Читать книгу: «The Forgotten Daughter»

“You are as charming as I’d hoped. Mucho gusto,” Stefano whispered, looking down at her. “Encantado.”

He didn’t touch her, but his words were like a caress, as if he’d pressed his warm lips against her skin. She felt the power emanating off his tanned skin, the virile strength of his lean, muscular body.

She swallowed, gripping her camera bag with both hands as she muttered, “Nice to meet you.”

His sensual mouth curved, as if he knew why she did not hold out her hand in greeting.

“I look forward to seven days of your company, señorita,” he said. “I can see this week will be pleasurable indeed.”

His dark eyes gleamed with the promise of untold delights, and Annabelle’s breath quickened. She felt vulnerable. Feminine. And a strange, deep longing to let herself go, to melt her tense body into his warmth and fire.

Dear God, what madness had come over her? Even a legendary Spanish playboy couldn’t have this much power, this fast!

She set her jaw. She would show both of them that she was no fool. Because she knew, however beautiful a playboy’s face might be, his soul was always selfish and cold. She’d learned that long ago.

About The Author

JENNIE LUCAS grew up dreaming about faraway lands. At fifteen, hungry for experience beyond the borders of her small Idaho city, she went to a Connecticut boarding school on a scholarship. She took her first solo trip to Europe at sixteen, then put off college and travelled around the US, supporting herself with jobs as diverse as gas station cashier and newspaper advertising assistant.

At twenty-two she met the man who would be her husband. After their marriage she graduated from Kent State with a degree in English. Seven years after she started writing she got the magical call from London that turned her into a published author.

Since then life has been hectic, with a new writing career, a sexy husband and two small children, but she’s having a wonderful (albeit sleepless) time. She loves immersing herself in dramatic, glamorous, passionate stories. Maybe she can’t physically travel to Morocco or Spain right now, but for a few hours a day, while her children are sleeping, she can be there in her books.

Jennie loves to hear from her readers. You can visit her website at www.jennielucas.com, or drop her a note at jennie@jennielucas.com.

Bad Blood

Forgotten Daughter

Jennie Lucas

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CHAPTER ONE

SHE’D BEEN WARNED ABOUT Stefano Cortez.

As Annabelle Wolfe climbed out of her vintage 4x4, she surveyed the sprawling white hacienda with a feeling of dread. She’d been warned constantly over the past few months: Stefano Cortez could not be trusted.

Be careful, Miss Wolfe. You won’t be able to resist him. No woman can.

Guard your heart, miss. The broken hearts he’s scattered are as infinite as stars.

I have nothing to worry about, Annabelle told herself fiercely. Stefano Cortez might be the equestrian world’s most famous playboy, but he would have no effect on her. She wouldn’t let those stupid warnings make her lose her nerve!

But her body still trembled, and she knew it wasn’t just from all the coffee she’d gulped down on the long, dusty drive from Portugal to northern Spain.

Slamming her truck door with a bang, Annabelle stretched her stiff limbs, trying to shake off her nervous fear. It didn’t work. Warnings about Stefano Cortez’s charm had been repeated too often lately, repeated everywhere she’d visited for her photojournalism series on Europe’s top-ten horse ranches for Equestrian magazine.

Stefano Cortez’s ranch, Santo Castillo, was the final one of her assignment. He sold the most expensive, exclusive horses in the world, and even then, only to customers he deemed worthy. Wealthy buyers fell over themselves to get the reclusive ranch owner’s approval. But that was nothing compared to what women did for his attention.

The world’s number-one stud farm, the current joke went, is owned by the world’s number-one stud.

Annabelle rolled her tight shoulders. If Stefano Cortez was even a fraction of the man he was reputed to be, he would definitely try to lure her into bed. Most men usually did, unfortunately. It was a long-standing joke to all her colleagues and assistants.

But Stefano Cortez took seduction to a whole new level. According to rumor, no woman had ever turned Cortez down. Ever. And what if the rumors were true? What if by some horrible chance Annabelle fell into his bed like all the rest?

No way, she told herself, biting down on her lip. Annabelle didn’t have a passionate bone in her body. She was cold and proud and rude—didn’t men always say so after she refused their advances? At thirty-three, she was a confirmed spinster, immune to any playboy’s charm. After everything she’d been through, she’d never let any man close to her.

She would be on her guard with Stefano Cortez, and if he tried any smooth moves on her, she’d laugh in his face.

Wouldn’t she …?

Looking around her, Annabelle took a deep breath. So where was he? Where was the famous playboy who would apparently try to drag her into his bed the moment he saw her?

She saw half-wild horses racing across wide gold-colored fields, beneath a blue sky that stretched forever. She heard the burble of a nearby stream and birdsong rising from the forested hills. June in northern Spain. It was so beautiful here that she turned to reach through the truck’s open window for her camera bag on the seat.

A man’s deep voice spoke behind her.

“So you have arrived at last.”

Annabelle froze. Slinging her bag on her shoulder, she braced herself and slowly turned around.

And nearly gasped.

Stefano Cortez stood before her, his eyes dark and luminous as fire beneath the Spanish sun. At five-ten, Annabelle was far from petite, but she had to tilt her head back to look into his gorgeously chiseled face.

He was even more devastating in person than in photographs. At thirty-five, he was breathtakingly handsome, dark-haired and strong with a lean, muscular physique. His worn jeans fit snugly against trim hips. The sleeves of his black shirt were rolled up, revealing tanned forearms laced with dark hair, showing he clearly was not afraid of physical labor. His chin-length dark hair was pulled back into a leather tie at the base of his neck.

He held his powerful body absolutely still as his dark eyes raked slowly over her.

Annabelle’s breath disappeared from her lungs. She felt vulnerable and exposed, like a hapless gazelle beneath a lion’s lazy gaze. She felt the restrained hunger of a well-fed predator who had absolute confidence in his power over her.

“Welcome to my home, Miss Wolfe,” he said in softly accented English. His sensual lips curved into a half smile. “I have been waiting for you.”

Their eyes locked. Heat flashed through her, heat so sudden and unexpected that she nearly stumbled back. Annabelle had to force herself to keep her face impassive, even as her trembling hands tightened around the strap of her camera bag.

“You—you have?” she said faintly.

“Your reputation precedes you.” Stefano Cortez’s lips curved as his gaze traced slowly down her body. “The famous Annabelle Wolfe. The beautiful photographer who travels to every corner of the world on assignment.”

Struggling to hide her flushed skin and pounding heart, Annabelle lifted her chin. “And you are Stefano Cortez—the greatest stud of Santo Castillo.”

She’d meant to offend him, but he only gave a low laugh. The sound of that deep, masculine amusement caused another strange flutter through her body.

He moved closer, and she licked her suddenly dry lips.

“You are as charming as I’d hoped. Mucho gusto,” he whispered, looking down at her. “Encantado.”

He didn’t touch her, but his words were like a caress, as if he’d kissed her hand. As if he’d pressed his warm lips against her skin. His masculine power pressed upon her consciousness from all sides. She felt the power emanating off his tanned skin, the virile strength of his lean, muscular body.

She swallowed, gripping her camera bag with both hands as she muttered, “Nice to meet you.”

His sensual mouth curved, as if he knew why she did not hold out her hand in greeting, much less her cheek.

“I look forward to seven days of your company, señorita,” he said. “I can see this week will be pleasurable indeed.”

His dark eyes gleamed with the promise of untold delights, and Annabelle’s breath quickened. He was so close she could feel the heat emanating from his skin. She felt vulnerable. Feminine. She felt a strange, deep longing to let herself go, to melt her tense body into his warmth and fire.

Dear God, what madness had come over her? She had to get a grip! Even a legendary Spanish playboy couldn’t have this much power, this fast!

She set her jaw. She would show both of them that she was no fool. Because she knew, however beautiful a playboy’s face might be, his soul was always selfish and cold. She’d learned that long ago.

Annabelle drew back, glaring at him.

“How flattering,” she said acidly. “But surely you don’t intend to spend the entire week with me, Mr. Cortez. I’ve heard from multiple sources that your interest in a woman rarely lasts longer than a single night.”

Annabelle waited for him to scowl at her rudeness, but to her chagrin he only looked amused.

“In your case, Miss Wolfe,” he said softly, “I might make an exception.”

Her heart leaped in her throat. She swallowed, trying to slow her quick, shallow breath.

Do not trust his charm. Do not, she told herself fiercely.

“I work best alone.” She raised her chin. “So thanks, but I won’t need your company. Or want it.”

He blinked.

Annabelle took a deep breath, remembered how hard Equestrian had fought to get this exclusive at Santo Castillo, and tried to modulate her tone. “Forgive me if that sounds harsh. I just don’t like to have anyone hovering over me as I work.” She tried to smile. “And I’m sure you have a great deal to do for your charity gala this weekend….”

Abruptly, he lifted his hand toward her. She jumped back, wide-eyed and jittery as a colt. He frowned. “Allow me to carry your bag, Miss Wolfe.”

Oh. So that was why he’d reached for her. A warm blush curled her cheeks. “That’s not necessary.”

“You are my guest.”

“Thank you, but I can manage my own equipment.”

“Por supuesto. But it seems a great deal for one person.”

“Usually I have an assistant …” Annabelle stopped, thinking of Marie who was now in Cornwall with her husband and newborn baby. She took a deep breath. “But I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. My photos of your ranch will be fine. The project will be fine. I work best alone,” she repeated.

“So you said.” Stefano looked down at her, and she felt a bead of sweat break out between her breasts.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you.” Her voice trailed off as she struggled to think of words that wouldn’t sound ridiculous. Like you want to rip off my clothes. Like you want to drink me for tea. Like you want to fling me over your shoulder, throw me into your bed and lick every inch of me. She finished awkwardly, “Like you’ve never seen a woman before.”

He barked a laugh. “I’ve seen many, as you know. And yet.” He paused. “I cannot stop looking at you.”

“Why?”

“Because you are more beautiful than I even imagined.”

She swallowed. “I … I am?”

He gave a single nod. “The photos I’ve seen of you hardly did you justice.”

A chill went down Annabelle’s spine.

The photos I’ve seen of you.

Which photos did he mean? Recent pictures of Annabelle at her brother’s society wedding in London? Pictures of her sunburned face as she’d traveled on assignment through the Sahara and the plains of Mongolia earlier that winter?

Or … images from nearly twenty years ago, when her drunken father had tried to kill her as a teenager?

Had Stefano Cortez stumbled upon the before-and-after images that had once been in every British newspaper—the first showing Annabelle as a blonde, smiling fourteen-year-old with rosy cheeks, the second showing her with a monster’s swollen face, her eyes like slits, a savage red whip slash peeling back her skin?

Annabelle searched Stefano’s expression with hard eyes. But only a smile curved his sensual mouth as he looked back at her.

She exhaled with a flare of her nostrils. Good. He didn’t know about her past. As juicy and notorious as the Wolfe family scandal had once been, the world had moved on. People had forgotten.

But not Annabelle. She would never forget. She still had scars to prove it. On her body. On her face. Beneath her carefully applied makeup and long blond bangs, the vestige of the violent red scar from her father’s whip would always remain.

Tilting his head, Stefano frowned down at her. “You do not care for compliments.”

“Why do you say that?” she evaded.

“You look almost … angry.”

“It’s fine.” He was far too observant. Annabelle smoothed imaginary crumbs off her light-gray suit, then looked up. “But you should know I am well aware of your reputation. I do not intend to be another notch in your bedpost. You are wasting your compliments on me.”

His dark eyes gleamed. “No compliment on a pretty woman is ever wasted. And you are more than pretty. You are … belleza.”

“You’re wasting your time, Casanova,” she said sharply. “I am quite impossible to seduce.”

His gaze deepened with interest, as if she’d just offered him an irresistible challenge. A few strands of his chin-length black hair escaped the leather tie at the nape of his neck, falling forward to frame the brilliance of his dark eyes.

“So I have heard.”

Pulling the heavy camera bag up higher on her shoulder, she muttered, “Afonso Moreira told me you’d be like this.”

“Ah. My Portuguese rival.” He lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “What else did he say?”

“He said you’re a playboy who steals women’s hearts, along with their virtue. He said I should lock my door.”

As she looked up at him, white sunlight lit his black hair like a halo. He looked like a dark angel as his eyes became like endless pools of night.

“Moreira is right,” he said quietly.

Her mouth fell open. She hadn’t expected that reply in a million years. “He—he is?”

“Sí.” His sensual lips curved upward. “That’s exactly the kind of man I am.”

Annabelle’s heart pounded in her throat as she stared up into his darkly handsome face. She was dimly aware of the warm wind against her skin, loosening her chignon, blowing blond tendrils across her cheek. For an instant, she was lost in the swirling darkness of his gaze.

His eyes weren’t black as she’d first thought. They were a multitude of colors as infinite as Spanish earth, obsidian and sable, coffee and burnt sienna. Full of warmth. Full of life.

He reached his hand toward her cheek, his fingers a millimeter from her skin, so close she could almost feel the warmth of his fingertips.

Annabelle felt her heart slow, then stop. She was only dimly aware of her feet turning in the dusty courtyard, ready to bolt back to her truck, back to London.

Stefano frowned, his forehead furrowed as he stared down at her. Abruptly, he pulled away, dropping his hand.

“Yes, you are a beauty, Miss Wolfe,” he said almost casually. “No doubt many men find you attractive. But I …”

His voice trailed off.

Annabelle’s lips parted. “But you … don’t?”

Stefano gave her a half-lidded smile. “Let’s just say you’re not my usual type.”

His words should have come as a relief to her. Instead, they felt strangely like a rejection, a low dull hurt she hadn’t expected. She pressed her lips together. “Oh. Good.”

“So you see,” he said quietly, looking down at her, “you have no reason to be afraid of me.”

Annabelle looked up at him, horrified. Had he seen her fear? Had he known she’d been briefly tempted to run away—from Santo Castillo, from her assignment, from him—like some terrified virgin?

But that was exactly how he made her feel. Every inch the terrified virgin she was.

But her job and reputation were on the line. Straightening her shoulders, she tossed her head and lied, “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Bien.” He moved closer, his eyes locked with hers as he whispered, “I promise you have no need to lock your door.”

Feeling like a fool, she looked away, her cheeks hot with embarrassment. She’d been so sure that the notorious playboy would try to seduce her. But she wasn’t his type. She was apparently the one woman on earth who left him cold.

While Annabelle felt differently. She felt … warm. More than warm. She felt hot every time he looked at her. Just being near him made her skin flush pink and her core melt.

For the first time in Annabelle’s life, she felt a physical shock of awareness. Of attraction. Of. desire.

And he wasn’t even trying to seduce her.

Funny. Either Stefano Cortez didn’t realize the effect he had on women, or he didn’t care. Either way, no wonder he’d left a trail of broken hearts in his wake.

“You must let me help you.” Reaching around her, Stefano opened the back of her truck. He pulled out her suitcase and duffel bag, then looked at all the photography equipment behind it. “I’ll come back for the rest.”

“It’s not necessary.”

“It is to me.” He lifted her heavy suitcase on his shoulder, then casually added her duffel bag on top, as if the weight were nothing. “Follow me to your bedroom, señorita.”

Balancing both bags easily on his shoulder, he started walking toward the whitewashed house on the other side of the courtyard.

Follow me to your bedroom.

Staring after him, Annabelle shivered. She tugged her camera bag up higher on her shoulder, wishing—not for the first time—that she were truly the ice queen that everyone believed her to be. Because she traveled the world for her career, people thought she was fearless. The truth was that when she wasn’t behind her camera lens, she felt vulnerable. Afraid. Unable to trust anyone. And always so alone.

Annabelle took a deep breath. She could hear the leaves of the shadowy trees waving in the hot wind above her. Her assignment would be over in a week and she’d never have to see Stefano Cortez again. One week with him. How hard could it be?

She watched the way he moved, his long, leonine strides as he carried her bags toward the hacienda.

Stefano Cortez was the most dangerous playboy she’d ever met.

Thank heaven he was not attracted to her. God help her if he ever really tried to seduce her. She would not survive the onslaught of that sensual charm.

If he ever chose to take her …

Would she be able to resist? Or would his fire consume her, leaving only the charred ashes of her heart behind?

Her feet shuffled in the dust, ready to run, ready to jump back in the Land Rover, start the engine and not stop till she reached London.

Instead, Annabelle forced herself to be professional and do what she must. She slowly walked across the courtyard.

He doesn’t want me, she told herself. I’m perfectly safe.

But as Annabelle approached the doorway of the house where he waited for her, his dark eyes seared hers. And she shivered.

All the warnings about Stefano Cortez … were true.

CHAPTER TWO

SEDUCING ANNABELLE WOLFE was not going to be easy.

But then, Stefano Cortez thought in lazy amusement as he led her down the shadowy hallway of the hacienda, truly enjoyable experiences in life rarely were easy. It was the difficulty of a challenge that gave any goal its true flavor and delight.

“We have all tried,” Afonso Moreira had growled over the phone that morning. “We tried and failed. The woman is made of ice.”

“Then you have barely tried,” Stefano had replied scornfully.

“I used all my best tricks. Woman is immune. No man could seduce her. Not even you, Cortez.”

“I can seduce any woman,” Stefano had replied arrogantly. “You’ve said it yourself.”

The older man snorted a laugh. “Annabelle Wolfe is just what you need. The ice queen will set you down a peg or two. You will not win this time, Cortez. I’ll relish your failure.”

Now, Stefano glanced back at the beautiful English photographer as she followed him down the hall. Her eyes were lowered to the tile floor. She kept her distance as they walked, careful not to touch him.

No. Seducing her would not be easy. The famously elusive Miss Wolfe had evaded most men who’d tried to hunt her. Only a few had battled their way into her bed, most famously her old tutor and mentor. Patrick Arbuthnot, a famous photographer himself, had visited Gabriel’s charity event at Santo Castillo a few years ago, and he’d sung the praises of Annabelle’s passion and the bliss of her body, claiming he’d been the man who broke her.

The ice queen. Stefano had heard the epithet everywhere but he couldn’t understand it. From a distance, he supposed she was attractive in a cool, restrained sort of way. If he had to pick a color for Annabelle Wolfe it would be gray, gray like her suit, gray like afternoon shadows, like twilight in winter.

But from close up, he’d been astonished by the glory of her natural beauty. She wore makeup on her skin, but no lipstick or mascara. Strange. Her eyelashes were blond, as were her eyebrows. She was tall and slender and beautiful, and yet strangely the ultimate effect was to evade notice.

Icy? No. She was prickly and rude, but her body—ah. Stefano could read what her body was telling him, and it was far warmer. He’d seen the roses in her cheeks, the warmth of her creamy skin and tremble of her slender body when he’d reached toward her in the courtyard. When he even looked at her.

He wanted to break through her cool reserve. To find out how wild she could be once she lost that restraint. Once she clutched his naked body to her own with a gasp as heat and sweat and passion mingled between them.

He could hardly wait.

And … for the first time in a decade, he might actually have to wait. It would take time to woo this woman. Perhaps he might not have her in bed tonight. Perhaps not until tomorrow.

The challenge intrigued him. It offered a pleasurable distraction this week, his least favorite week of the year, when his land and home would be invaded—first by event planners, then wealthy tycoons and their fur-dripping wives. Stefano held his annual polo match and gala for a good cause, to help poverty-stricken local villages, and yet he hated it every year.

So he would think of Annabelle Wolfe instead. Looking at her willowy figure in the shadowy light of the hallway made his body tense in an entirely different way. It was delicious.

He paused, smiling down at her. “Would you care for a tour of the house?”

“A tour around the house?” She stared up at him, her brow furrowed. “While you’re carrying my luggage on your back?”

“So?”

She squinted at him doubtfully, then shook her head. “It’s your funeral. Sure. I would love a tour so I don’t get lost. Just make it short.”

Her words were abrasive, but Stefano could read her body. He saw the stiffness of her shoulders and tremble of her wrists. Beneath her cold demeanor, she was desperately trying to hide her attraction.

Testing her, Stefano placed one hand on the small of her back, as if to guide her.

He heard her intake of breath, the hiss through her teeth as she jumped away. She glared up at him with wide-set gray eyes.

He hid a smile. Maybe he wouldn’t have to wait until tomorrow, after all.

He looked back at her innocently, motioning down the hall. “This way, Miss Wolfe.”

She set her jaw, hitching her leather bag up her shoulder as she growled, “You’re the tour guide. You go first.”

She clearly didn’t want him to touch her, not even briefly, not even over multiple layers of her buttoned-up, businesslike clothing. Hostia, the woman was aware of him. And she was skittish, in spite of her defiant words.

He’d never seen a woman who so badly needed to be kissed. With her hair in a tight blond chignon, she had the cool poise of Grace Kelly, and the same hint of simmering fire beneath the surface.

Stefano wanted her. Not just for the novelty of a challenge. He wanted her for pure pleasure.

But Afonso Moreira had been right. This was not a woman who would easily be tamed. Her guard was up far too high. If Stefano wooed her too strongly, she would flee. He’d seen that in the courtyard. So to calm her fears, he’d implied he did not want her, and allowed her to draw her own conclusions.

Let’s just say you’re not my usual type. It wasn’t even a lie. His usual type was beautiful, willing and uncomplicated. A pretty tourist passing through the nearest village. A French socialite or New York debutante he would see once a year, or better yet, never again.

Annabelle Wolfe was unique. Special. And he would have her.

Stefano walked ahead in the hallway, listening to the clack-clack of her two-inch heels on the tile floor behind him.

“This is the main salon,” he pointed out as they passed the wide arched doorway. They continued down the hall past an old suit of armor, gleaming in the dull light. “Through that door is the library. And that hallway there leads to the kitchen.”

“This place is like a maze.” Her voice was cool, almost sardonic. “Will I need a map?”

He slowed, walking beside her. “Somehow I doubt that. You spend your life traveling the world, do you not? From Zanzibar to the Yukon, I’ve heard.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you have a home?”

“London.” Her voice was clipped, as if reluctant to give even the smallest tidbit of personal information.

“And yet are you ever there? That’s hardly a home.”

“The world is my home,” she bit out.

“I do not envy your life,” he said softly.

She lifted her chin, and her gray eyes glittered like silver shards in snow.

“For the past few months,” she said, “I’ve visited horse ranches all over Europe. I’m curious to see how your ranch can possibly be the best. Because so far I can’t see it.”

He knew she was baiting him, but he still felt annoyed in spite of himself. It was one thing to criticize him, something else entirely to insult his horses or his home. “You can’t?”

She shrugged. “It’s a beautiful place …”

“But?” he demanded.

Her eyes met his. “You charge double for your horses as compared to other breeders, and you often refuse to sell to customers for no reason. You make your buyers jump through ridiculous hoops.”

“My horses are precious and rare. The only men who should own them are those who deserve to win races. It is not just a question of money.”

“And yet you charge a vast fortune.” She tilted her head and said doubtfully, “Maybe your horses are worth it …”

“Or?” he said sharply.

“Or maybe … you’re just a brilliant huckster who understands how to trick rich fools out of their money.”

He stared down at her. She gave him a tranquil smile, as if to say, I have more armor than you can possibly comprehend.

His whole body tightened painfully. His interest in bedding her now went beyond desire for her cool beauty to the passion for the hunt. For the thrill of victory. He wanted to best her. He wanted to hear her cry out his name in the breathless sensual gasp of need.

He wanted her more than he’d wanted anything for a long, long time.

Narrowing his eyes, he evenly returned her smile. “I will be delighted to show you why we’re the best, Miss Wolfe,” he said. “I will leave you in no doubt.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously at his tone. He kept his expression bland, then turned away.

“Come.”

Stefano walked through the wide, dimly lit hallway. As she followed him, he matched his pace to hers. If she increased her speed, so did he. If she slowed down, he did the same. He gave her brief touches, crowding her space—innocently, of course, and always in the context of pointing out various beautiful items in the house, some of them antiques of great value. He guided her past an old Spanish painting of a woman..

“Is that a Goya?” she demanded breathlessly.

“Yes, I believe it is,” he said.

Then he led her into a large room with high ceilings of stucco and slatted wood. “This is the dining hall.” He motioned toward the long wooden table surrounded by chairs. “I eat here with the stablehands. Mrs. Gutierrez, the housekeeper, does not care for our rough manners and so often keeps to her own room. But I don’t stand on ceremony. We are equals.”

Annabelle’s pink lips curved. “Except for the fact that you own the place.”

He gave a sudden sharp grin. “Exactamente.”

They smiled at each other for a moment before Annabelle’s smile fell. Turning away, she gestured toward a faded family coat of arms painted on the high whitewashed stucco wall. “That’s your family crest, I suppose.”

“Mine?” He snorted a laugh. “No. My parents were servants here when this pazo belonged to an aristocratic family. But the family’s younger generation disliked living here and moved to a flashy palacio in Madrid. This house was abandoned. I bought it at a bargain price, using earnings from my brief and glorious show-jumping career.”

She gave him a sideways glance at his sardonic use of brief and glorious. “I heard about that.”

“Did you?” he said coolly.

“All the other ranch owners couldn’t wait to tell me how when you were nineteen, you stopped your horse before a jump in the middle of the London International Equestrian Show. You would have won the show-jumping prize. Instead, you dropped out of the event and never competed professionally again. No one could tell me why. Care to share?”

“Maybe some other time,” he said, never intending to do so. He turned toward the coat of arms in faded paint on the wall. “When I remodeled the house, I left that painting on the wall because it amused my mother.”

“That’s sweet. Are you close to your parents?”

“I was. They died. My mother only lived here a year.”

She looked up at him. Her gray eyes were sympathetic and even seemed to gleam with tears. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “My own mother died when I was just two.”

“I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. “But your father? Is he alive still?”

She averted her face. Her voice was strangely muffled as she asked, “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

She’d deliberately changed the subject. He wondered about it but just said, “I’m an only child.”

“I have seven brothers,” she said. “But I rarely see them.”

He looked at her, trying to see her face.

“Your house is lovely,” she said softly, refusing to meet his gaze. “But I’ve seen enough. Please take me to my room now.”

Without waiting for his reply, she turned on her heel and left the dining hall.

Stefano followed her, watching Annabelle as she walked. She was graceful, like a dancer. She was quiet, he thought, but not hard or cold as people called her—at least, not when she wasn’t actively trying to push back his advances. She was gentle. Wistful. Even sad.

Why did no one know this? Why had no one ever seen it in her?

Annabelle’s steps floundered as she paused at the base of the stairs. He saw the pink color in her pale cheeks. “I don’t know where we’re going. You need to lead.”

“Yes,” he said soothingly. Leading was what he did best. Going up on the sweeping staircase—noting the way she shrank back when he passed her—he led her to the second floor.

He’d remodeled the house when he bought it, but he’d changed very little of the look. He liked the solid old furniture, the traditional architecture. He’d added modern wiring and wireless internet, replacing the windows and appliances to make them more environmentally sound. But he preferred the house as it was. It was not just home—it was a symbol of what mattered and what did not.

His father had been a lowly stable keeper, and now the stables belonged to Stefano. His mother had once been a maid here, and now he possessed every stick of furniture.

His parents had been proud of their son’s success. They’d loved him. For one year, before his mother had died, they’d been happy here. If only Stefano had known sooner about her illness …

He froze the thought cold, and stopped abruptly in front of a door. “This is your room, Miss Wolfe.”

Annabelle stared at him with eyes the swirling gray of storm clouds. For a moment, she frowned up at him, as if bewildered by his sudden change in mood. Then she walked past him.

It was the best guest bedroom in the hacienda, the largest except for his own. He entered the doorway and relaxed at the comfort all around him. The room was bathed in beams of warm sunlight from the windows. The large bed had a lathed wooden frame, and a handwoven rug covered the clay tile floor. In a separate sitting area, an old desk held framed vintage photos of flowers, and an overstuffed sofa overlooked a small fireplace.

He set down her suitcase and duffel. “Will this do?”

She blinked, setting down her camera bag as she looked slowly around her. “It’s lovely.” She glanced at the corner by the fireplace. “I can store the rest of my photography equipment there.”

“Bien.” He watched her face, waiting for the moment when she would see the magnificent view out the windows. He wasn’t disappointed.

Annabelle’s eyes widened. Her full pink lips parted in astonishment as she walked across the bedroom and pushed open the French doors.

Smiling, he followed her onto the veranda. Like her, he saw horses crossing the golden fields beneath the verdant sharp mountains and blue sky. As always, his heart rose in his throat at the vision of his land.

“It’s so beautiful,” Annabelle whispered, leaning on the railing and staring out at the vast view. “I’ve never seen anything so lovely.”

Stefano exhaled. He hadn’t realized until then how much her earlier words about the ranch had wounded him. But of course she hadn’t meant them, not truly. How could anyone not see the miraculous beauty of his home?

He leaned on the railing beside her. “Every morning I wake,” he said softly, “it’s like waking up in heaven. I can hardly believe Santo Castillo is mine.”

“No wonder you rarely leave here.” She threw him a sideways glance. “Your women must love it.”

“Women?”

“Your queue of lovers.”

“I don’t bring any women here. If I wish to, as you say, take a lover, I go to the village tavern and rent a room for the night.” Leaning his elbows against the railing, he looked up at the wide blue sky. “I do not allow strangers here.”

“Except for this Saturday.”

He stared at her blankly.

“Your polo match. The charity gala,” she said with exaggerated patience. “The most exclusive event of the horse-racing world.” She shook her head with a laugh. “Did you already forget?”

He inhaled.

“Yes,” he said flatly. “I did.”

For a few happy moments, he’d forgotten his land would soon be overrun by service trucks and hired staff and white tents, by flashy cars and the sharp stiletto heels of skinny women in slinky dresses, by the flashy horse trailers of rich men who wouldn’t know a good horse from an old ass.

Annabelle blinked, staring at him. “You don’t like hosting the charity event?”

“No,” he said, looking down. “I dread it every year.”

“So why do it?”

He leaned back from her. “Perhaps I do it for publicity. Perhaps that is why my ranch is so exclusive,” he said coldly. “To get good press, to charge higher prices for my horses.”

“If you wanted more press, you would do the celebrity circuit in New York and London, you would do the horse-racing circuit in Kentucky and Dubai,” she observed. “But you stay here. You rarely even give interviews. That’s hardly the way to get press coverage.”

He looked at her. “Then perhaps I do it because I’m just a brilliant huckster who understands how to trick rich fools out of their money.”

An awkward pause fell between them. They were side by side, inches apart, leaning over the railing on the veranda.

“Maybe,” she said doubtfully. He heard her hesitate, then she added quietly, “Although I heard that you donated your fee for participating in this cover story to your charitable foundation. Most men would brag about something like that. You almost go out of your way to avoid credit.”

He stiffened. “So?”

“So,” she said quietly, “are you some kind of saint, Mr. Cortez?” Snorting a laugh, he looked at her. “A saint?” He gave her a sensual, heavy-lidded stare. “You know very well that I am not.”

She frowned at him. “I’m just trying to understand. For the cover story. Who are you, Mr. Cortez? Who are you really?”

He stared down at her for a long moment, then left the railing. “I will go get the rest of your equipment while you unpack.”

Abruptly, he opened the French doors and went back inside. But to his surprise, she followed.

“I’m coming with you to get the equipment,” she said, lifting her chin.

He shook his head. “You are my guest. And it is silly how you fight me every time I try to do you the smallest kindness.”

“I’m not your guest.” She glared at him. “And you don’t know anything about my equipment. You might break it.”

“I won’t,” he said indignantly.

“I know you won’t, because I’m coming with you.”

Her cool gray eyes challenged him. Defied him. Tempted him.

In the cool shadows of her bedroom, standing so close in front of the bed, Stefano looked down at her. He heard the sound of her breath, saw the pink flush of her pale skin. They were so close. The temperature between them was already hot and rising.

He had the sudden impulse to push her back against her bed, to run his fingers through her lustrous blond hair and pull it down from its tight chignon. He wanted to rip off her prim suit and see her lingerie beneath, to kiss and lick and suckle her skin.

He wanted to show her how unlike a saint he really was.

He’d already taken a step toward her before he stopped. Dios mío. This was not his style! He was known for his seduction—not for throwing women down on a bed like a rough brute!

His hands tightened.

The more she pushed him away, the more he wanted her. The harder he would pursue her. The more absolute became his need to possess her.

He would see those cool gray eyes turn bewildered with sensual need. She would press her lips against his skin and he would hear her soft sigh. First, her surrender. Then, her release.

She would be completely his.

But not like this. Not like a barbarian. He would take her like a civilized man—by stealth. By seduction.

This time it was his own rough breathing he heard in his ears as he turned away from her. “Unpack your suitcase,” he ordered. “I often carry equipment far heavier than yours.”

“Wait,” she bit out.

He stopped halfway to the door. “Sí?”

“I forgot to mention one condition of my work. One I insist upon with every assignment.”

He waited, folding his arms with a guarded expression.

She gave him that small, tight smile he was starting to recognize came before an attack. “You will agree not to interfere with my work. I must be allowed to speak to anyone at Santo Castillo, and photograph anything I like.”

Stefano didn’t like the sound of that. He’d had one or two reporters write about him over the past decade, and though he’d always managed to gloss over questions he didn’t wish to answer, he despised the thought of having his privacy invaded. He’d bargained only on having a few photos of his land taken in exchange for the magazine’s generous payment that local villages so sorely needed. Bad enough that he already had to dread the charity event invasion on Saturday. He would remain in control of all photographs of his home. Always.

He gave Annabelle a gracious smile, holding out his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

“We will compromise,” he said, meaning he would win. “I’ll just need the last word on all photographs, and final approval before you send anything to the magazine.”

Annabelle’s brow furrowed in disbelief as she snapped her camera bag shut. “Give you control over my work? Absolutely not.”

Watching her from beneath hooded eyes, he shrugged with a practiced carelessness. “Then perhaps we should tell the magazine to cancel the cover story. Perhaps you should leave now.”

“Agreed.” To his shock, she picked up her suitcase and lifted her camera bag back onto her shoulder. “I’ll drive back to London and explain to Equestrian that you’ll be returning their fee. Grab my duffel, will you?”

Carrying her suitcase and camera bag, she headed for the door in those sturdy beige shoes.

Stefano cursed softly under his breath. A woman who not only electrified his body, who not only shied away from his pursuit, she called him on a bluff?

Who was this woman?

“Wait,” he said harshly. She stopped, then turned around in the shadowy doorway. She waited, arms folded. He could not remember the last time he’d had to entice a woman, to lure her, to play the game, using all the skills of his body and mind to tame her. He could not remember the last time a woman had defied him—beaten him—and it made him want her all the more. He stalked toward her.

“Vale. You keep the final word,” he said, then added in a low voice, “But I ask you to consider the feelings of the younger members of my staff and villagers. Do not publish anything that will leave them feeling exposed or embarrassed.”

Annabelle’s eyes widened. For a moment she seemed to go pale as if in memory.

Then, throwing her head back, she glared at him. “Do I look like a celebrity gossip reporter to you?”

His eyes traced slowly over her. The truth was that she looked just like what he needed. A long, tall drink of water to a thirsty man. A mirage. Beautiful. Untouchable. And, oh, he could hardly wait to touch her. “No, you do not.”

Visibly mollified, she gave a single nod. “I will give you my word not to deliberately hurt any innocent person. Is that enough? For you?”

Stefano narrowed his eyes, looking at the determined sincerity of her face. “Sí.” He held out his hand to seal the bargain. She hesitated, staring down at his hand outstretched hand. Biting her lip, she slowly placed her hand against his.

And it was like being struck by lightning.

Stefano felt her hand in his own, skin against skin. Shock sizzled through him as her slender fingers trembled in his rough grasp. He tightened his grip, pressing their palms together, pulling her close in a visceral reaction.

He felt staggered by sudden violent hunger. His mind filled with vivid images, of ripping off her clothes, running his hands down her bare skin. Of pulling her down on the bed, taking her, filling her as her fingernails dug into his back, as he made her scream with savage pleasure.

With a ragged intake of breath, Annabelle ripped away her hand. Her cheeks were red as she turned away.

But the damage had already been done.

Dios mío. Stefano’s breath was shallow. She was the ultimate mystery. She was cold and hot, gentle and cruel.

He stared down at her, his body vibrating with need.

Soon, he vowed grimly, she would be pliant in his arms, spread naked across his bed. He would make her weep with pleasure. He would give her everything. He would take everything.

Nothing on earth would stop him from seducing her now.