“I doubt me telling you what to do will work,” Patricio answered, pleasure warming his heart when a ghost of her sassy smirk momentarily curved her lips before disappearing. “But I will suggest that you talk to them. Or at least Blanca. For your sake, and hers. You two are the ones I’m worried about.”
“I don’t want to do it in public. And I don’t think I want him in my room. My private space. Maybe we can find—”
“How about if we do it here? Tonight. Tomorrow and Saturday we’ll be busy with preconcert prep before our final two shows at night. I wouldn’t think you want this hanging over you.”
Her shoulders sagged. Frustration puckered her brow, and she squeezed his hand. “I hate that this will taint the last weekend of the tour. Our last weekend—”
He placed a finger over her lips, silencing the words he wasn’t ready to hear. “Not our last. We still have our album to finish.”
Because that was how he saw it now: their album. A new, different ask he had in mind for the executives at Padua in exchange for him compromising with them and his father. A new, different plan he hoped Catalina would agree to as well.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Are you sure you don’t want me to order room service? You haven’t eaten since we shared that slice of pizza at New York-New York for lunch.”
“I’m fine, gracias.” Catalina tried to offer Patricio a grateful smile, but she was pretty sure it looked more like a grimace.
He’d been handling her with kid gloves in the aftermath of the bomb her sister had dropped in the lobby a couple of hours ago. Letting her use his lifestyles-of-the-rich-and-famous suite as her sanctuary. He had even called for skin-care products to be brought from the spa when she asked if she could use his bathroom to clean up. She did not want to face Pedro Santos with tearstained cheeks, her hair in a disheveled crown braid after being squashed and sweaty and shoved under a cheap wig.
Patricio had urged her to take an extended shower or soak in the Jacuzzi tub, so she had—complete with bubbles, sweet-smelling lotions, and hair and face masks—and emerged rejuvenated of spirit and resolved to not be swayed by a slick-talking, self-centered, has-been mariachi. Then she had spotted the short-sleeved, red wrap dress waiting for her on the king mattress, a pair of tan heeled sandals on the floor beside the bed. A red rose lay across the dress’s bodice, along with a note in Patricio’s bold script:
For a brilliant star of her own making.
Patricio
Fresh tears had filled her eyes. These ones for a completely different reason.
To the world, Patricio Galán might be cocky, confident, and commanding. To her, the real Patricio was all that and so much more: compassionate, thoughtful, wickedly funny, and most important, supportive of her.
But he was still a mariachi. And while the more time she spent with Patricio, the more she longed—ay, to the marrow of her bones, how she longed—to cast aside her long-held conviction to not relive her birth mother’s mistakes, she was too afraid he might . . . what if she wound up . . .
No, she couldn’t do it.
She had vowed to never be like either of her birth parents. That’s what she had to remember as she prepared to meet the sinvergüenza who had the audacity to show up here today.
A sharp sense of foreboding needled her stomach. One of her feet tap-tap-tapped on the metal chair rung, a release of little bursts of agitation like a pressure-cooker valve emitting steam. But she couldn’t guarantee that an explosion wasn’t imminent.
Releasing a shuddery breath, Cat ran a trembling hand over her slicked-back low ponytail. She straightened on the white pleather-and-metal low-back chair at the high-topped white granite breakfast table. Shoulders erect, back straight, ready for battle.
Patricio had suggested she make herself comfortable on the sectional sofa. But she didn’t want to be comfortable for this meeting. She wanted to stay pissed. And she definitely didn’t want Pedro Santos to feel any sense of comfort or welcome here. As for Blanca . . . bueno, Blanca was going to worry no matter what, especially since it sounded like she and Luciano had plotted this godforsaken meet and greet.
In a cruel six-degrees-of-separation twist of fate, the baby-faced trumpet player with the adorable dimples who’d been wooing Catalina’s sister over video chat also happened to be the son of a guitarrón player who had toured with Pedro in the early years of their careers. Their band had eventually split up, but the men had remained close friends. Luciano’s father went on to realize moderate success; Pedro not so much, eventually settling in the Vegas area.
In talking with Luciano to set up their meeting, Patricio had learned that the young trumpet player usually visited his father’s old friend when Luciano was in town for Patricio’s annual Latinx-Hispanic Heritage Month concert. Pedro kept track of Luciano’s career and had heard about Catalina in the press. From there, he stumbled upon the story about Arturo and Berta Capuleta and the girls they fostered, then adopted in San Antonio.
“So, I’m supposed to believe that the man who couldn’t be bothered to find my sister and me when it mattered suddenly seeks a happy familia reunion out of the goodness of his heart?” Catalina hissed a breath between her teeth. “That it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I’m associated with the hottest ticket in town this weekend? Or that entertainment sites have started labeling me as one of Padua’s up-and-coming stars?”
“It very well might,” Patricio said, setting a glass of seltzer water with lime on a napkin in front of her. He bent and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. The sweet gesture soothed her ire. And her battered heart. “But it also might not. To be honest, I doubt you’ll know for sure either way after only one conversation.”
“I just want to get this over with.” She took a swig of her drink, then plunked it back down. “What time is it? Shouldn’t they be here already?”
“In about ten minutes. Here, you’re all tense.” Moving behind her, Patricio placed his hands at the crook of her neck. Delicious heat spread through her at his touch. Gently at first, then with increasing pressure, his thumbs and fingers kneaded the muscles along her neck and shoulders, knotted from the stress of her sister’s betrayal and the resurrection of the man who, for all intents and purposes, had been dead to her since Blanca and Cat had arrived at their first foster house. Scared. Confused. And, at least for her, furious at the fates.
“Dios, that feels good,” Cat moaned, her body quickly turning to putty under Patricio’s ministrations. “Can we just skip the awkward meeting and stay like this for a while? You’ve got great hands.”
Patricio’s warm breath tickled the left side of her face as he leaned closer to murmur, “Querida, you haven’t even begun to see the remarkable things these hands can do.”
She shivered, desire arcing through her in a blazing trail. Thoughts of the “things” she wanted his hands to do to and with her made her breasts grow heavy. Her nipples strained for his attention, and the area between her thighs throbbed with need.
“Promises, promises,” she teased, anxious to defuse the lust threatening to consume her. Afraid she might give in to the intense urge to bolt the door and surrender to the delectable pleasure of discovering exactly what he had in mind.