Red Hot Christmas (26 page)

She chewed on her lower lip and peered at him. A trace of vulnerability sparked in her eyes like a shooting star. “You didn’t pay someone to unpack?”
 

“I don’t like strangers…handling what’s mine,” he said.
 

With a sigh, she shrugged it off and pointed at the tabletop Christmas tree on his marbled kitchen island. “You’re a holiday fellow, aren’t you?”
 

He glanced at the string of golden ornaments and stars complimenting the small fir tree he had purchased. “Somewhat.” He removed his coat, and tossed it on the sofa.
 

She spun on her boots and assessed him in silence. A hint of a smile formed on her lips, then she shook her head and continued to give his place a once-over.
 

“May I have your jacket?”

At the mention of her jacket, she pulled the sides together as if for an instant she didn’t even remember she had it on, and now wanted—needed—that extra shield of protection.
 

“The heater is on.” He cocked his head to the side. He doubted his efficient, soundless system was to be blamed for the sudden elevation of room temperature.

She removed her coat and handed it to him. Her fingers brushed his, and a tingle of excitement ran up his arm. She drew back and looked away, and he wondered if what was libido for him was discomfort for her?

Why should it matter? He wouldn’t be around her long enough to find out, and steady relationships were no longer part of his agenda. Wasn’t that part of the reason why he chose to come live in Chicago? To concentrate on having Frank pen his story, and how the winery he loved had become what it was today. His beloved grandparents would be proud of him, and he would spread their name worldwide. Last thing he needed was more drama in his life, for himself or his family.
 

“Thanks.” She removed her boots and tossed them to the side.

He stared at her polka dot socks. He opened his mouth to say she didn’t have to take her shoes off, but why would he? “Would you like some wine?” He strode to the wine rack.
 

“Sure.”

He studied a couple of bottles, and asked, “White? Red?”

“Whatever.”

He bit back a smile. “Whatever? It’s wine we’re talking about.”

 
“Just give me something that won’t give me a headache in the morning.”

He reached for the 1998 Soto Rojo, a top pick from his personal collection. The deep, complex red with a dry finish seemed like the perfect match for the woman perusing his living area. He opened the bottle and let it breathe. “I’ll show you to your room. This way.” He gestured for her to walk ahead, and nudged her elbow to show her the hallway leading to the bedrooms. Sydney pulled back immediately.
 

He stopped in his tracks. “Do you have a problem with people touching you? Every time I touch you, you pull back.”

“What’s the matter, Pretty Boy? Can’t handle a girl who can resist your charms?”
 

“Trust me, there’s a lot I can handle.”
 

She waved it off. “I’ll take your word for it.”
 

His fingers tingled, and he shoved his hands into his pockets to avoid from straying and breaking that rule. He took a deep breath, and inhaled the sweet notes of her floral perfume.
 

Her scent lingered even after she entered the room and closed the door behind her. He returned to the kitchen, tossed together a selection of cheese and crackers, and poured the wine into two round glasses.

He gave the glass a swirl and was about to taste it when she returned, wearing the same clothes. What did he expect? A silk, knee length red robe like the ones Carla donned to seduce him? The comparison made him square his shoulders and lock his spine into place.
 

 
“Try this.” He handed her a glass.

She took it to her mouth and gave it a shy taste before drinking more. “Nice.”
 

Without any further comments, she sat the glass on the counter and plopped down on one of the chairs of the breakfast nook. “I’m exhausted.” She covered a yawn.
 

He chose the chair across from her. “I need to ask you something. Have you been approached by someone named Carla Torres?” he asked. “Did she offer you money to come to me?”
 

She shifted on the sofa and shook her head. “Who’s Carla Torres?”
 

He slid to the edge of the chair, fighting the urge to erase the distance between them and lift her chin to him. Sydney was an enigma, but he knew if he tried to touch her—especially in his own place—she would bolt. And if Frank knew something about him that could jeopardize his career or his uncle’s running for re-election, he needed to know. “It’s okay if she has and you accepted. Whatever she offered, I’ll double it. Triple. I just need the truth.” Just in case, he had to ask. Damn it, Carla had paid his former housekeeper to keep tabs on him. What guarantee did he have she wouldn’t go further?
 

“Do you think if I knew whoever you’re saying I know and had boatloads of money I’d be living in a crappy studio apartment? Who is this chick?”

He lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip. When his eyes met hers again, she shifted on the sofa, restless. “A woman I was engaged to. It ended badly, and ever since she has been pulling all sorts of stunts to get my attention.”

Sydney frowned. “Do you think she’d want to hurt you?”

Alejandro hesitated. The intrusive, hungry paparazzi and even respected journalists had begged him for quotes and interviews. Opening up about his past or about Carla was off-limits. Why revisit a dark part of his life? Moving forward was so much easier—and smarter. He took in the delicate edges of Sydney’s face, and how her hair darkened to a rich auburn under the dim lighting of his living room. She worried her bottom lip, and he drew in a nostalgic breath. “I’m sure. One way or another.”

“Okay. But why would she kill that guy? And Patty?”

“I don’t know. I asked him not to mention her in my book. She has issues.”

She toyed with a pillow. “Don’t we all? Why are you having someone tell your story, anyway?”
 

 
“It’s quite common. I’m not an author, and he’s the best.” The book would be released in less than a year, which was lightening speed for the publication world. The publisher was thrilled he had finally agreed, and they had already guaranteed him a publicity tour at famous talk and day shows, but also it would be a couple of months before his uncle got re-elected. The world would learn how he turned a family business into an empire, he would honor his beloved grandparents—and as a bonus, he would become more known in the US.
 

She narrowed her eyes. “Yes, but do you really need someone’s help to tell your own story?”

“My vineyard is very well-known in South America and some European countries. Unfortunately, it hasn’t taken off in the US. Some personal marketing would definitely warm up my target clients.”

 
“Well, don’t fear, Hot Shot. Pretty soon you will have your own satellite radio show,” she said with a touch of sarcasm.
 

A chuckle floated up his throat. “Are you always this blunt?”

She grinned. “Only when I open my mouth.”

“Does your mouth ever get you in trouble?” he asked in a low voice. His gaze dropped to her mouth, his throat grew thick and dry. He wondered how soft her lips would feel against his, and if her kiss would be as intriguing as the woman before him.
 

She chewed on her bottom lip again. “Constantly.”

 
Immediately, he cleared his throat. Sure, her bow shaped mouth was tempting, but he couldn’t scare her by using sexual innuendos. Even if the supply of oxygen in his brain shortened a considerable amount just musing over the possibilities. “Interesting. I guess it’s a New York thing,” he teased.
 

She lifted her glass to her lips, and drank some more wine. “Yes, we’re rude and lovely by nature.”
 

“Why did you move to Chicago?”

She tightened her lips, her expression hardening. “Long story. And I need to go to sleep.”

He nodded. She stood up and stretched like an indulged cat before mumbling something and walking away from him. He expected her to dash to the guest bedroom, but she detoured to the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of wine. She replenished her glass and took it with her. Full.
 

A smile formed on his lips. She enjoyed the wine. If only he stopped guessing what other things she enjoyed…
 

***

“We’re here.” He tilted his head toward the building in one of Buenos Aires’s most exclusive neighborhoods, Puerto Madero. Well, she guessed it was. A combination of old European charm and contemporary luxury blended on the streets surrounding them. The tall building was no exception.
 

She stepped into the black granite entrance, and the efficient doorman left his station to come open the door for them. The man smiled and said something in Spanish, and Alejandro responded in the same language, with a pat on his back. God. Alejandro certainly was into touching, wasn’t he?
 

“I’m guessing you’re popular here.”

“My mother is a South American Catholic. Persuading me to visit often is in her DNA. She bought this place after I moved out of the mansion, several years ago. She wanted low maintenance living.”

He pressed the button to the top floor. She took a long deep breath. Everything was moving so fast…during the flight, she slept, or pretended she slept which was the next best thing, as far as avoiding contact with him. As long as he didn’t try to small-talk or anything, she was good. Keeping him at a safe distance was her strategy to survive his proximity.
 

She was here now. It was probably a stupid idea, but shit had been too real back in Chicago. She refused to be physically abused or threatened again. If this guy could prevent that, she would take it. And she needed to find out what the hell was happening, for Patty’s sake if nothing else. First sign of trouble and she was out of there. As long as his family story was legit, she’d go with the flow.
 

Although…She nodded at the tall gangly teenager across from her in the elevator. In response, he gave her a once-over in silence. No smile. Well, what did she expect? A friendly greeting?
 

Searching for protection, she crossed her arms against her chest. Truth was, besides Alejandro she didn’t know anyone in Buenos Aires. Odds were she was on at least two people’s shit lists—the guy who attacked her and the woman who called her supervisor at work. She shook her head to get herself to calm down. Surely they wouldn’t be followed to Buenos Aires?
 

The elevator came to a halt, and the teenager left without a word. A couple more floors, and it was their time to exit. Sydney stepped into an immaculate foyer, larger than her entire apartment. “
This
is low maintenance?” she whispered to him, drinking in the pastel colors blended with darker contemporary furniture, along with gold accented lamps and art pieces.
 

He chuckled and made a gesture for her to walk in front of him. “I guess you would be offended if you visited our family beach house.”

“You won’t hear me saying this a whole lot, so enjoy it now—you’d be right.” If this was anything to go by.
 

A woman in her seventies, elegantly dressed and sporting a short bob, that showed a set of ruby earrings, and an ear-to-ear grin, walked up to them. “My darling. I’m so happy to see you.” She kissed him on his cheeks three times while holding him.
 

“And you, too. Welcome to the family.” She opened her arms and before Sydney could defend herself, the woman trapped her in a hug. “Call me Constanza.” Maybe hugging was a family tradition? It would really have helped her to have been raised by a family, one of any kind. She just didn’t have anything to compare it to.
 

“T—thanks.” Sydney managed to draw back and smile.
 

“Oh, look at you, Alejandro. Did you lose weight?” His mother patted his stomach.
 

He rolled his eyes, and withdrew his mother’s hand from him. “C’mon,
Madre,
enough. I’m fine.”

Momma’s Boy
. Sydney watched him, he was fine alright. Without a single drop of fat in his body, just the muscular layer over his slim physique. Her assessment must have lingered, for when she raised her gaze to his face, his eyes smiled at her with a spark. Oh, shit. How embarrassing.
 

She shuddered, and blinked away the nonsense. Alejandro was a man she didn’t know well, nor wanted to. “Thank you for having me. I am a good…friend of your son’s,” she said, unscripted. Sure, friend was a long stretch, but what else could she say?
A dying writer implied your son’s life is at risk. My friend is dead. Happy Holidays.
 

A blank expression crossed over his face. Constanza, meanwhile, pushed her brows all the way to her brownish hairline. “Friends huh? Whatever you guys call it these days.” She waved it off, and winked at Sydney, who realized the mother and son shared the same set of midnight colored eyes.