‘Your mom’s fine with it,’ said Alberto, coming back into the room, startling her. ‘Apparently Bri told her I picked you up at the end of the square. He didn’t believe you when you told him you were meeting me, so he followed to make sure you were OK.’
Layla nodded, sat up straighter, sipped a little more champagne. ‘I can’t believe she’s dead,’ she said in a small voice.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and sat down beside her, taking her hand.
Layla would rather have fallen apart in front of anyone than Alberto. His hand was so big and warm. Hers felt frozen. He smelled so good, too – that expensive cologne he always wore. She glanced at him. He was watching her with those light laser-blue eyes. He was tanned from the American sun. He loved the water as much as she did. He had raced a yacht in the Americas Cup, he was a skilled yachtsman.
He was just so damned gorgeous, she couldn’t cope with this. She was devastated over Precious, couldn’t take it in. She must look a mess right now – she could almost hear Precious lecturing her about reverting to her old shabby-Layla ways: no make-up, hair scraped back.
‘Why’d you bring me here? Why not take me home?’ she asked him, more to fill the silence than because she wanted an answer.
Her glass was empty. Alberto leaned over, grabbed the bottle, refilled it.
‘It seemed better, that’s all. There are some things we haven’t discussed, things we need to talk about, and I didn’t want to do that with your parents in the next room.’
‘Oh.’ Layla took another swig of the champagne. It was working, soothing her, relaxing her. She had stopped shivering.
Except now she was thinking of how he had blown her out. Recalling the excitement when Precious’s plan had worked so beautifully, followed by the bitter, horrendous disappointment when he had called to cancel. What did he think she was, some sort of lame charity case? Was he doing this because he felt sorry for her?
She swigged back the champagne, emptying her glass again.
‘Steady with that,’ he said.
‘Why? Are you frightened I’ll show you up?’ she snapped.
‘No.’ He was half-smiling. ‘I’m frightened you’ll puke all over this couch.’
‘Are you going to refill this?’ She thrust the empty glass at him.
‘Not yet, no.’ Gently he took the glass from her hand and set it beside his. Then he turned to look at her. ‘We have to talk. Seriously.’
‘I can’t talk. I can’t even think,’ she moaned, rubbing a hand tiredly over her eyes.
‘Layla. Pay attention.’ He opened his mouth to speak, then sat back with a sigh. ‘Shit. This has happened at the worst possible time.’