by Eva Charles
When you’re powerful, they stand in line to knock you down. That’s why my father always had so much security around us. Not that it saved my mother.
Antonio follows me down the hall without a word, staying a few steps behind, even when I slow my gait. It’s not an act of deference. He’s not a deferential man. He’s a pig.
When I peek over my shoulder, his eyes are glued to my skin-tight breeches. I don’t have the self-assuredness to sway my hips in an exaggerated manner that lets him know I know he’s looking, or the pluck to flip him off. My experience in dealing with men like him is virtually nonexistent. So instead, I pick up my pace to get to the destination as quickly as possible.
Isabel follows, too, and I’m sure I’ll hear about what a porco he is later.
When we’re just inside the office, Antonio turns to her. “I need a word with Menina Daniela,” he says, referring to me in the way someone might refer to a younger girl, and dismissing Isabel as though it’s his damn house and he’s the king.
With one simple sentence—that’s all it takes—he seizes the power in the room.
I glare at him for a second or two—not more. I’m not sure what I expect to accomplish with a mean look, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t even notice.
In truth, I don’t care if he calls me menina, senhora, or dona. Although it’s not surprising that he chose the one title that would diminish me. But what does bother me is that I can’t find the words, or the courage, to tell him to speak to the staff politely or leave. That’s what my parents would have done.
I glance at Isabel, trying to convey my apologies through my eyes—like a coward or a helpless girl might do. “Why don’t you get us some coffee? Por favor.”
She pulls her mouth into a tight, thin line as she turns toward the door.
“Nothing for me. I won’t be here long. Shut the door behind you, por favor,” Antonio instructs, drawing out the words por favor to mock me. It wouldn’t surprise me to hear that he never says please.
His behavior is appalling by Porto standards—even for an arrogant bastard.
Not only is it customary to accept food and beverages when paying a visit, it’s an insult to the host to turn down refreshments. And no man, with good intentions, would ever suggest being alone with a woman he’s not related to in some way. These are dated customs, but much about Porto is last century. No one knows this better than Antonio Huntsman, who has used the old ways to accumulate power.
Isabel is fuming, her forehead etched with lines that seem to have become a permanent feature since we first learned my father was terminally ill. Between the wrinkles and her graying hair, she looks so much older than forty-eight.
“It’s okay,” I assure her. “I’ll take care of the door.”
She hesitates, with a pointed look at Antonio and then at me.
I nod and flash her a small, reassuring smile. Isabel might be a nervous Nellie, but she’d protect me with her last breath.
As her footsteps disappear down the hall, I gauge him carefully. The son of o diabo. He looks every bit the part.
There’s no way in hell I’m shutting that door.
Despite what my father believed, I find Antonio Huntsman terrifying—especially now that we’re alone. His bespoke suit, tailored to within a half-inch, might suggest a certain kind of refinement, but his dark, soulless eyes say something else entirely.
“It’s nice to see you again.” I can’t even force a smile.
His mouth twitches at the edges. “Is it?”
Without waiting for a reply, he saunters over to the south window and surveys the estate like it belongs to him. “I’ve never stood at this window,” he murmurs. “It’s a breathtaking vista.”
Enjoy it, because it’s the last time you’ll see it from this room.
“Do you still have that feisty stallion?” he asks, gazing into the distance.
The question takes me by surprise. My horse seems like an odd thing for him to remember.
“Zeus. Yes, but age has mellowed him. He’s not so feisty anymore.”
Antonio glances over his shoulder at me. “The first time I saw you on him, I thought I’d have to jump the fence and rescue you. But you had that horse wrapped around your finger. Either you were fearless, or you hid your fear well.”
“I wasn’t afraid.” I didn’t know fear then. I was sheltered and protected in every possible way. There was no reason to be fearful. “Most people think the key to handling an animal of that size is to hide your fear. But you can’t hide it. Animals smell fear. The key to controlling a spirited horse like Zeus is to have no fear.”
Antonio turns and faces me, with an intensity that’s unnerving. “That’s how you control men, too. I can’t remember the last time I was afraid, but I can smell fear from a mile away.”
The way he says it—his tone so matter-of-fact, but his words fraught with danger—sends a ripple up my spine.
In this moment, he reminds me of my father’s fiercest guards. The ones who have folded the brutality of the work seamlessly into their lives. The ones who would put a bullet in your head while asking about your family.
I slide my sweaty palms along my breeches, as discreetly as possible. Hopefully he can’t actually smell fear.
“What can I do for you, senhor?”
With a few long strides, he’s practically on top of me. So close I could touch the stubble on his jaw without fully extending my arm. His proximity is unsettling, but not enough to stop me from admiring his long, inky lashes, and the strong cords in his neck.
“You called me Antonio when you were a child. It seems silly to start calling me senhor now, Daniela.”
He draws out each syllable in my name in a way that makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle.
“What can I do for you, Antonio?” I motion for him to have a seat, while I step toward the chair behind the desk.
“This is a social call, not a business meeting. Why don’t we sit near the fireplace?”
All week I’ve been entertaining men claiming to be paying condolence calls, but who were really only interested in the vineyards. Sitting in my father’s chair gave me the courage to tell them no, even when they became insistent. I need that courage now.
“I’m more comfortable here,” I reply, easing into the chair, with my spine steely against the firm leather back.
Antonio scratches his temple and smiles. It’s not a genuine smile, but more like the way lips might contort when someone is struggling for self-control.
While waiting for him to take a seat, I lace my fingers together tightly, so my hands don’t shake. As the seconds pass, I become more and more convinced that he doesn’t plan on sitting.
While I adjust my bottom on the seat, looking for some of the courage that was here just yesterday, Antonio splays both hands on the desk and leans over, his mouth an inch from the top of my head.
“I don’t give a damn where you’d be more comfortable. We’ll sit by the fireplace.” His edict is issued in a stern whisper, which makes it seem even more menacing. “Don’t make me say it again.”
8
Daniela
I grew up in a world where there is plenty of tough talk and no shortage of tough actions to back it up, but no one speaks to me like that—not in this house. At least they didn’t when my father was alive.
I swallow hard and try to calm my pounding heart. But I don’t move. I’m not sure I can move.
He steps back, still towering over me. “I’m a guest,” he says in a voice as tightly restrained as his movements. “In your home. And as ridiculous as it is, it appears that you’re in charge of the estate now. My comfort, not yours, is something that should concern you.”
I’m normally quite patient, and good manners have been drilled into me since the moment I took my first breath. But I’ve had my fill of his insults. More than my fill.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, holding my tongue, before I say something I’ll regret. If I don’t want this to e
scalate, I need to keep myself in check, because clearly no one checks him.
This is your house, Daniela. Act like it.
I can’t grind the heel of my riding boot into his balls like he deserves, and I’m not foolish enough to think I can toss Antonio Huntsman out on the street. But I do need to show some kind of authority, otherwise he’ll continue to humiliate me.
If he wants the property, he’s certainly going about it in a strange way. Maybe he thinks he’ll wear me down until I agree to sell it, just so he’ll leave.
That’s not happening. I’ll burn everything to the ground before I let anyone named Huntsman have my mother’s vineyards.
From the corner of my eye, I see him glowering at me. I can almost feel the burn on my scalp.
The one thing I’m sure about is that he’s not going anywhere without a fight.
Let him make an offer for the property, and you can politely refuse him. It might get a little testy, but then he’ll leave—just like the others.
He’s not like the others, a little voice in my head warns. But I can’t come up with a better idea.
I raise my chin. “Well, I certainly don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
It’s not my intention, but the words tumble out like an exaggerated eyeroll that I doubt he appreciates. Antonio doesn’t say anything, but there’s a growing intensity vibrating off him, and I wouldn’t be shocked if he grabbed a fistful of my hair and dragged me over to the sitting area near the fireplace.
Before he makes a move, I stand and step away from the safety of the antique desk that embodies my father and everything he valued. The safety is merely an illusion I’ve been clinging to since he died. Nothing is safe around Huntsman. Certainly not me. Even my father’s sturdy desk can’t change that fact.
“The door,” he says, pointedly, with his brow raised.
Something inside me snaps.
Fuck you! I want to scream in his face. Fuck you!
Don’t stoop to his level, good sense chides. I won’t, but I’m done being a doormat.
“This is still my father’s house,” I huff, indignantly. “He’s been dead just over a week. You might not feel as though you need to show any respect now that he’s gone, but I still do.”
Antonio tilts his head ever-so-slightly to the side, and stills. His face is unreadable.
My little tirade surprised him. To be honest, it surprised me.
He doesn’t say another word about the door. Not a single one. It feels like a victory, and defying him is strangely intoxicating.
Once we’re seated a safe distance apart, I clutch the win tight and find my voice.
“We really don’t know each other—not as adults, anyway.” I look directly into his dark eyes, without flinching. “You paid your condolences at the funeral home. If this isn’t a business meeting, what is it?”
Antonio sits back, with his broad shoulders filling the chair. He crosses one leg over the other, an ankle resting casually on a knee, like he has all the damn time in the world to toy with me.
Sitting there, he looks like any other handsome businessman in a conservative striped tie and shoes polished to a high sheen. Aside from the scruffy jaw, there’s not a single sign of wear on him—not an errant thread or even a small scuff. His brightly colored socks are unexpected, though. They’re all the rage with dark suits, but they seem too whimsical for such a dangerous man.
There’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes when he catches me checking him out. Suddenly my earlier victory seems inconsequential.
“Let’s get something out of the way—since we’re both adults,” he says, mimicking me. “I’m not interested in the grapes or the vineyards. This is exactly what I say it is: a social call. If it were something else, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell you.”
I don’t believe a word out of his mouth, but I nod.
“Now that your father’s gone, who’s in charge of the day-to-day operations?”
Social call my ass. “I am.” I keep my head high and ignore the smirk he’s not trying very hard to conceal.
“As you know, my father didn’t die suddenly. When he was diagnosed with colon cancer at the end of last year, he knew it was only a matter of time. He put in safeguards, and shored up the workforce so that there are only trusted people in high positions. The vineyards are well-established, with a manager who has been with us for two decades. He knows every vine as well as he knows his children. And with Isabel’s help, I’ve been running the house since shortly after my mother died.”
And I don’t have to justify anything to you. But I did. Rattling off a laundry list to bolster my credibility, as though he might take everything away if I can’t convince him I’m competent.
“It’s a lot for someone who only recently turned eighteen.”
Since my father’s illness became known, there’s been a lot of public speculation about how an eighteen-year-old girl would be able to carry on a family legacy. The mayor of Porto, suggested during a television interview, that I might need to find a suitable husband to help me. No one raised an eyebrow when he said it, although I suspect my mother rolled over in her grave.
“I’ve heard the gossip too. But no one needs to worry about me. I’m quite capable.”
Antonio doesn’t say anything as he adjusts the lower portion of his tie so that it doesn’t crease as it drapes over his belt buckle, but when he glances up, I see the incredulity in his eyes. It’s probably the most ridiculous thing he’s heard all day—or ever.
While he’s not entirely wrong, his self-righteousness makes me want to scream.
When the others came looking to buy the vineyards, they at least pretended to show me a modicum of respect. They spoke politely, and brought fancy pastries, flowers, and silk scarves to woo me. Huntsman brought his condescending attitude.
“Have there been many inquiries about the property?”
I flash him a small, impertinent smile. “I thought this was a social call?”
He glares at me, the way a parent might warn a naughty child before she’s sent to time-out. But at this point, I’m too irritated to fall in line for him, even though I have no doubt he’d be happy to punish me if I continue.
“It is,” he replies tersely, nostrils flaring. “I’m just making conversation. And trying to gauge how much pressure you’re under.”
So you can step in like some hero, and offer to buy the vineyards for a song.
“Why is that?” I demand more forcefully than is polite.
His jaw tics, and the silence is uneasy. Antonio doesn’t seem so amused by me anymore. Given his stony eyes, I should probably be more nervous, but getting under his skin feels like another victory. It’s almost as tasty as the last.
“I’m getting the sense you don’t trust me, Daniela.” He says it so quietly, the silence is virtually undisturbed.
Trust. Such a weighty word. I sit with it for a minute, maybe two, mulling it over. “Should I trust you?” I ask finally.
The words wobble out with a soft, but uncertain landing. They sound sincere, without a hint of sarcasm—like maybe I want to trust him.
Deep down, I long for someone with his kind of power and knowledge to guide me. I’m in over my head. But it doesn’t matter what he says, or how desperately I need someone like him on my side. I’d never trust him. Not in a million years.
Antonio presses his lips together until they all but disappear.
Should I trust you? My ridiculous question flails in the silence, as I search frantically for a way to snatch it back.
“I’m not here for the grapes or the vineyards.” His tenor is unyielding, but the edge is mostly honed. “I don’t like to have my motivations questioned, or to repeat myself.”
His stormy eyes drill into mine, boring deep, until I’m certain he’s seeing more than he should—more than I want to reveal. I’m so flustered, I look away. It’s not a tactful move, or discreet. There’s no doubt that Antonio is fully aware of how uncomfortable I am. How uncomfortabl
e he makes me.
“I came to check on you,” he continues, in a sober tone that’s abandoned all of its sharpness. “But no. You shouldn’t trust me. I’m everything you believe me to be. Probably worse.”
9
Daniela
I shiver as a chill blows through the room, rubbing my arms to warm myself.
“You shouldn’t trust me. I’m everything you believe me to be. Probably worse.”
What kind of man says that about himself—without shame or apology? No one.
His expression is virtually unreadable, like a skilled poker player biding his time. Although, I don’t feel as though he’s playing me. Not about this. I think he meant exactly what he said.
I draw a quiet breath. The no-holds-barred admission is startling, but in an odd way, the frank honesty is disarming. Like everything else about him, it rattles my bones, leaving me off-balance.
And because I must be the most foolish woman in the entire valley, it also draws me to him in ways that I don’t want to be drawn to him. I can’t explain it. But it’s true.
Antonio Huntsman is danger wrapped in a handsome package, with masculine ridges and angles along a powerful frame. Underneath, barely concealed by the refined wrapping, is the worst kind of danger. I know it. I know it in my marrow. I know it in every cell of my being. Yet some element of that danger is attractive.
God forgive me.
I raise my eyes in his direction. He’s watching me. Studying me like a novelty. I suppose I am. The girl who can’t make up her mind about the elusive Antonio Huntsman—the country’s most eligible bachelor. Like the devil he is, I’m sure he senses every conflicting emotion warring inside me.
“Have there been many inquiries about the property?” he asks, again.
Inquiries about the property. Yes, that’s where we were before I started thinking about kissing the bad boy until he weakened my resolve, and I gave him everything.
He’s not a boy, Daniela. Don’t make that mistake.
