled in for a friendly chat with... Lola?... Lorda?...that she’d happily massage a lot more than his feet if he gave her half a chance. And maybe he would if she was willing. Because God knew he’d need a distraction while he was here. Some way to escape the toxic memories that sooner or later would defy his conscious mind and claw their way to the surface.
Xav pinched the bridge of his nose, a Lord give me patience gesture that reminded Ramon of their father, Vittorio. Not that any likeness could be attributed to genetics: Xav had been adopted at birth by their parents after two failed pregnancies. Four years later Ramon had come along—the miracle child the doctors had told his mother she’d never conceive let alone carry to term.
Miracle Child.
The moniker made Ramon’s gut burn. He hated it. He was no heaven-sent miracle. Just ask the Castano family, or the Mendosas. No doubt they would all vehemently agree and then, for good measure, throw in a few fitting alternatives.
Ramon could think of one or two himself.
Like Angel of Death.
Or maybe Devil Incarnate.
He snapped his thoughts out of the dark mire of his past. This was why he gave Spain a wide berth whenever possible. Too many ghosts lurked here. Too many reminders. ‘Tell me why I’m here,’ he demanded, his patience dwindling.
‘There’s a board meeting tomorrow.’
He frowned. ‘I thought the next quarterly meeting was six weeks from now.’ He made a point of knowing when the board meetings were scheduled for so he could arrange to be elsewhere. In his experience, day-long gatherings with a bunch of pedantic, censorious old men were a special brand of torture to be studiously avoided. ‘Since when does our board meet on a Saturday?’
‘Since I decided to call an emergency meeting less than twenty-four hours ago.’
Ramon felt his mood start to unravel. ‘Why the hell didn’t you say over the phone it was a board meeting you were dragging me over here for?’
‘Because you would have found an excuse not to come,’ Xav snapped. ‘You would rather waste your time at a poker table—or buried between the legs of some entirely unsuitable woman!’
Ramon’s brows jerked down. ‘That’s out of order,’ he growled.
Abruptly Xav stood up, stalked to the window behind him and stared out. Ramon glowered at his back. Xav was out of order. Yes, Ramon avoided the boardroom. Pandering to the board, keeping the old cronies happy, was his brother’s responsibility. Not his. But no one could deny that he gave his pound of flesh to the Vega Corporation. He’d done so every year for the last five years, in fact. Ever since he’d accepted the vice-presidential role his father had offered him on his twenty-fifth birthday. He’d side-lined his architectural career. Gone from designing luxury hotels and upscale entertainment complexes to buying them and overseeing their management.
He’d excelled—and he’d realised in that first year of working hard to prove himself that this was how he could repay his family. How he could compensate in a tangible way for the pain he’d inflicted, the destruction his eighteen-year-old self had wrought and the shame he’d brought on his family. He could stamp his mark on the business. Contribute to its success.
It had been a tall order. The de la Vega empire was well-established. Successful. It spanned continents and industries, from construction and real estate to hospitality and entertainment. Any contribution Ramon made had to be significant.
He had risen to the challenge.
First with his acquisition of the Chastain Group—a collection of luxury resorts and boutique hotels which had doubled Vega Corporation’s market share on the European continent, and then with the expansion of their portfolio of private members’ clubs into a lucrative network of sophisticated high-end establishments.
Yes, he had made his mark.
And yet to his brother—and most of the board—the spectacular results he’d achieved year upon year seemed to matter far less than how he chose to conduct his personal life.
It rankled.
He didn’t deliberately court the press but neither did he waste his time trying to dodge the attention. Evade one paparazzo and ten more would materialise from the shadows. It was