The Consequence He Must Claim. Dani CollinsЧитать онлайн книгу.
the office to explain that Cesar had lost a week’s worth of memories prior to the crash. He didn’t recall the ribbon cutting on the bridge in Madrid and was quite anxious to oversee it, el Excelentísimo, Señor Montero had added with one of his distracted frowns, the one that suggested he was exasperated by humans and their mortal frailties.
Sorcha had stared, speechless, at the Duke of Castellon. Cesar’s private celebration of the bridge with her once they’d returned to Valencia had given way to a heart-to-heart and eventually their life-changing body-to-body connection. Cesar remembered nothing of that?
How did one process such news? All she’d felt was a void inside her. Like their magical afternoon hadn’t happened.
Somehow she had swallowed back a dry lump and asked if she could see him. “Not necessary,” his father had told her.
It really was. Sorcha wouldn’t believe Cesar’s loss of memory until he’d told her himself, especially now that the evidence of their lovemaking was confirmed by a tiny pink stripe on a wand.
Surely if he saw her, he would remember?
As the doors of the private hospital slid closed behind her, her mouth was arid, her skin numb, her limbs electrified by three weeks of sustained tension. Rough treatment in her teens had taught her how to keep a mask of confident indifference on her face, however. And working with Cesar had granted her certain entitlements these past three years. She approached the doors to the interior as though she had every right to enter.
“Señorita?” a clerk at the lobby desk called, halting her as efficiently as the electronically sealed doors. She wore a smart, modern uniform and was well foiled by the clean, peach and plum tones of the lobby.
“Bon dia,” Sorcha said, using Valencian, which she had learned from Cesar, rather than her excellent Spanish, which might label her an outsider. She added a respectful “Sister,” then said. “Sorcha Kelly for Cesar Montero,” punctuated with her I-screen-visitors-too smile. We’re practically twins.
The Sister tapped keys on her computer, then smiled benignly. “I don’t have your name on the list.”
“I’m sure if you call, he’ll confirm he wants to see me,” Sorcha assured her.
As the Sister picked up her phone to dial, the entrance doors swished open and Diega Fuentes entered. Diega Fuentes y Losa de Mateu, to be precise, daughter of the Marques de los Jardines de Las Salinas. She definitely looked rich enough to have more names than she could use. Her tall, slender silhouette was practically haloed in designer labels with imaginary arrows pointing to her purse and earrings, lipstick and strappy heels. Her sundress was a fluttery cornflower blue with white polka dots, her sleek black hair a stunning frame for her elegant bone structure, lightly golden skin and bottomless eyes.
Sorcha hadn’t been able to fully cover the dark circles under her eyes and wore her work clothes—a gray pencil skirt with a matching vest over a white top. Given the worry she’d been enduring, along with a hint of morning sickness, her complexion was probably greener than her eyes.
Cesar’s “fiancée” did a small double take, then sauntered toward Sorcha.
Sorcha hated her. Not because she was claiming to be engaged to Cesar, but because everything about her struck Sorcha as fake and calculating. Sorcha knew how to keep her feelings to herself, however, so she worked up the warm smile she’d perfected for Cesar’s many, many conquests.
And she wouldn’t even think of those women right now. She was not one of a crowd. She wasn’t.
Ignoring the weight of insecurity that descended on her, she moved forward to meet Diega. “Señorita Fuentes. Thank goodness. I’ll go up with you to see Cesar.”
“Did he call you?” Diega asked with mild surprise and what might have been a flicker of uneasiness in her lashes.
Sorcha was nothing if not honest, but she wasn’t above small prevarications when the stakes were this high. “His father said he was anxious to catch up on work, so...” Obviously he needs me, she intimated.
Diega took a small breath and manufactured a tight smile, like she was preparing for a difficult conversation. Sliding her gaze to the Sister, she asked, “May we speak privately...? Perfect,” she murmured as they were pointed to a small lounge off the lobby.
The room was bright, but looked onto the street. Eggplant-colored cushioned benches lined the walls and a television on low volume hung in the corner. The space was no doubt utilized by drivers and other personnel who were required to wait for their employers, people not exalted enough to ascend to the patients’ rooms.
Sorcha choked back a feeling of lowered circumstances that hadn’t sat so jagged and bitter in the back of her throat since her father’s death had drastically changed her mother’s situation in their Irish village.
Controlling a wave of panic, Sorcha conjured an expression of mild interest while Diega took great care closing the door, trapping them in the fishbowl.
“You understand that he’s lost a piece of his memory,” Diega said in what Sorcha imagined was supposed to be a break-it-to-her-gently tone.
“I’ve worked with him for almost three years. He hasn’t forgotten that, has he?”
“No, of course not,” Diega said smoothly. “But he’s not up to working. His doctor suggests he put that off for a few months. If you have a concern at the office, you should take it up with Javiero.”
Diega didn’t stoop to titles. She was on a first-name basis with Cesar’s father, as her casual tone demonstrated. Even when the titles were the highest in the land.
Sorcha swallowed. “He’s more than my employer. When you work that closely with someone, you care about his well-being. I’d like him to know we’re all wishing him well.”
If her firm tone said, “Shut up and let me through the doors,” she couldn’t help it. Three weeks without Cesar’s distantly amused mouth, framed by sculpted stubble, was an eternity. Three weeks without aqua eyes that always met hers, never strayed below her collar, yet still conveyed masculine admiration, had left her dying of thirst.
“Sorcha.” Diega lowered to perch on the edge of a bench.
Oh, how grotesquely patronizing she was as she nodded at a spot opposite.
Sorcha bit back what she wanted to say—don’t call me that. If she had to say “Señorita Fuentes,” she expected to be called Ms. Kelly in return. “I’d rather stand,” Sorcha said.
Diega lowered her gaze, suggesting an ability to hold on to her dignity even when faced with impertinence.
Forcing down the sort of curse that never crossed her lips, Sorcha set her bottom on the corner of a cushion. “Yes?” she prompted Diega.
“I understand why you feel so concerned. Why you think there’s some sort of familiarity between you.” Her dark eyes came up and they were tar-like, sucking Sorcha forward into suffocating blackness. “He felt very guilty when he came to see me that night.”
Don’t betray a thing, her gut told her, but she licked her lips and asked, “Did he?” in a raspy whisper.
Cesar might not have been in love with Diega, but he was a man of honor. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” he’d said, right before they’d gone past the point of no return. He’d left her while she slept, leaving a text on her phone. Gone to see Diega.
It had stung to wake alone, but after everything they’d talked about leading up to falling into bed—or rather, falling onto his office sofa—Sorcha had been convinced he’d left to cut things off with Diega. Surely that’s what he had done. Surely.
But then, here was Diega claiming they were engaged...
“I haven’t wanted to bring this up. With anyone,” Diega said firmly. “What is the use in smudging reputations or pointing fingers when faced with much more serious concerns? Especially when he assured me that