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.
‘My parents’ wretched union was hardly a good advertisement for the holy state of matrimony,’ he drawled sardonically. ‘What the hell made Carlos believe I would wish to try it?’
‘Naturally, your grandfather hoped you would select a bride who shares a similar background to your own, a woman who understands the responsibilities associated with the role of wife to a duque,’ Ramon murmured. ‘Indeed, Carlos confided in me shortly before his death that he was confident you would marry Lucita Vasquez.’
‘And I made it clear to him that I have no intention of marrying a seventeen-year-old child. Dios, Lucita’s still at school,’ Javier exploded.
‘She is young, it’s true, but she would make an excellent duquesa. And of course the marriage would have the added benefit of merging two great banking families. Just think,’ Ramon said in his softly persuasive voice. ‘The houses of Herrera and Vasquez brought together, with you at the helm.’
Javier’s last conversation with his grandfather had followed similar lines and now, as then, he recognised the appeal of merging two of Spain’s most powerful banks. Carlos had dangled the tempting carrot, but Javier wasn’t stupid. He had recognised that it was his grandfather’s way of trying to control him, even from beyond the grave. Miguel Vasquez, Carlos’s oldest friend, would be breathing down his neck and he would be tied to a spoilt child who had made no secret of her irritating schoolgirl crush on him.
Of course, Carlos had been less than impressed with Javier’s outright refusal to marry Lucita. It must have been after that last, bitter exchange that the old man had instructed Ramon to amend his will, Javier thought grimly. Carlos had believed that the pressure of needing to find a wife in such a short time would force Javier to marry Lucita—but the old man had forgotten that his grandson had inherited his stubborn determination. If he had to marry, then marry he would, but it would be to a woman of his own choosing.
His legal team would scrutinise the wording of the will, but he already knew it would be watertight. All his life Carlos had been as wily as a fox, and it seemed that death had not diminished his power. Round one to the old man, Javier acknowledged with a hard smile. But he was utterly determined to win and nothing, not even the inconvenience of having to find a wife, would stop him.
‘So, I have two months in which to choose a duquesa,’ he murmured coolly. He slid into the leather chair behind his desk and surveyed the grey-haired lawyer seated opposite him. Ramon Aguilar looked tired and drawn. He had been Carlos’s legal advisor for forty years, and doubtless the old man’s death had hit him hard. None of this was Ramon’s fault, Javier conceded, feeling the faintest tug of compassion. There was no point in shooting the messenger. ‘Do you think I can do it, Ramon?’ His mouth stretched into a slashing grin that spoke volumes of his confidence at his ability to produce a wife before his next birthday.
‘I sincerely hope so,’ Ramon replied. ‘If you’re serious about wanting to become the next president of the bank.’
‘It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted and, make no mistake, there’s nothing I won’t do to realise my goal.’ Javier’s smile faded so that his face once more appeared to have been sculpted from marble. Hard, implacable and utterly ruthless. Ramon recognised the indomitable will the younger man had inherited from his grandfather, and felt a surge of sympathy for the unknown woman who would soon become the Duquesa de Herrera. Faced with Javier’s mesmeric charm, she wouldn’t be able to resist him, but it was not for him to warn that Herrera marriages had, throughout history, been made in hell rather than heaven.