by Jennie Lucas
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.
CHAPTER THREE
ANNABELLE HADN’T WANTED to shake his hand. No way. But he’d stood there with his outstretched and left her no choice.
Touching Stefano’s hand had been like touching fire.
Annabelle had nearly gasped when she’d felt his naked palm, hot and rough against her own, when she felt his calloused fingertips brush the tender spot of her wrist. Electricity sizzled up her arm and ripped through her body. Her earlobes tingled, her breasts became heavy. Tension crackled through her like a lightning storm.
Just from touching his hand.
With a harsh intake of breath, Annabelle ripped her hand away, her cheeks burning hot. Even with her limited experience, she’d never felt anything like this.
“You win,” she said hoarsely, fighting to keep her voice even. “Go get my equipment. I’ll unpack.”
She heard something from him that sounded like a purr of satisfaction, but she was afraid to look at his face, afraid of what he might read in her eyes. Confusion. Fear. Desire. “Give me the keys to your truck,” he said. “It’
s unlocked,” she muttered, still not looking at him.
“I will park it when I’m done unloading.” She heard sudden amusement in his voice. “That is, unless you fear you cannot trust me not to break your car while driving it into the garage.”
Reaching into her camera bag, she tossed him her keys with the merest sideways glance. But in spite of her efforts not to meet his gaze, she could not resist one tiny peek. Their eyes locked and she held her breath, caught, unable to look away. He was so beautiful.
Beams of sunlight from the windows illuminated his black hair as his dark eyes ripped through her. Stefano Cortez was so brutal, so masculine.
Her pulse hammered in her throat. Men had hit on her before, but they’d left her completely untouched and unmoved.
Stefano made her tremble from within. He doesn’t want me, she told herself desperately, fighting her humiliating desire to flee. I’m not his type.
But his dark gaze was so intense. Almost … hungry. She saw the shadow of his chiseled jawline, the silhouette of his Roman nose, the masculine beauty of his face. He was like his house, she thought suddenly. As distant and foreign to modern life as his vast, remote ranch. Like a medieval Spanish caballero.
A warm breeze blew in from an open window, causing the tendrils of her hair to sweep against her cheek as their eyes held.
“Bien,” he whispered finally. “I’ll go. But I am glad you are here, Annabelle. I look forward to it. To all of it.”
As he left, it was as if he took the warm sunlight with him, leaving her in darkness and cold.
When she was alone, Annabelle sagged back against the large bed. Her knees collapsed and she sat down hard on the white down comforter. Her camera bag was still clutched in her lap as she stared blankly at the beam of sunlight against the white wall.
How was she going to get through this week?
How was she going to make it?
Every time Stefano looked at her she felt weak. Just touching his hand had made her jump out of her skin.
Did every woman feel like this? No wonder she’d been warned. But all the warnings hadn’t helped. She still … burned.
Annabelle covered her face with her hands. She had to calm down. Get ahold of herself. Everywhere she traveled, from Chile to Chelsea, men of every age and social rank had thought her single status and apparent freedom was a license to make a play for her. A farmer in South Africa had once tried endlessly to entice her into his bed, but every single time she had refused his endeavors. She’d laughed when the overweight, middle-aged man had pouted like a child when he’d realized that she wasn’t going to take him up on his offer. To assuage the man’s hurt feelings, Annabelle had ultimately bought him a short whiskey in the bar of the hotel she was staying in before sending him on his way.
The South African farmer hadn’t been a bad sort, really. At least he’d been obvious and clear about his intentions. She preferred that straightforward attitude over the slimy, underhanded things that rich tycoons had tried, such as when an American billionaire had set up a fake “photography session” on his private island in the Caribbean. Or when a married duke had invited her to a party in the Highlands, and she’d arrived at his castle to discover his party was only for two. All of them clearly thought Annabelle, with her independent status and liberated career, was fair game and an easy lay.
Of course, Patrick’s ugly lies about her, so many years ago, was probably a big reason for that.
Perhaps it would have been better if she hadn’t ever gone to London to study photography. After her father’s death, she’d buried herself at Wolfe Manor for years, hiding there like a ghost until she was almost twenty-two. If she’d stayed there, she wouldn’t have to fight so hard now in the outside world.
But she couldn’t believe that. She looked down at the camera bag in her arms. Taking pictures—whether of raucous revelers after a football match in London or of hunters pursuing deer in Africa—was the only time Annabelle felt alive. Working brought her peace. And more than peace: contentment. Even joy.
She didn’t want to give that up. She wouldn’t. Not for all the harassing men in the world.
“You want this by the fireplace?”
Annabelle looked up with an intake of breath to see Stefano striding into her room, barely visible beneath all the photography equipment covering his shoulders and arms.
“Yes, thank you,” she said, rising unsteadily to her feet.
He set down the cameras, the umbrellas and scrims, the battery packs and studio lights, her laptop and sleek portable printer, stacking them in a well-organized arrangement into the sitting area of her bedroom. It completely filled the corner between the white fireplace and the old sofa.
Turning back to her, Stefano lifted a dark eyebrow.
“Care to see if I’ve broken anything?”
“Um,” she said incoherently, biting her lip. Staring at the equipment, she looked up at him in amazement. “You carried all of it? In a single trip?”
“It’s more efficient that way, don’t you think?”
“How on earth did you manage it?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps I’m not as clumsy as you thought.”
“I never thought you were—”
His dark gaze went through her, and her throat closed. She forgot what she’d been saying.
Stefano’s sensual lips curved into a smile. “I’ll go put your truck away now. Dinner’s at eight in the dining hall. By the way, meals are casual here.” His dark eyes seemed to twinkle as he looked over her designer suit. “If you think you can manage that.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned on the worn heel of his black leather boot. It took several seconds for her to come to her senses.
“I can do casual!” she yelled after him indignantly, but he was already gone.
She exhaled, staring at the closed door. Stefano Cortez was like no other man she’d met. Beyond his masculine beauty and deviltongued charm, he had a physical strength and power that amazed her.
He’d carried all her gear. In one trip.
Usually, it took Annabelle—even with Marie’s help—four or five trips. And yet he’d carried it all on his back with ease, and then stacked it all efficiently. Looking through the equipment, she saw it was all perfectly in order. She opened the extra cases with her cameras inside, pristine and safe. She took a deep breath, trying to make her heart grow calm and her warm cheeks return to their usual cool state.
She was attracted to him, yes. But it was worse than that. She almost … liked him. And that frightened her most of all.
Annabelle exhaled.
Work. That thought calmed her as nothing else could. She glanced at her watch. She had most of the afternoon, and would make good use of it.
Not bothering to change out of her gray skirt suit, she grabbed an extra camera and put it into her bag. Going downstairs, she went out the front door.
Past the house, on the other side of the courtyard, she saw a whitewashed stable. She peeked inside. There were only twenty stalls, all filled with tall, powerful horses. The stable looked like the remnant of another era, as if she had gone back in history two hundred years to the time of carriages. Closing her eyes, she appreciatively breathed in the smell of fresh hay, horse sweat and leather.
She took a few pictures, then went on to explore the ranch farther. The fields around the sprawling, whitewashed house were wide and beautiful. She saw horses galloping beneath the sun, heard the lazy buzzing of bees in the soft air. The warmth of Santo Castillo was lush and lovely as a childhood summer.
Walking past a grove of trees, Annabelle saw a huge, modern, well-lit building behind the courtyard. A second stable? Annabelle shook her head, laughing at herself. Of course there was another stable. The Cortez horses were famous, after all, and twenty antiquated stalls were hardly enough for all the animals they raised here. Of course the ranch would be modern where it counted.
Opening the door, she walked inside the second stable.
It was enorm
ous, with endless stalls and more horses than she could count. Then she heard laughter. She peeked around the corner and saw five young stablehands, perhaps eighteen or nineteen years old, dark-haired and skinny in T-shirts and jeans. They were working hard, two shoveling hay and three brushing down the horses, but even while so industriously employed the boys were still joking and scuffling. They reminded her of what Stefano must have been like at that age.
One of the teenagers saw her, and he cleared his throat. They all straightened, greeting her respectfully in Spanish.
“Buenas tardes, señorita.”
“Necesita ayuda?”
She shook her head. “I’m going to take some pictures, all right?” she replied in the same language.
They nodded, then went back to work. They seemed self-conscious under her scrutiny, but were too disciplined to do more than give her a shy glance or two beneath their dark lashes.
Annabelle took pictures of the smiling teenagers, of the vast white stable, of the beautiful horses, using her smaller camera with a portrait lens.
“Gracias.” After she left, she went out and took preliminary photos of the golden fields and sharp green mountains, testing the sunlight. She used her telephoto lens on the largest digital camera to capture some shots of the dappled brown horses galloping so gracefully, tossing their heads.
Annabelle took pictures for hours, lost in her work. By the time she came back to herself, the sun was starting to fall gently into the western horizon. The light had changed to soft gold, the color of ripe peaches.
She rubbed the dust and sweat off her forehead as she looked at her watch. Seven-thirty. She looked quickly through the images she’d taken with her digital camera. They were good, but the composition didn’t quite do justice to this magical place. Some critical component was still missing. But what?
She’d have to figure it out tomorrow. The sunset was deepening, the golden light slanting. She tucked her camera back in her bag. Work was over. Now she had no choice but to deal with the problems of the real world.
Like how she would be able to be around Stefano Cortez for an entire week.
