No! She halted the negative thoughts from her past before they could form.
Trust, she reminded herself. Patricio had earned hers.
Before doubt could worm its way in from an empty bottle of mezcal, Cat kicked off the sheets, snagged Patricio’s shirt and her panties off the floor and slipped them on, and then went in search of coffee and un beso de buenos días. The first would bring clarity to her mind. The good-morning kiss would be a welcome taste of what she hoped lay ahead in their day—more incredible sex.
Everything about last night had been incredible. Even now, her sore body thrummed for his again. He had a way of making her feel absolutely adored as he cherished every single inch of her. At times he took control, driving her to the edge of release, then flinging them both over it in an erotic, pleasure-filled free fall. Yet he also willingly succumbed when she grabbed the reins, telling him, showing him, what she needed to reach her climax, leaving her sated and wanting more.
But it was more than the sex; it was Patricio himself.
He was a generous lover. A compassionate friend and partner. A good man who—
Her bare feet hit the cold marble floor in the short hallway outside the bedroom, and she flinched. Tiptoeing to the stairs, she paused when she heard Patricio talking to someone. Alberto’s voice rose sharply, and she cringed, realizing the older man was downstairs.
¡Madre de Dios! Her morning-after glow of satisfaction dimmed as she pictured the parental scowl of disapproval on Alberto’s round face. She was about to turn tail and race back to the bedroom and hide until Patricio let her know the coast was all clear, when she heard her name.
“Does Catalina know about your plan to not use her songs on your album?” Alberto asked, censure coloring his words an ugly shade that made her stomach churn. “That you’ve been writing songs of your own instead?”
Wait . . . What?
Stunned by Alberto’s revelation, Cat ducked below the stair railing, praying she hadn’t been seen. Scrambling backward, she smacked her elbow against the bathroom’s doorjamb. Painful pinpricks marched up her arm. Disbelief fogged her brain. Alberto must be wrong. Rubbing the injured elbow, she shook her head in denial. He had to be wrong. Or . . . or maybe she’d misunderstood him.
“It’s not that I don’t plan for the songs we’ve written together to be used. Just . . . not on this next album,” Patricio answered.
Catalina crawled closer to the railing, straining to hear.
“She has said herself that some of her songs aren’t a good fit for me,” he continued. “That she’d pass them to Padua for another artist. I’ve bulldozed my creativity block, thanks to Catalina’s help. If the record execs approve my plans, we’ll both wind up with what we want, and more. Maybe not as she originally intended, but the wording in her contract binds her to Padua’s decisions. And she’ll understand that my idea is a smart business move.”
Dios mío, he wasn’t planning on putting their songs, the ones they’d written together, on his album? Horrified, she slumped to a seat on the floor. So, what had all their efforts been for? Nothing? Had he been stringing her along? Using her to reawaken his muse like he had just said, and then he’d cast her aside?
And what about last night? Where did that fit into his heinous plan?
Bitter betrayal pierced her heart, and she pressed a hand to her mouth to silence her cry of pain. Shame filled her, heating her cheeks and leaving an acrid taste on her tongue. Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the two men’s conversation. It didn’t matter. She had heard enough.
In the end, she’d gotten caught in the same trap as her birth mom, falling for a mariachi’s besotted act only to be played for a fool. Thinking she had found a partner who respected her, maybe even loved her. One who understood and championed her dreams, instead of putting his own first.
Indignation and disgust sparked, each fueling the other, until they morphed into a fiery fury that pushed her to her feet and down the marble steps, past the statement pieces of artwork in the foyer and the fully stocked wet bar, where an empty bottle of bubbly they had shared nestled in the sink. A superstar’s domain, soon to be the site of a supernova explosion.
Alberto spit out his coffee when she barreled into the living room.
Patricio’s cup clattered onto the round table in front of the black-and-tan sectional. He rose, smile wide, arms outstretched in welcome—his surprise at her appearance that of a sinvergüenza caught behaving in his despicably shameless ways. “Cat, you’re awake!”
“How could you?” She threw the accusation at him.
His gaze shot to the stairs, his shrewd mind obviously putting two and two together and figuring out that she had overheard his conversation. “Let me explain.”
“Explain what? That the cagey vibe I got from you from our very first meeting with Padua was right? I called you on it during that first rehearsal in San Antonio. Remember? But you brushed it aside.” She flung an arm through the air, indignation making room for outrage as the memory coalesced in her mind. Hands fisted at her sides, she glared at Patricio, hating him for making her realize her foolishness. “I ignored my gut instinct. And you played me.” She threw back her head with a harsh scoff that scraped her throat raw. “You played me like that old guitar propped in its stand at the beach house, counting on the fact that you had the upper hand. Padua will do whatever you want. Even if it means screwing me over. Just like Pedro did with my birth mom.”
“It’s not like that. Por favor, hear me out.” He took a step toward her, and she recoiled.
“Don’t you dare try to touch me,” she sneered, palms raised to ward him off.
“Catalina, please.”
“Have you been making deals and machinations with George and Padua that involve me—and my career—without my knowledge?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, the answer to her question stamped in the discomfort on his face.
She flicked a quick glance at Alberto. The older man stood by the wall of windows, looking dapper in his usual suit. Head bowed, hands clasped at his waist, his round face clouded with remorse. He opened his mouth as if to answer her question, but she shook her head and turned back to the real perpetrator of her pain.
“Answer me!” she demanded.
His mouth a grim line, Patricio nodded.
He might as well have karate kicked her in the stomach. She sucked in a sharp breath that lodged in her chest. The truth ricocheted through her, leaving tiny pings of pain with every hit. Turns out, despite her staunchest efforts, she was indeed her birth mother’s daughter. In the worst possible way.
“It’s not exactly what you think,” Patricio said. “And yes, I have made moves, but hear me out and you’ll see that—”
“No. I’ve heard enough. It’s exactly what I think. You’ve been making your own plans behind my back. You took control away from me. You silenced me, the same way your father has silenced you all these years. And I can’t—I won’t—” A sob threatened to bubble up and out of her, and she broke off. She would not cry in front of him.
“Catalina—”
“No. We’re done here.” Straightening her shoulders with a regal head toss, she faced him with all the wrath of a woman scorned. Belittled and disrespected. “Don’t call me. Don’t text me. Don’t . . . anything. We’re through.”