Turning on her heel, she fled up the stairs. Heartbroken, humiliated.
Tearing his Henley off her body, she threw it across the bedroom suite and quickly pulled her sundress over her head, not caring that it was inside out. She wasted precious seconds searching the carpeted floor for her sandals before remembering she had slipped them off by the granite high-topped table when she arrived last night.
In the doorway, she paused to suck in a deep breath, holding it in, then slowly releasing it through her lips. Patricio would not see her cry. He wasn’t worthy of her tears.
Head high, she pranced down the stairs. Alberto waited for her at the bottom, holding her purse and cell phone.
“Gracias, Alberto. Cuídate,” she murmured.
“You take care of yourself, too, mija.” Sadness filling his dark eyes, Alberto clasped one of her hands in both of his. “Padua will expect to hear from you. You know that, right? Your contract is ironclad. But if you need my help . . .”
She nodded slowly, touched by his offer. Though she wouldn’t take him up on it. “Sí, I know I’m contractually bound to compose for their talent. But it doesn’t have to be him. My work deserves better.”
Over by the sliding glass door, Patricio stood with his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants, his handsome face a contortion of regret and disbelief. Probably only because he’d been caught, or told no. She’d bet that didn’t happen often to El Príncipe.
Cat spared him a cold glance, then hugged Alberto goodbye and strode through the foyer. Jerking the door open, she halted, a stunned “Oh” slipping from her lips when she found Vicente Galán on the other side.
“Buenos días, Catalina. This is an early-morning surprise,” he greeted her, all toothy smiles and charm. Exactly like his sneaky, self-centered son. “It is wonderful to see you.”
Annoyed at her misfortune in having to face two Galáns before she’d had any coffee, she grimaced. “Sí, bueno, I wish I could say the same. I’m obviously leaving, so I’m sure you can see yourself in. Adíos.”
She caught a quick glimpse of El Rey’s affronted displeasure at her rudeness, but she didn’t stick around for his inevitable lecture. Her morning—her day, her dreams—had been ruined by enough of the Galán machismo. And her heart, bueno, it ached too much for her to be around anyone except her familia.
“¡Felicidades, mijo!”
His father’s booming voice coming from the suite’s foyer jolted Patricio out of the spinning pit of desperation and incredulity he’d been thrown into by Catalina’s scorching fury.
“I don’t have time for you right now, viejo,” he told his father, crossing the living room to the bottom of the steps. He needed to grab his shoes and go after her. Explain things.
“¿Pero qué es esto?” his father blustered.
“This is me telling you I can’t deal with whatever it is you’re cooking up or whatever complaint about me you’re intent on relaying.”
“Oye, respeto.” Vicente jabbed his gray Stetson at Patricio in a clear warning.
Even Alberto was giving Patricio a shocked what’s with the disrespect brow raise. He patted the air with a hand in a “take it easy” motion.
“Fine, what’s up?” Patricio asked on a weary sigh.
Maybe he should give Cat a little time to cool down anyway. When they had bickered in the past, once her initial ire blew over, she was more amenable to hearing him out. Hopefully it would be the same now. Nothing he’d done had been with malicious intent. He honestly hadn’t wanted to get her hopes up about their potential album. Still, her angry, agonizing words pelted him once more.
You silenced me.
It was the last thing he meant to do. But, even though he didn’t want to believe it, maybe the way he’d handled things did paint him with the same self-centered brush as her father. And his.
Maldita sea . . . He had to figure out how to fix this. How to—
“The reviews are in!” Vicente announced. He set his Stetson on the high-top breakfast table with a flourish, then crooked a knee to rest one of his boots on a chair rung. A huge grin pulled his jowls wider as he slapped a beefy palm on the tabletop. “Social media and the entertainment magazines are buzzing. Our encore—like we all knew it would be—was a hit. And the trio to close the show, fantástico!”
Patricio had been so caught up in his night with Cat, what it meant for them moving forward, he hadn’t even thought about the concert and the media’s reaction to his father’s unannounced appearance. But he wasn’t surprised to hear that the compromise Cat had encouraged him to find had been a resounding success. She was, in a word, brilliant.
“And,” Vicente continued, “Oscar told me about what you had George pitch to the team. Adding a duet compilation in between your next two solo albums. Magnífica idea, mijo. She is talented, that one.” He waggled a finger in the direction of the door Catalina had stormed out of, her “we’re through” a bull’s-eye dart to Patricio’s chest.
“Yes, she is,” he agreed, wondering where his father was going with this. Because the viejo always seemed to have an ulterior motive when he was throwing out compliments. If he had Oscar’s ear, no doubt the longtime executive had already heard whatever angle Vicente was working.
“Bueno, after the triumphant trio of last night, I think, and Oscar agrees, that the compilation album would be stronger if it included a few trios, possibly some duets with Catalina and me.”
“Ex-excuse me?” Patricio sputtered.
Certain he had misheard, he looked to Alberto for confirmation. His longtime confidant’s slack-jawed shock mirrored Patricio’s, but Alberto remained respectfully quiet, ever the professional in front of El Rey.
But Patricio was done with being quiet. Done with stepping back to let his father have his way. “That’s not going to happen, viejo.”
“¿Y por qué no?”
“Because that’s not what I think is best.”
Vicente swatted away Patricio’s reasoning, his mouth tilting downward with an irritated frown. “Ahh, you are not thinking straight. This will be a huge boost to that girl’s career. And besides, how do you know she would not want to record with me anyway? Of course, she would. Not everyone is given the opportunity to sing with both Galáns!”
Patricio didn’t know that Catalina wouldn’t be interested in his father’s idea. But he did know she wouldn’t put up with any of his father’s patronizing machismo bullshit. Album or no album. She wouldn’t do it just to boost her career, because she knew she deserved better. So did Patricio.
“Oye, last night, you were magnificent, mijo.” Vicente jabbed his Stetson at Patricio, surprising him with the exuberant praise. “Of course, you had to show off a little, ad-libbing with those runs, pero you have the pipes for it. Y los fanáticos, they love it. So, what can I say? Pero when it comes to making albums that go platinum, that is my domain. You have to listen and trust me, mijo.”
And there he went. A backhanded compliment with a swipe at Patricio’s talent and skill. Based on his father’s triumphant grin, the viejo didn’t even realize the way his ego-driven words landed like a belly flop off the high dive—humiliating and painful.