Page 1 of Ignacio

Chapter One

Ignacio rolled over, squinting against the sun’s glare coming in through the bedroom window. He’d thrown one of his famous parties last night and then fell into bed after everyone had left.

What time is it?he wondered.

He scraped his phone off the table beside him and saw it was almost noon. Wonderful. Half the day was already gone.

Groaning, he rolled his naked body from under the tangled sheets, frowning when a white lace bra fell to the hardwood floor from beneath the folds. Who didthatbelong to? His foggy brain couldn’t remember sleeping with anyone the night before, but whoever she was, she was long gone because he was alone.

Ignacio tugged on a pair of red boxer briefs he picked up from the floor and staggered toward the open door. Quietly yawning, he shoved his fingers through his long, rumpled hair and pushed it back from his face.

Pausing in the doorway, he surveyed the disarray of his living room. With the blinds open, the oversized windows displayed blue skies and the Los Angeles skyline, a sharp contrast to the carnage from the night before.

He wrinkled his nose against the scent of stale alcohol and leftover food. An empty bottle of rum lay on its side, the contents spilled onto the white rug beneath the table it rested on. Plates and bowls with half-eaten snacks were scattered around the room, and broken glass was strewn across the wooden floor where a goblet of white wine had fallen off the nearby bookcase.

Empty beer bottles caught the sunlight and glinted at him from various surfaces. Several articles of clothing had been left behind too, including a jacket he didn’t recognize—definitely not his—and a pink and gold stiletto abandoned in the corner. Did the owner leave with only one shoe?

Shaking his head, Ignacio muttered a Spanish curse. The place was such a mess, there was no way he was going to clean it all by himself. He’d have his assistant call a service.

He righted an overturned chair, vaguely remembering one of his actor friends, Vincent, had tossed it aside in a moment of drunken exuberance. He shook his head, laughing softly. Typical Vincent.

A faint buzzing caught his attention as a phone vibrated somewhere in the room. Following the sound, he found the device tucked between the sofa cushions.

“That’s mine.”

Ignacio straightened with a start at the sound of the voice.What the…?

A woman walked in from the direction of his bathroom. Her blonde hair, parted in the middle, was slicked back into a ponytail. Cosmetically enhanced lips smiled at him as she extended a hand. Ignacio placed the phone on her open palm.

“I had a great time last night,” she said, tucking the phone into the small purse on her wrist. “Call me if you want to get together again.” She kissed his cheek and then strutted toward the door.

Ignacio stared after her. Did the bra belong to her?

“I need coffee,” he muttered, ambling toward the kitchen and rubbing his hands down his face to wake up.

A few years ago, he had purchased a commercial-grade espresso machine and placed one in each of his homes, considering the equipment one of the best investments he had ever made. After he ground the beans, he made himself an espresso, letting out a satisfied moan as the warm liquid flowed down his throat.

He opened the cabinet and took down his pack of cigarettes, paused, and then grimaced before placing them back on the shelf. He was trying to quit—again.

“Mind over matter,” he muttered to himself. If he was smart, he would remove them from his home completely, but he hadn’t quite gotten there yet.

Ringing came from the bedroom, where he had left his phone. He hurried back there and answered when he saw his manager’s name on the screen—Yvonne Williams.

“Good morning, Yvonne.”

“Hello, Ignacio. How are you this morning?”

“Do you really want to know?” he asked, padding into the kitchen to grab his coffee.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

Yvonne acted more like a mother than the typical cutthroat manager. Probably because they had been working together since he was a teenager and she hadn’t started out in the industry. For years, she had worked as a camp counselor, and perhaps for that reason was very protective of her young clients. She had treated Ignacio like one of her kids, filling him up with slices of the delicious sweet potato pies she brought into the office to share with the staff.

Back then, he had been trying to get his big break in Hollywood while trying to avoid special treatment as Benicio Santana’s son, the legendary actor-director-producer fromMexico whose success in English-speaking films had been almost as celebrated as his career in Latin America.

“I feel as if a truck ran over me, backed up, and then ran over me again.” Ignacio opened the sliding glass door and stepped onto the balcony.

Yvonne laughed. “Sounds like you had one of your famous parties again.”

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