A week? She shuddered. She wouldn’t last the night.
“I’ll tell the magazine to send another photographer,” she choked out. Clutching her camera, she whirled around, her eyes blinded with tears. Her foot stumbled over the uneven ground on the edge of the stream, causing her to trip forward into the shallow water.
She fell hard against the rocks. A wrenching pain in her leg made her gasp, clutching her ankle.
“Annabelle!” Stefano was instantly at her side in the cold stream. “Don’t move.”
His touch was gentle as he lifted her out of the water and set her gently down on the banks of the stream. Her calves were wet and cold as he pushed up her pink linen pant leg. As he ran his hands along her ankle, she was mesmerized by the feel of his fingers against her bare skin. Then he brushed her ankle and she winced.
He looked up at her. “That hurts.”
It was a statement, not a question. Reluctantly, she nodded.
“I’ll carry you back to the house,” he said grimly.
She blinked. “Carry me? In your arms?” He looked down at her with his ruthless dark eyes. “Si.”
Ohmygodohmygod. She shook her head vigorously. “No, I’m fine. Really! I can walk!
See?”
Rising, she tried to show him how well she could walk, only to wince and stumble when she put too much weight on her right foot.
Stefano’s black eyes blazed as he growled a
Spanish curse. Without asking for permission, he swept her up in his arms. She felt the warmth of his bare skin, the fire of his touch as he held her against his chest.
He looked down at her, his eyes as hot as fire.
“No more arguments,” he growled. “Now … you are mine.”
CHAPTER FIVE
ANNABELLE FELT DAZED, in a dream, as Stefano carried her out of the forest. A soft wind blew through the trees, moving the dark branches high above as beams of golden sunlight moved in patterns against Stefano’s face.
When they reached the field, she felt the warm Spanish sun against her skin. She felt the shifting muscles of his arms and bare chest as he held her, heard the rustle of jean-clad thighs as he walked through the swishy grass.
Annabelle looked at Stefano’s tanned forearms encircling her. She closed her eyes, shivering as she pressed her cheek against his rough, hair-dusted chest. Over the sigh of the wind through the grass, she could almost hear his heartbeat.
She hadn’t been this close to anyone. Not for twenty years. Even before that. She hadn’t been held like this by anyone, not since her mother had died when she was a baby. She’d had no embraces by lovers, not even a long hug from a friend. She hadn’t allowed it. She wouldn’t have allowed it now if he’d asked her, but Stefano had simply taken it as his right.
She was overwhelmed with feelings. Of safety. Of longing. Of need.
As they grew closer to the hacienda, some of the young stablehands saw them. Three came running with a shout.
“Get a doctor,” Stefano ordered in Spanish. “Miss Wolfe has been injured.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” Annabelle said in English. “You’re making too much of a fuss!”
Ignoring her protests, he took her inside the house and up the stairs. Carrying her as if she weighed nothing, he brought her to her bedroom and set her down carefully on the bed. Then he glowered at her.
“Wait here.”
A moment later, he returned with an ice pack. Sitting beside her on the bed, he grabbed a pillow and put it in his lap. Pulling off her shoe, he put her bare foot on the pillow and pressed an ice pack gently against her ankle.
Annabelle’s cheeks burned as she submitted to his care. Looking up at his face, all she could think about was the way he’d kissed her in the forest. The way his body had felt against hers as he carried her back to the hacienda beneath the warm morning sun. And the way he looked now, still shirtless, sitting on her bed. Annabelle’s eyes unwillingly traced the muscles of his tanned chest. They were so close, alone in her bedroom. It would be so easy to.
No! She couldn’t even think that!
But her gaze fell to his mouth. His sensual, masculine lips had taught her to kiss. Taught her to want. With one heartbreakingly fierce embrace, he’d taught her the meaning of the word desire. Her lips tingled, spreading heat down her limbs to the molten core between her thighs.
“Annabelle,” he ground out. She looked up. “What?” His dark eyes burned through her. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want me to push you back against this bed. And make love to you until you scream.”
She sucked in her breath, then licked her lips nervously. “I … I don’t. Want you to kiss me.”
“So you keep saying. Lying. To me. To yourself.” Moving the pillow and her ankle off his lap and onto the bed, he stood. He handed her a blanket and said tersely, “The doctor will be here soon.”
She felt vulnerable, lying in the large bed with him standing over her like a giant. “I told you, I don’t need a doctor.”
“You’ll do as I tell you.”
“You’re not listening to me.” She started to rise from the bed. “I don’t want your help. I don’t need it. I don’t want you. I already quit this job. I’m going back to London—”
With a low snarl in Spanish, Stefano pushed her back against the bed. For a long moment, he held her there, his hands holding her shoulders against the mattress, his half-naked body hard alongside hers.
Their eyes locked, and Annabelle couldn’t breathe. She was lost in his dark gaze, in the sensation of his body pressing her forcefully into the bed. They were alone, and if he chose, he could strip her bare—in every way.
Stefano’s eyes fell to her lips.
“Why do you fight me so constantly?” he said in a low voice. “Why do you refuse to let me take care of you?”
Annabelle’s heart pounded in her throat. “I can take care of myself.”
“It’s all right to rely on others for help,” he bit out.
“No, it’s not.” She looked away. “I’m better off on my own.”
“Do you really believe that?” Against her will, Annabelle looked back at him. She could smell his woodsy masculine scent, like saddle leather and scorching sun. Like heat and hardness and fire. And she yearned.
With a softly muttered curse, Stefano pushed away from her. He stood beside the bed, glaring down at her. “Stay here until the doctor comes. Don’t make me lock the door.”
“Fine,” she said, still shaking from her desire.
“You give me your word?”
“Yes,” Annabelle said. “I’ll see your doctor. Then I’m gone.”
He moved slowly around her bedroom and sitting room, closing all the blinds until it was quiet and dark. A soft breeze blew from the ceiling fan high above, moving the air against her skin.
A moment later, there was a knock at the door. The elderly Spanish doctor inside gave her a kindly smile. As the man checked over her ankle, she submitted to the examination stoically, aware at every moment of Stefano watching her.
The gray-haired man finally turned and spoke in the Galician dialect of Spanish to Stefano, who suddenly smiled down at her as he translated.
“It’s fine. A mild sprain. He says to keep ice on it and stay off it for the rest of the night.”
“I told you,” Annabelle said, exasperated.
The doctor patted her hand and left. As she started to rise, Stefano came to the bed.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Like I said, back to London.”
He sat down on the bed beside her. “Because I kissed you?”
“Yes.”
His dark eyes glittered in the shadowy light from the shuttered windows. “Are you saying I kissed you against your will?”
Annabelle remembered the way her knees had trembled as he’d kissed her, how she’d wrapped her arms around his shoulders as waves of pleasure had exploded down her body.
She remembered how she’d gasped, how she thought she’d die with need.
Swallowing, she looked away. “I can’t work with a man who clearly thinks all women are his own personal toys.”
“I don’t think that,” he said in a low voice, his body inches away from hers on the bed. “I respect you, Annabelle.”
Sure, she thought bitterly, he respected her. And he would keep on respecting her, right until the moment she surrendered in his bed.
When he’d comforted her last night after her nightmare, she’d felt cherished, protected, even safe.
Safe? She mocked the thought. Stefano Cortez, safe? He was the opposite of safe. He was a heartless, selfish playboy. If she allowed him to seduce her, if she gave him her virginity, he might give her pleasure, yes. But he’d be gone by dawn. And she’d have sold her soul for that brief illusion of being cherished and protected.
“You don’t respect me.” Annabelle shook her head stonily. “I’ll have the magazine send another photographer.”
“You’re the only one I want.”
“You should have thought of that before.”
“You can’t drive to London,” Stefano said roughly. “You heard what the doctor said. You need to stay off your feet.”
“I’ll take a taxi to the airport and send for my truck later.”
“I won’t let you go.”
Folding her arms to hide the tremble of her hands, Annabelle glared at him. “You can’t keep me here against my will.”
In the gray shadows of the shuttered bedroom, Annabelle felt warm air blow against her skin from the ceiling fan. She felt the dark power of Stefano’s gaze and shivered. Maybe she was wrong. Santo Castillo was his own private estate, the empire he ruled, with a staff loyal to him alone. For all she knew, Stefano could keep her here against her will.
The air between them hummed with electricity as he started to move toward her.
Swiftly, Annabelle swerved her feet around the side of the bed, starting to rise to her feet. Stefano stopped her with a heavy hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t go,” he said quietly. “Rest. We’ll talk later.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. Let me go.” He exhaled. “Please.”
That single humble word stopped her as nothing else could. His dark eyes gazed at her with passion, yearning.
He looked at Annabelle as she’d dreamed her whole life of a man looking at her.
“You’ve had a difficult time,” he said in a low voice. “Traveling from Portugal. Your bad dream last night. You’re exhausted. Please. Stay. Rest. Then we’ll talk.”
Annabelle looked at the hard lines of his body. She thought of fighting past him to call a taxi, or physically trying to hop her way on one foot downstairs to her truck in the garage. Not appealing. Nor was it a happy thought to imagine dropping out of her assignment at the eleventh hour. Aside from what it would do to her professional reputation, she would personally know she’d fled here like a coward.
She could just imagine the juicy gossip that would be whispered behind her back. The stud of Santo Castillo, people would nod knowingly, has claimed even the ice queen as his victim.
Annabelle hissed through her teeth at the thought—of having the whole world think Stefano had seduced her.
He stared down at her. “Please, querida.”
Crossing her arms, Annabelle glared at him.
“Fine. I’ll stay. For a while.” He gave a single nod. “Did you have breakfast?”
She shook her head.
“I’ll bring you a tray.” Rising to his feet, he pointed toward a button beside the bed. “Ring if you need anything.” He paused. “You promise you won’t try to leave?”
“I won’t try to hop down the stairs on one foot or fling myself out the window, if that’s what you mean.”
“Bien,” he said. “As long as I have your word.” Taking her hand, he started to lift it to his lips. A deep tremble went through her, but he stopped before his lips touched her skin.
“Ah,” he said. “I almost forgot. You do not wish me to kiss any part of you.” Looking down at her with his inscrutable dark eyes, he straightened with a mischievous grin. “Rest now.”
Rest? She fidgeted. “What am I supposed to do in bed all day?”
His lips curved. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to keep busy.” He brought her laptop and printer from the desk over to her side table. “Here. Now you can work. Although—” he tilted his head, his dark eyes bright “—if you ask me, there are far more interesting ways you could spend a day in bed….”
She scowled. “I’m not interested in hearing what you like to do in bed!”
“You’re already thinking about kissing me, aren’t you?”
“No!”
He gave her a wicked half grin. “You’re wondering what it would be like, how it would feel, if I pulled you into my arms and stroked your skin.” He leaned forward. “If I slowly kissed up and down the length of your body. Your breasts. Your thighs. If I tasted you with my tongue.”
Heat roared through her, and she couldn’t breathe. “I …”
With a low laugh, he turned away. “Perhaps I can’t kiss you, bella,” he said, “but I can dream of you tonight. All night long.” His voice was almost a purr as he walked away from her. “Ah,
querida, the things you let me do to you in my dreams …”
“I wouldn’t do any of that!” she cried after him. But he’d already left, closing the door behind him.
Annabelle stared at the closed door sulkily.
The things you let me do to you in my dreams …
Lying in bed, with her ankle still propped up and wrapped in ice, she stared out through the open French doors of her veranda. Even from here, she could see the green forest where he’d kissed her. Her lips still tingled from the memory of his mouth on hers. She could still feel how he’d held her against his hard, naked chest as his lips had seized hers, pushing her mouth wide, taking her as his right—
Stop!
She would work. Yes. Work. Booting up her laptop, she opened up her email and scanned new messages. There were invitations to various lavish parties in London and work-related notes from Geography World magazine about her upcoming trip to Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego. Annabelle blinked when she saw an email from Mollie Parker, the daughter of their former gardener at Wolfe Manor. Mollie was a kindhearted soul, one of the few friends that
Annabelle still remained in contact with from her old village. She opened the message.
Just got back from Italy, and I’m feeling like a new woman. Except I’d barely decided to change my gardening business to landscape design when your brother Jacob insisted I make Wolfe Manor my first project. I’ll spare you the gory details, but he left me no choice. After so many years, it’s strange and a bit overwhelming to see him every day now. But he has thrown himself into renovating the house like a man possessed.
Wolfe Manor had fallen into disrepair after Annabelle had left to study photography in London, but it was now being renovated. Jacob was back in England after all these years. Annabelle hardly knew which surprised her more.
Jacob. Annabelle closed her eyes. If he hadn’t saved her from their father almost twenty years ago, she would have died at fourteen. She had no doubt of that. Someday, she would have to thank him. But after all these years, she was afraid to even speak of those terrible days. The last time she’d tried to talk to Jacob about it, he’d left Wolfe Manor the next morning, and disappeared into two decades of exile.
She’d driven him away with her heartbroken tears that night. She drove everyone away, somehow.
With a deep breath, Annabelle looked back at her laptop screen.
It’s strange and a bit overwhelming to see him every day now, Mollie had said. Annabelle remembered the helpless schoolgirl crush the gardener’s daughter had once had on Jacob. Her eldest brother, the Wolfe heir, had barely noticed her.
Annabelle wondered morosely if any woman ever knew how to love a man in a
way that was good for her.
Staring through the window at the blue Spanish sky and distant green forest, she touched her lips. After thirty-three years, she’d finally been kissed. And her first kiss had been from a master.
For the second time in her life, there would always be a mark. Another before. Another after. All because Stefano Cortez had kissed her.
Work, she ordered herself. She turned resolutely back to the screen. She typed a reply to Mollie, then, plugging her camera into her laptop, she transferred the newest images to her computer. She looked through one shot after another of wide golden fields, cragged green mountains, horses galloping through the slowrising mist of dawn.
Annabelle paused, her fingers stilled over one image.
The single picture she’d taken of Stefano in the stables that morning shone with vividness and energy. She’d caught him unaware, while he was shoveling straw. The slant of dawn’s golden light from the windows illuminated the sheen of his tanned skin. Dark hair laced the muscles of his bare, muscled chest. His masculine beauty made her catch her breath.
She paused. She closed her eyes.
And she deleted the picture.
She nearly cried doing it. Her photographer’s soul screamed not to destroy the beautiful image. But it was her only hope of survival—to erase Stefano from her heart.
There was a knock on her door. She looked up, her cheeks hot with guilt and grief. “Come in.”
“Here’s breakfast.” Stefano brought in a tray and put it on her lap. She looked down to see ham and eggs, toast and fruit. “I got this from the kitchen. I brought both coffee and tea, since I didn’t know which you’d prefer.”
“Thanks.” Mechanically, she took a bite of toast. She poured cream into her tea, then drank a sip of the hot black coffee. She looked up at him and said in a dead voice, “I’ve decided to stay and finish my assignment.”
A smile lit up his handsome face. “Bien. I knew you would—”
She held up a hand, cutting him off. “You must never kiss me again.”
His brow lowered. “Why? You disliked it?”
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