Filthy Rich Revenge: A Filthy Rich Billionaires Book - Lynn Raye Harris Page 0,17

suitcases were gone. The woman simply shrugged. “Sí,” she’d said. “There was a pretty young woman. She wished you a happy marriage to Señorita Mendoza.”

That’s when it dawned on him. His father, the old fool, had been urging him to marry Caridad since Roberto’s death. Arranged marriages were no longer commonplace, but they did happen from time to time. His father had seen it as a measure of his own importance to find a bride for his eldest son. Roberto hadn’t had the guts to object, which Juan Ramirez had known full well. He’d never have tried it with Alejandro—until Roberto died and he wanted to save face with the Mendozas. Señor Mendoza had loaned him a lot of money, and Juan intended to deliver his famous son as payment if it was the last thing he did.

Alejandro had steadfastly refused. Apparently, Juan had decided to step up the campaign. The timing could not have been worse.

Alejandro’s first thought was to go after Rebecca. But she had a head start and he had no idea where she’d gone. His calls to her mobile phone went unanswered. Two days later, she finally picked up. From London. She’d been cool and aloof, and he’d lost his temper. How dare she expect an explanation? All she needed was to accept that what he told her was the truth. He was not engaged.

Not surprisingly, she hadn’t believed him. He’d realized later that his alleged engagement was merely a convenient excuse for her to do what she’d always intended to do. The next day, Roger Cahill told him they were backing Layton International instead.

Rebecca had said she loved him, but she’d lied. He wasn’t good enough for her and never would be in her eyes.

You weren’t important enough.

It had pricked his pride, sliced a wound in his soul, the knowledge this woman he’d cared about had used him. Never again would he believe protestations of love from any female. Since love was a fool’s dream, he’d agreed to marry Caridad. Why not? Her breeding and social standing were impeccable. She would be the perfect hostess, the perfect tycoon’s wife, and the perfect mother to his children.

He’d certainly been mistaken on that point. He could not have chosen a colder, more unfeeling woman for his wife if he’d tried.

Alejandro swallowed a mouthful of sherry, welcomed the burn as it slid down his throat. Who could have guessed how much pain he would have to endure before his marriage was over? He’d never known such despair, such aching emptiness until he married Caridad. Everything that happened to him, everything that sliced his soul to shreds and left him hollow inside could be traced to that moment when Rebecca had left him. If not for her, it would have turned out so differently.

He’d vowed long ago that every ounce of pain she’d ever dealt him would be returned to her before he was through. That’s what he wanted from her. Nothing less than complete revenge.

Rebecca had no real destination as she wandered through Alejandro’s darkened house. It was after ten and everything was quiet. A small lamp burned on the desk in the home office she’d first seen him in yesterday. She went inside, thinking to find a book to read since she wasn’t sleeping so well.

She studied the titles lining the bookshelves with interest. What did Alejandro like to read? It surprised her to realize she hadn’t known before. Hadn’t known much about him, in fact, if she thought about it. He’d come far indeed in the five years since she’d last seen him.

But his fury and hatred stunned her. Clearly, he believed she had ruined his deal with the Cahill Group. But even if it were true, which it was not, why would that be enough to make him hate her so much? The business world was often unfair. Life was unfair. Sometimes, it was downright cruel. Plenty of times in the last few months she’d wanted to bury her head in her hands and scream at the unfairness that left her in charge of Layton International so soon. The monstrous bad luck that had her father climbing on a tiny plane in Thailand so he could tour the resorts he’d just acquired.

But she hadn’t. She’d picked herself up and dusted herself off and got back to work. There was no other choice.

Most of the books were in Spanish. Don Quixote, naturally. The Count of Monte Cristo in English. Interesting. She started to reach for Dumas’