An illusion.
He opened his eyes once more and stared at the paneled walls inside the elevator. He would forget Chloe ever existed. There had been women prior to her, and there would certainly be many after.
Chloe pulled off her sneakers, fell back onto the couch, then rubbed her aching feet.
Another double shift at the diner, serving greasy food to cranky patrons for the last sixteen hours. Quite the far cry from the posh resort in Spain she’d been at just a couple of months ago.
She shook her head and laughed. Only it wasn’t really a laugh, more of a hysterical whimper. One that quickly morphed into a choked sob while fat tears rolled down her face.
She hadn’t thought it could get any worse. Not after returning to America and discovering the diary and her notes were missing. No doubt taken by Andrés, apparently the reason behind his assumption that she was a dirty reporter willing to do anything for a story.
And his absurd belief had ultimately led to the dreadful call from her editor. Tracy had been beside herself, apologizing and ranting in the same breath as she’d fired Chloe.
How could Chloe be so foolish? Sleeping with such a powerful man and wanting to write about it? Andrés was threatening a lawsuit that could crumple the entire magazine, which left them no option but to promise to fire Chloe and not run the article.
Fired from the resort. Fired from the magazine. And now this.
Her watery gaze slid to the coffee table and to where the results of the pregnancy test still sat in a plastic sandwich bag. She was pregnant with Andrés’ child.
She was an idiot. Because she hadn’t even considered the possibility of a pregnancy after the initial panic they’d had that night. She’d been certain conceiving would be a challenge when the time came. And now, one time without a condom and she was pregnant. Pregnant with the child of a man who’d singlehandedly wrecked her life and yet, as much as she resented it, still had part of her heart.
Chloe pressed a palm to her belly and closed her eyes. Her pulse quickened and something inside of her softened with warmth. She was going to have Andrés’ baby. It would be a tangible reminder of their passion and of their two soul-changing nights together, before everything had gone terribly wrong. She couldn’t be happy about the pregnancy, could she? And yet…
But how on earth can you afford a baby? The stressful reminder stabbed at her again and caused another flood of tears. She was barely staying afloat financially as it was. Three weeks ago she’d nearly been evicted from her apartment until some unknown person had paid off the amount she’d been short, plus an extra two months’ rent.
Chloe suspected the good samaritan was Martha, another waitress at the restaurant, though she’d never admitted it.
Martha was also the same friend who’d insisted she take the pregnancy test. Chloe’d been getting sick for two weeks straight like clockwork, but had refused to consider what the symptoms could potentially mean.
Chloe had been reluctant to take it, because denying the possibility of a baby was really so much easier if she didn’t have proof. But now there was no ignoring it. She swept her hand over her belly where there was additional proof—her jeans were growing snug.
A swell of panic and helplessness took root inside her. She knew the right thing to do was to inform Andrés. But just the idea of facing him again made everything within her recoil at the idea. And yet, you’re carrying his child.
Unlike when she was in Spain, she now knew exactly who Andrés Montero was. How she could’ve ever failed to recognize him in the first place was inexplicable. He was routinely found in business magazines and papers, often making headlines because of his ruthlessness in acquiring small resorts and hotels that were in financial woes and then transforming them into five-star luxury resorts.
And the tabloids went nuts trying to find out all they could about one of the sexiest, wealthiest bachelors in Europe. They followed him to all the public events. Analyzed any woman who appeared on his arm. She wondered how he’d ever taken her out in Valencia without such scrutiny.
Andrés was power and magnetism personified. Women wanted him and men just wanted to be him. All she had to do was look at his picture and her pulse raced, her body tingled, and she was recreating all the feelings that had gotten her into trouble in the first place.
On her coffee table she had the latest issue of a gossip magazine, flipped to the page he was on. Andrés looked just as devastatingly handsome as when she’d met him at the resort over the summer. But what made her absolutely sick was the woman draped on his arm in this picture. Estella Martinez, the manager of Diablo’s Paraíso, was curled up against Andrés’ tall frame, her smile smug and her body spilled into a tight red dress.