‘He has a wife,’ he murmured.
The quiet, almost apologetic comment dropped into the silent room like a pebble thrown into still waters. Javier had been prowling the room like a caged tiger but now he stopped abruptly, every fibre of his concentration directed at the hapless lawyer who had been Carlos Herrera’s oldest and most trusted confidant.
‘Since I was ten years old my grandfather groomed me to take his place as head of the Herrera family, and more importantly as president of El Banco de Herrera,’ Javier hissed, his jaw rigid with the effort of containing his temper. ‘Why would he suddenly change his mind?’
The Duque is dead; long live the Duque, he thought cynically. His aristocratic title was of little importance to him; his overriding interest was in taking control of the Herrera family’s banking business. Carlos’s son—Javier’s father—was also dead, although Fernando had been cast out of the family long before a drug overdose had ended his life. As the next male heir, Javier had taken his rightful place as the new Duque de Herrera when Carlos died, but it seemed that control of the bank—the golden grail—was still beyond his grasp.
‘Are you saying that I have been denied what should be mine because my cousin is married and I am not? That’s the only reason?’ he demanded grimly, his amber eyes flashing fire for a second before he imposed iron self-control over his emotions and his face resumed its mask of haughty arrogance.
‘Your grandfather’s dying wish was to leave the bank in the hands of a man who he felt confident would ensure its continued success.’
‘And I am that man,’ Javier growled impatiently.
Ramon Aguilar continued as if Javier had not spoken. ‘There have been concerns among the board in recent months. Carlos was aware of, and even shared, many of those concerns,’ he added. As he spoke he scattered a number of photographs onto the desk—all featured Javier in the company of a different woman, although it was notable that each of his companions shared similar attributes of blonde hair and an eye-catching cleavage.
Javier glanced briefly at the photos and shrugged his shoulders to indicate his supreme indifference. The women were no more than arm candy—he couldn’t even remember most of their names although undoubtedly they had all shared his appetite for mutually enjoyable sex, free from the complication of messy emotions. ‘I did not realise that my grandfather expected me to take a vow of celibacy,’ he snapped, drawing himself up to his full six-feet-four to pierce Carlos’s legal advisor with a disdainful stare.
‘He does not. Under the terms of his will he expects you to find a wife.’ Ramon Aguilar’s nerve held, just, and he returned Javier’s gaze steadily. ‘And by my estimation you have two months in which to do so—or lose control of the bank to Lorenzo. El Banco de Herrera is an old-fashioned, traditional bank…’
‘Which I intend to drag kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century,’ Javier finished darkly.
‘Carlos approved of your innovation, and it is true the bank is in need of modernisation and fresh ideas, but you will not push those ideas through without the support of your board,’ Ramon advised. ‘The directors are cautious and wary of change. They want a president who shares their values of decency and morality and who embraces family life—they do not enjoy seeing pictures of you and your latest mistress spread across the pages of the gutter press.’
Ramon paused and then continued, ‘Carlos was worried that your…energetic social life was having a detrimental effect on your judgement. I understand there have been problems with the British subsidiary of the bank. The manager you appointed, Angus Beresford, has proved to be a poor choice.’
One mistake. The knowledge that he had, for the first time in his life, been a poor judge of character had been a festering poison in Javier’s head for the past months—ever since he had discovered the extent of Angus Beresford’s betrayal. He did not need Ramon to remind him of it. ‘I am in control of the situation. The matter is being dealt with, and you can rest assured I will deal with Beresford,’ he growled furiously.
Javier’s jaw tightened ominously and he crossed the room once more to stare out over the vast Herrera estate. He was master of all he surveyed, but he felt like a king who had been denied his crown. El Banco de Herrera was his. He had spent the last twenty-five years waiting for this moment, and the realisation that his grandfather had not only doubted his abilities but had also expressed those doubts to others was a bitter pill to swallow.
‘I am the best man for the job,’ he stated tautly. ‘How could Carlos doubt it because of a few photos taken by the damn paparazzi? And marriage! Madre de Dios, what good did marriage ever do for my father? My mother was a flamenco dancer with a touring circus and a part-time whore who destroyed Fernando with her affairs. Trust me, I will never award any woman that level of power over me.