A Billionaire In Barcelona Read online

  “And here I am, making up for it, in the quickest way possible. Other people wouldn’t do this, you know.”

  “And I’m supposed to be impressed just because you’re different?” she intoned.

  “You’re supposed to be impressed because I turned out to be sane, and pleasant,” he remarked.

  “You were far from pleasant.”

  “And yet, here I am, buying you a new camera, when I could have just given you money to have it checked and repaired.”

  “You know this is expensive, right?”

  “You take me for a cheap man?” he teased her.

  Iesha felt weirded out, weirded out but at the same time attracted to his mannerisms. She hadn’t expected she would meet a man like him on her first day in Spain. He was handsome, to say the least, and handsome wasn’t supposed to feel comfortable right away. She was glad she didn’t feel right at home. That would’ve meant she had lost her mind.

  “No, it’s just that—”

  “Yes, we don’t know each other, except for our names,” he said, “but it doesn’t mean I have to be a cheapskate. That’s the right slang, am I correct?”

  “I guess,” she said, momentarily confused. “You don’t have to get me the same camera.”

  “I don’t think I can, that camera looked outdated, discontinued. I’ll be getting you something recent,” Alex prattled, holding the door open for her.

  She hadn’t noticed they were now in front of a camera shop, and she quickly stepped inside, grateful for the air-conditioning. The camera shop was new, that, or it was well maintained. Regardless, it was a modern looking camera shop, with different brands, and she saw that it carried the same camera brand that he had broken.

  Alex spoke in rapid Spanish to the salesperson, and the salesperson nodded and nodded. He then turned to face her. “Your camera, can I have it, please?”

  She gingerly placed it in his waiting hand, and he took it without a smile. She had heard his explanation. How she was a tourist, and how he had accidentally bumped into her, breaking her camera. He had told the salesperson he needed the newest, the best, and one similar to the brand she had had.

  Ten minutes later, she had a new camera in her grasp, released just a month ago. She cleared her throat, the moment they got out of the shop. “You didn’t really have to…” she was at a loss for words, and it was as if he did that on purpose, just to show her he had money.

  “I told you I wasn’t a cheapskate.”

  There it was, then. It was his ego that prevailed and not his kindness. The attraction she had felt for him earlier began to slowly leave her. “I’ll pay you back. This is worth more than my previous camera.”

  “It’s worth your time, and you flew here to be a tourist. That costs a lot.”

  “I’m not some college student on a hostel budget, you know.”

  He laughed shortly. “I was just going to say that, but the way you carry yourself, it doesn’t scream collegiate lady. So, how did you find the Sagrada?”

  She frowned, knowing he was changing the topic on purpose. How smooth was he? She played along. She was still in control of this. This was her vacation. He was just a random stranger that she had had the misfortune to meet. “I didn’t like it.”

  “There’s always a critic,” he murmured, shaking his head. “You’re not the only one, don’t worry.”

  “Thank god,” she said acerbically. “It didn’t blow my mind away. Just the history of it did that. My grandmother is…” she stopped, knowing she was starting to say more things than she should to this Alex Gonzalez.

  “Spanish?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “So who is American?”

  “My dad. He has a security agency back home.”

  “Something to take into consideration if I ever kidnap you,” he joked.

  She found herself smiling. “Yeah, be afraid, be very afraid. How come you speak English so well?”

  “I got sent to an international school as a kid. I graduated university in England. I took up architecture there.”

  “So you’re an architect, is that why you asked how I felt about the Sagrada?”

  “It was more of how did you find it, but then again, I think it suits you. You’re a feeling person,” he remarked.

  “A what? Are you actually psychoanalyzing me right now?”

  “Just an observation.”

  “And you do that to every person you’ve just met?” She felt vulnerable all of a sudden.

  “Not everyone, mind you.”

  He was playing coy with her, trying to be likeable and mysterious at the same time. It suited him. Maybe it was his looks: Alex, with his dark hair, dark eyes, and tanned skin, and that hint of a five o’clock shadow. He looked like one of those main characters in a soap opera her mother enjoyed so much.

  “Oh, but just to the random tourists you bump into,” she said.

  He nodded. “Just for random tourists I bump into. Say, I have to leave for work,” he told her as they neared the Sagrada Familia once more. “Where will you be off to?”

  Iesha found herself shrugging. “I don’t know. Siesta is—”

  “Isn’t that common anymore,” he said, “we’re all busy, in a big city. It’s bad for tourism and the economy. You can go anywhere and find that establishments here rarely close.”

  “Oh.” It was all she could say. So he was going back to work, never to see her again. That was it? It all felt so anticlimactic. And he was right, she moved based on feeling. Even her thoughts now were governed by it.

  “I’ll see you later?” he continued.

  See me later? Wait… what? She blinked, registering what he had said. “What do you mean?”

  “You didn’t think it was going to end like this, did you?” he smiled at her.

  I didn’t want it to, really. “Well, I just met you and you seem like a busy guy. I’m just a tourist, after all.”

  “For formality’s sake, I’d like to ask for your number. You did get a local SIM, right?”

  She nodded. How did he guess? Was she such a predictable tourist? “What’s this for?”

  He copied the number displayed on her mobile screen. “Sangria,” he said with a grin.

  It was a boyish grin that suddenly made her feel weak at the knees. That boyish grin made her feel like a girl, a high schooler talking to her crush.

  “Sangria,” she repeated.

  “You know, the drink.”

  “I know it’s a drink.”

  “You seem against the idea.”

  “I’m not,” she said, immediately regretting that she sounded too eager. “I’m just… surprised. I mean you got me a camera, now drinks?”

  “We got off on the wrong foot, literally and figuratively— ha, I finally get to use that together, and in English, after so long.”

  She found herself smiling, not knowing what else to expect. He left her smiling, a minute after he walked back to his office, wherever his office was. A complete stranger had left her smiling. A complete stranger bought her a new camera. A complete Spanish stranger asked her out for drinks.

  I know his name. He’s not so much of a total stranger now, is he? Architect Alex Cuaron Gonzalez and sangria sounded like a total dream.

  *

  It was something he didn’t expect himself, asking her out for Sangria. It sounded like a simple invitation though, the excuse of wanting to get to know her better. Wait, that wasn’t an excuse. He wanted to get to know her better than just being the tourist he’d bumped into during his excursion. He had gotten back to the office an hour ago, but the memory of her smile still made him smile. And this couldn’t be something serious. She was just passing through. He simply wanted her to have a good time. It seemed like she deserved it.

  His firm closed at odd hours, with him usually being the only one left. He forced himself to concentrate on work, knowing that this project was his make it or break it in Madrid, a boutique hotel only for those who could afford it. He had opened his
own firm a few years ago after working under his father. Their personalities were a stark contrast, with the only similarities being their love for architecture and their love for family. With everything else, his father criticized him heavily, right down to his dating life.

  The senior Gonzalez had wanted for his only son to settle down, and he had been severely disappointed to find out about the bad breakup between his ex-future daughter-in-law and his son. She was perfect, beautiful and cultured, and the daughter of a premiere politician. It was something that Alex wanted to forget, but it still replayed in his head. They had been dating since high school, having survived a long distance relationship, seeing each other only during school breaks—but it couldn’t survive cheating. He had found out about her liaison just months after he opened his own firm and a week after he turned twenty-six.

  Alex had wasted no time in cutting her off, deaf to her pleas and cries and calls and texts. He had turned a deaf ear to his parents who mediated on her behalf. Opening his own firm had been a blessing in disguise. It meant long work hours, and he had gladly buried himself in projects until the wee hours of the morning. He had also started exercising regularly, swimming at the beach during weekends, and working out at the gym three times a week. Gone was the lanky, bespectacled Alex; and that change brought about a rather long line of women wanting to date him.

  He dated of course, albeit just briefly, and he treated them as nicely as possible. That being said, it never occurred to him that this Sangria date with Iesha was going to be short. He genuinely did want to get to know her better. But sadly, it was going to be short; tourists came and went, and she would be no exception. Still, he hadn’t dated an American woman yet.

  The Americans he had met were on different spectrums. Some were brash and uncouth, while some were pleasant enough to merit his services as an architect. He had wanted to step out of his father’s shadow for so long, even while in college. Everyone in the building design industry knew of the legendary Ildefonso Gonzalez. It was a matter of pride, wanting to carve out a name for himself, as the Gonzalez title couldn’t be tainted with ugly work.

  Well, his work certainly wasn’t ugly. He was touted as one of the youngest and most successful bachelors in Spain, but he disliked the title. He wanted to be known as the best architect, which was difficult since peoples’ tastes were different. His designs were functional, yet beautiful, almost like Iesha Thompson… almost. He couldn’t very well make sweeping statements about her, although he prided himself in observing people quite well. He had scratched Iesha’s surface, but perhaps there was more to her than what he had seen.

  “Sir,” his secretary came in, “you have a call.”

  “Is it the Mayor Gonzalez?”

  She shook her head. “Your sister.”

  “Great, I’ll take it. Thanks.”

  Moments later he was speaking to his older sister, Dr. Anita G. Morales, thirty-three years old, married with one child, and specializing in Obstetrics and Gynecology.

  “So, their thirty-fifth anniversary is coming up.”

  “You told me about this two weeks ago,” he sighed. “I’m busy.”

  “But you miss me, don’t you?” she teased her younger brother.

  “Please. What makes you say that?” he scoffed.

  “Oh come on, tell me you don’t miss Isabella, and I’ll believe you.”

  Alex adored his only niece, his sister’s first born. Isabelle was two years old and was his constant source of joy. She was one of the few reasons why he tolerated their monthly family dinners at his parents’ house, two hours away from Barcelona.

  “I miss Isabella, and it’s highly unfair you use her against me. She’s your daughter, have you no shame?”

  His sister laughed boisterously. “It’s so you’ll say yes.”

  “Plan everything, I’ll just pay for it.”

  “Shouldn’t this be a collective effort?” she sighed. “It’s been years since you left papa’s firm. Come on, Alex, do it for mama.”

  “You know I’d do it for mama, I’d do it for you, and Isabella. It’s just that… we haven’t really gotten around to talking since that disaster of a dinner last month.”

  “Ignore it. The man just wants you to get married.”

  “He still hasn’t gotten over the fact that we broke up, two frickin’ years ago. He’s acting like an old man.”

  “He is an old man.”

  “You know what I mean. He still thinks it’s my fault, I’m the one that lacks—”

  “I’m sure he’s gotten over that. I think he just wants you happy.”

  “Well, he has a funny way of showing it, Anita. Alright,” he huffed, “what’s this going to entail?”

  “This isn’t business, Alex. It’s a party.”

  “I don’t know why mama put up with him for so long.”

  “Patience is a virtue few people have. Mama’s been blessed,” Anita quipped. “Anyway, I was thinking, a party at the club—”

  “Too many people.”

  “It’ll be good for you. Exposure.”

  “As if I’m not exposed enough,” he laughed. “Can’t it be in some private room in some hotel? The clubhouse seems too open. They’re always there. Something new, for mama.”

  “A formal dinner. Black-tie event,” Anita promptly said.

  “Not that new,” Alex told her. “You know I dislike dressing up.”

  “Yeah, but it’ll be something to remember. An intimate black-tie event. Say, fifty people in one small ballroom.”

  “You mean at the house?”

  “No. We’ll do it here, in the city. First hotel that pops into your head.”

  “One I’ve designed?”

  “One where there’s a nice grand ballroom and the food is good.”

  “Well, I have a few in mind.”

  They spoke for another twenty minutes, until his sister ended the call. His ear throbbed as he put down the handle. She was always one for talking animatedly. He would scout for hotels tonight, probably after Sangria and tapas with Iesha Thompson.

  He looked at the digital clock on his table. Two hours to go before he would see her again.

  Chapter3

  It was a small bistro, too early to be filled with the yuppies who enjoyed their late afternoon drinks and tapas. She was in the midst of enjoying a guitar performance on a street corner, when he called. Iesha was sorry to go, and she told him about it the moment they met up.

  “Ah, then you’re in the perfect place,” he said. “They do impromptu guitar sessions here.”

  “Like anyone can just go up and play?”

  He nodded. “We picked good seats.”

  It excited Iesha. Music was important for dance. She hoped it would start soon. But first, there were sangrias and delicious smelling tapas. “Is this your favorite haunt?”

  “Haunt? Oh, that kind of haunt. Yeah, I guess. Sometimes, my buddies and I come here for drinks.”

  “Not a bar?”

  “With all those annoying laser lights?” he frowned. “Not into that.”

  Okay, so he doesn’t pick up women in bars. Just bistros. Does that seem decent? She was sizing him up already, which was a bad thing. No long term, right? You swore to yourself. Actually, she swore she would be off dating for a while, no specific timeframe. She just didn’t want to entertain people; yet here she was, wanting to be entertained.

  It felt disgusting. She felt needy, thirsty. She almost laughed to herself. Thirsty… how long had it been? It had been quite long enough for someone who had been used to monogamous, long-term relationships. Her fiancé had been her second; she had thought he would be her last boyfriend and her first and only husband.

  “Are you into that?”

  “Into what?”

  “Meeting people in bars.”

  She shook her head, forcing herself to concentrate. She didn’t need her mind to wander off now, not when she knew that she sort of wanted this in the first place: an attractive stranger, sangrias in late
afternoon, and a random conversation to pique her zest for life once more.

  It wasn’t that she was too vulnerable to painful emotions; it was just that she had been through depression that took months to shake off. Her parents were in a stable, loving, and trusting relationship, and she had always assumed she would be in one, too.

  “I don’t like bars, either,” she found herself saying. It was true. She rarely went out. She preferred quiet coffee dates and little hole-in-the-wall cafes. She had preferred that for years on end with him. It was probably why he cheated on her; he needed some spark and not just the routine she had been comfortable in.

  “How young are you?” he asked her.

  “Definitely past legal limits,” she replied.

  “Great, I won’t feel guilty with the alcohol,” he replied.

  “You?”

  “Turning twenty-nine soon. You?”

  “I’m twenty-five,” she sighed.

  “You travel alone a lot?”

  “Actually, this is my first time traveling abroad, alone.”

  “What happened?” he asked her, shifting positions on his seat.

  “Does something always have to happen?”

  “Something had to, good or bad, to prompt this change in your traveling habits.”

  “Guess,” she said, leaning forward.

  “A bad breakup,” he said, whispering closely to her face.

  She felt her stomach churn, that he was that close to her. He was being a flirt, and he knew it and reveled in it. She leaned backwards and gave a short snicker after taking a sip of her drink. “Am I always that predictable that even you, a complete stranger, can guess?”

  He leaned back as well. “How bad of a breakup was it?”

  “Bad. I was going to get married six months ago,” she gave a hollow laugh. “I was going to be Mrs. Terrence Kinsley, some white lawyer’s wife.”

  “Ouch. I’m glad I don’t have pasty skin nowadays,” he said. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

  “I’m glad it didn’t,” she said. “Or else, I wouldn’t be here, in my mother’s home country, sipping sangrias with someone I don’t know and talking about highly personal topics, ya know?”