by Eva Charles
He dips the corner of the bread into the rich sauce on his plate. “But I want more than that,” he adds, so softly I’m not sure I heard correctly.
For a moment, I see something human in Antonio. Not vulnerable. Not soft. But unmistakably human.
“When will the marriage take place?” I ask, to remind myself that despite flashes of humanity, he’s still a bad man.
“I haven’t chosen a date, but I expect we’ll be married within a month.”
Within a month. It’s not that much time to get him to change his mind, or to escape. “Will I have input into the date?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “The timing will be based on several factors that are out of either of our hands. You’re welcome to work with the wedding planner, as long as you stay within the parameters I set. Her name is Nelia. We can set up a conference call with her, or a video chat.”
I couldn’t care less what food and beverages are served, or whether the flowers are fresh or dried, but I’ll need to engage in the process if I expect him to believe I’ve come to terms with the arrangement.
A month. Maybe less. There’s no time to waste. You need to accelerate the plan. You can’t wait to signal you’re willing for the relationship to become physical.
Maybe. What have I got to lose? Aside from your dignity?
I push away the nagging voice, pick up my wineglass, and smile at Antonio over the rim. It’s my best attempt at flirting. But it’s more awkward than sultry, and I feel my cheeks warm.
Before I can continue the embarrassing attempt at a femme fatale act, Victor brings in a tray with espresso and flan, along with a small bowl of almonds, chocolate truffles, and a large bunch of deep-purple grapes.
“Dinner was delicious,” I gush as he prepares the table for dessert.
“Thank you,” he beams, almost sheepishly. “Paula has prepared your room for the night. Is there anything else you need before I give her permission to retire?”
“No, Victor. Thank you. Please tell her I don’t need her first thing in the morning if she has things to do. I’ll come down for breakfast.”
He flashes me a warm smile. “I’ll prepare you something special.”
“You don’t—”
“Indulge an old man. It’s my pleasure to cook for you.”
Antonio takes in the conversation but doesn’t offer a kind word of his own. He also doesn’t tell Victor that he won’t be needing him again this evening.
My mother taught me that a measure of a person is how they treat those around them who have less—less money, less power, less authority. This is especially true of staff, particularly inside staff, who are privy to intimate details of family life, and all the secrets.
What kind of person would be so callous as to punish an older gentleman, who has been with his family since he was a boy, in order to teach me a lesson?
The irritation is bubbling inside, but I hold my tongue—for now.
“Good evening.” Victor nods and leaves the room.
“Would it have been so terrible to tell him to leave the dishes for tomorrow?” I ask after Victor closes the door behind him.
Antonio stares at me for several seconds, as if deciding whether to share his thoughts, which I’m sure will include a lecture about minding my own business.
“The kitchen and the house are within Victor’s purview,” Antonio begins cautiously. “He knows what I like and what I won’t tolerate. Otherwise, he’s free to do as he pleases. I don’t interfere with how he does his job. If he wants to leave the dishes for tomorrow, he will. You don’t need to worry about Victor’s beauty sleep.”
My mouth falls open while he speaks. “So that until every dish is washed and put away was for my benefit? Just to torment me?”
“For the most part. You’re quite beautiful when you’re tormented. Flushed and vulnerable. I like it so much, it makes me want to torture you more often.”
As much as I hate to admit it, the spark in his eyes makes my nipples bead.
“That’s twisted.” My voice is breathless—sultry—and genuine. It’s not at all part of any contrived scheme to seduce him.
“You have no idea how twisted I can be, Princesa.”
21
Daniela
Every nerve in my body tingles at his voice—or maybe it’s the predatory gaze that has me on alert. I’m not sure if he’s warning me, or if it’s a threat, or something else. Whatever it is, it’s not innocuous. That I do know.
I should be wary of a man who thinks I’m beautiful when tormented, but there’s something about his smooth, husky voice that’s alluring. I don’t think the torture he’s referring to is the kind reserved for terrorists. It sounds dark and dangerous, although not lethal, but raw and primal—filled with the promise of pleasure. Twisted pleasure. The kind I’ve fantasized about—with him.
God help me.
I reach into the dainty bowl for an almond. Maybe chewing something crunchy will distract me from my throbbing pussy. Before I’m able to fish one out, he swats my hand away. It’s playful, but nothing with Antonio is a child’s game.
Are the almonds just for show? Did I violate some arcane dining etiquette?
It’s been a long time since I finished a meal with dessert and fruit and nuts. At home, we eat fruit often—whatever is on sale, and Isabel usually prepares a simple dessert on Sundays, but unless it’s Christmas, we don’t have them together—with almonds, no less. Nuts are expensive. Maybe my table manners are rusty. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” he assures me, dismissing my concerns with a single word. “But the almonds are for the Port I want you to try.”
Of course. It’s been so long since I’ve sampled Port, I’d forgotten.
Whenever we had a Port tasting at our house, my father had his butler set out a variety of accompaniments, and we’d play a game. Guessing how a particular Port might taste after eating caramel, chocolate, nuts, or even cheese. Each coaxes a different note from the Port, changing the way it tastes on the tongue. I got quite good at it, but my father was the master.
“May I have some grapes, or are they for the Port too?” I ask with some cheekiness as he gets up and goes to the far end of the room.
“Not yet. Don’t be so impatient. Good things come to those who wait, Princesa. Haven’t you ever heard that old adage?”
“Many times. But I live by the motto tomorrow is promised to no one. If you take too long, I’m going to eat a grape and an almond.”
Antonio shakes his head, but he seems more relaxed than he has been all evening. I am too—relaxed enough to admire how beautiful he is, with long, lean muscle taking up every inch of his sculpted body. He must spend plenty of time in that gym upstairs.
I’m so focused on the way Antonio’s trousers hang on his hips that I don’t catch what he does to make the bookcases swing open to create what looks to be a passageway. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t just a little delighted by the trick.
“How did you do that?”
He disappears without answering the question and comes out with a silver tray that holds a bottle of tawny Port, a small decanter with what appears to be a younger Port, and four glasses.
“Is there a room back there?” I ask with much too much excitement in my voice.
Antonio’s face lights up at my question, and I see the boy who grinned and cocked his chin at my friends and me when we caught him kissing Margarida Pires in the alley.
For a few glorious moments, I forget he’s holding me captive. I forget he plans to enforce a betrothal contract he made with my father. And I want him to kiss me the way he kissed me at the house after my father died.
“King Carlos had the castle built with several secret passages to protect the royal family,” he says, dragging me from my fantasy. “But Nate Turner had several more put in when he lived here.”
“The British spy?”
Antonio nods as he pours ruby liquid from the decanter into two of the glasses.
; “First try this,” he says, bringing a grape to my mouth.
I hold my breath while he feeds me from his fingers, avoiding his gaze and trying not to read too much into the intimate gesture. But it’s hard.
When he takes his hand away, I chew the grape carefully to distract myself from the flush at the back of my neck. “Where did you get grapes at this time of year?”
“We do have markets here.”
I roll my eyes, taking another grape.
“They don’t taste familiar?” he asks.
“They remind me of D’Sousa grapes, from the oldest vineyard, but not as sweet.” I don’t say not as tasty, because it seems rude. But they’re a bit like the lackluster grapes from the supermarket at home, rather than the sweet, flavorful grapes grown in the old vineyards.
“They are D’Sousa grapes.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Really?” They don’t taste at all like I remember. “It’s still too early to plant new vines, let alone have anything to harvest from the established ones.”
“They were grown in a greenhouse.” His eyes light up. “We tried to reproduce the grapes from the vineyards that belonged to your mother’s family. We even used some of the soil from the property.”
“Why?” I ask cautiously, even though I know the answer has to do with money.
“It would increase production of our most sought-after Port. But more importantly, if we were successful, it would ensure that if anything happens to the vines, all is not lost. Those vines are an important piece of our history.”
Of my history. But it’s a fair statement. “It’s been tried before.”
“Without success. But we have a good team on it. I’m confident that one day we’ll be able to cultivate a similar variety.”
“Nothing grown in a greenhouse ever tastes like it came from the earth. Plus, the greenhouse can’t mimic the microclimate that makes those grapes special.” It comes out sounding more churlish than I intend. I certainly didn’t mean to insult him, or discourage any attempt to preserve the vines. “What I meant to say—”
“Shhh,” he says. “I agree with you, but we have to try. Taste this.”
He slips a toasted almond between my lips and puts a glass in my hands. Then he sits back and waits for me to taste the Port.
I take a sip while he watches intently.
“It’s extraordinary.” I meet his gaze before taking another sip. “I mean really extraordinary.”
He nods. “I think so too.” His voice is bursting with pride but not a trace of arrogance.
“How old is it?”
“Fourteen months.” Outwardly, he’s controlled, but I can almost feel the excitement rumbling inside him. “I’m hoping it will be declared a vintage.”
I smile. It’s not an ordinary smile. This one involves my entire body, heart, and soul. Vintages are few and far between. Some port houses, centuries old, have only a few declared vintages in their history.
“Huntsman, or more widespread?”
“The biggest vintage declaration to date,” he says, almost reverently. “If it happens, it will involve many houses, some that are long overdue. Everyone’s bone-tired, and frazzled. The drought and the fires that took some established vineyards last summer made the season especially hard on everybody.” There’s genuine sorrow in his eyes and a real sense of loss in his voice. “We need this,” he adds from somewhere distant.
My heart clenches. Not just because of what a vintage means for the battered region, but because he showed me a piece of his soul. A piece that’s not ugly or selfish, but distinctly human.
This is not a greedy man who wants a good year for himself and to hell with everyone else. This is a man who truly cares about the valley and the industry that keeps it humming. But perhaps more than anything, this is a man who carries the burdens of the region on his shoulders.
It’s still impossible for me to reconcile, but my father had his reasons for choosing Antonio. Not just to protect his vineyards, but me too. I hope that one day I can find it in me to forgive him.
“Quinta Rosa do Vale?” I ask cautiously. The fires didn’t reach us, but the drought caused problems. As with everyone else, it seems, the year before last was a special year. I want to know how special.
“She shined. Even among the stars, Quinta Rosa do Vale was the brightest. The Port you sampled is made from her grapes. A single vintage.”
I stop myself from leaping to my feet and throwing my arms around him, but it takes some doing. “Antonio.” I’m smiling so hard my cheeks hurt, but still, the tears threaten. “Thank you.”
I thank him because although those vineyards no longer belong to my family, they were tended by them, reared for generations in the way that precious children are reared. I won’t be spiteful about their success. I want them to continue to thrive.
“We shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves,” he warns. “The institute hasn’t declared anything yet. Not formally.”
“You have influence. Especially as president of the foundation.”
“I do. But I won’t cheat. That would cast a pall on the history of the region and diminish the value of any vintage that came before or after.”
It’s an interesting declaration—stunning, almost.
I believe the apt term is honor among thieves. The man who would kill another, and force a woman to marry him, won’t tip the scales on declaring a vintage. This is why my father’s trust in him never wavered.
I eye the Tawny Port that we haven’t tried yet. I pour some in a glass and take a spoonful of flan, bathing it in the rich caramel before bringing it to his mouth. “It’s your turn.”
22
Daniela
His eyes flicker with dangerous sparks as he snatches my wrist and sucks a drop of caramel from my skin before tasting the custard.
I feel his mouth on my flesh, long after it’s gone, and the heat filters through me until I’m almost panting.
Without warning, Antonio pulls me into his lap. “It’s easier to enjoy you from here,” he murmurs, lifting a glass to my lips.
I don’t resist. Not him. Not the sweet, fortified wine. None of it—and I’m afraid this isn’t part of some scheme I’ve concocted but what my body wants—and maybe my heart too.
He takes a sip from the glass after I’ve had my fill.
“It’s your turn again, Princesa,” he says in a voice so husky, so rough, it makes me hope that my turn will hold something besides a spoonful of silky custard and a sip of Port. Something not so sweet, but intoxicating. Something forbidden.
His lips brush mine, and I relax into the gentle sensation, my body melting into his. When I’m boneless, he takes my bottom lip between his teeth, nipping and tugging before letting go.
“Ahh,” I gasp, tingling from my breasts to my core.
My eyelashes flutter closed as my face tips upward, drawn to him like the warm sun.
“Princesa,” he groans, before his mouth crushes mine, swallowing the gasps as they spill from my throat. His tongue explores, unrestrained, demanding, and skillful.
I’m lost in sensation so potent, so visceral that I’m struggling to even breathe.
As I fight to remain afloat—to remain present—his rich, masculine scent rouses something primitive. Something foreign. Something almost unspeakable. But I don’t let shame drown me. Instead, I inch my palms across his shoulders, and enjoy the hard muscle under my fingers.
The kiss goes on, and on, and on, luring me deeper and deeper into his spell.
I want him. I’ve always wanted him.
He slides his large hands over me, petting and teasing, until I’m light-headed and needy. So needy.
For long, dangerous moments, I forget that sex is part of a plan to help Isabel and Valentina. I forget that I’m his prisoner. I know nothing but his mouth and his hands—and the way he uses them to make me feel things that I’ve read about only in books.
Antonio threads his fingers through my hair, pushing it off my face. “Your skin is flush
ed. So gorgeous.” He lowers his mouth, and I pull his head down, leaving him with no doubt about what I want.
He cups my breast, his thumb circling the nipple through my thin blouse. The pace is maddeningly slow, unrushed by my desperate whimpers.
The kiss deepens, consuming any remaining good sense. Consuming me.
I shift on his lap, and he grunts, pulling his head back and cupping my ass with a strong hand.
“You’re tempting, Daniela. So tempting. I need to taste you. I want to lick your sweet pussy.” He slides his hand deeper into my hair, tugging my head back. “Would you like that, Princesa?”
The moan caught in my throat reminds me that sex is all I have left to barter with—all I have left to advance my plan.
I can’t squander this moment—I can’t. But I’m not sure how to proceed. Do I want to make a trade now, or use sex to build trust? I can’t think clearly with his mouth and hands on me.
“I think you’d like my mouth on your pussy,” he murmurs when I don’t respond.
Once I give him what he wants, there’s nothing left to trade.
What do I want?
I can’t force myself to even think about it. I’ll never be able to look in the mirror again if I admit the truth. It doesn’t matter how bad I want his kisses. Or his touch. Or how much I want him to taste me. Nothing matters but—
“What do you want?” he murmurs, his warm breath against my ear.
He’s coaxing me to tell him what my body needs. He wants me to talk dirty. Doesn’t he? “I-I-I don’t know,” I confess in a shaky breath.
Antonio pulls back, his hands still threaded through my hair. “Don’t lie to me.” His voice is still blanketed in lust, but there’s a harsh edge now. And his gaze is ruthless.
“I know the difference between a woman who’s aroused and eager to play, a woman who’s nervous, and one who’s willing to suck my dick because she wants something.” He has my hair in a firm hold now. “What do you want? I won’t ask again.”
