A cold jolt went through him, but he pushed the feeling away. He would just enjoy their four days. It would be a short, hot affair. That was all he ever wanted, anyway. Right?
Right?
He dropped her hands and turned away. “If we’re going downstairs to have dinner, I’d better go take a shower.”
“I’ll miss you,” she said wistfully behind him, then gave a goofy laugh. “Isn’t that ridiculous? How can I possibly miss you for ten minutes while you’re in the shower?”
Four days. Only four days. And the clock was ticking.
Ignoring the lump in his throat, he turned back and crossed the room in three steps.
“You won’t miss me, querida.” He looked down at her, and his body went hard as his heart turned over in his chest. “I’m taking you with me.”
CHAPTER NINE
ANNABELLE LISTENED TO Stefano’s even, quiet breathing as he held her naked against his chest, lying in his bed. She looked down at their intertwined fingers. Even though he slept, his hand was wrapped around hers, their intertwined clasp lit with soft gold in the fresh morning light.
Every new hour, every new minute, Annabelle spent with Stefano over the past two days had increased the depths of her joy. She’d never known life could be so wonderful.
Her camera bag and expensive photography equipment had been left in her bedroom, gathering dust. Instead, she’d lived the warm, busy, physically demanding life of the ranch, caring for the horses, going on long rides through the fields, feeling the wind and sunshine on her face. She’d even pulled vegetables from the garden and felt the earth against her fingertips. She’d taken lots of pictures, but only using her smallest digital camera, the one she could easily tuck into the back pocket of her oversize jeans. Being Stefano’s mistress took precedence over everything else.
At midnight last night, long after the rest of the staff was asleep, she and Stefano had been suddenly starving after four solid hours of lovemaking. So they’d scampered down to the kitchen, where Stefano had insisted on showing her how to prepare his favorite Spanish rice dish of paella.
“Just in case you ever want to cook for me,” he said with a wicked grin, his hands stroking over hers as he helped her stir the pot.
“Cook for you? The very idea!” she’d teased, flashing him an indignant look. “I’m a busy woman. You should cook for me!”
For answer, he’d grabbed the belt loops of the oversize jeans hanging low on her hips and turned her to face him. Her wooden spoon had clattered to the tile floor as he pulled her close to him in the kitchen.
“I’d love to cook for you,” he’d whispered. “Every time I look at you, I boil.”
He’d kissed her hungrily. Then, shoving aside the empty bowls and shattering them to the floor, he’d roughly pushed her back against the kitchen counter. As he lifted her into his arms, she’d wrapped her legs around his waist as he held her against him, pressing her back against the counter.
They’d very nearly made love right then and there, but Annabelle had suddenly remembered Mrs. Gutierrez, who was a light sleeper and probably heard the bowls smashing to the tile floor, and the impressionable teenagers who slept through anything but might wake up and wander into the kitchen for an extra meal.
Stefano had tried to reassure Annabelle that the housekeeper and boys were all exceedingly deep sleepers, long abed in a distant hallway, but she’d been steadfast. So with a growl, he’d carried her in his arms, running up the stairs to his bedroom, where they’d made love for another two hours behind closed doors.
It was only later they’d remembered the paella in the cold pot downstairs. Throwing on robes, they’d gone back to the kitchen and reheated their late-night dinner in the microwave, washing it down with a cold bottle of white wine at the tiny table in the dark kitchen.
Then they’d gone back upstairs, and again, one thing had led to another …
Annabelle sighed, wriggling her toes in pleasure at the memory. Her body felt wonderfully sore and she kept yawning from lack of sleep, but she’d never been so happy.
There was only one shadow on her happiness. The future.
Half their time together was already gone.
After the first time they’d made love, Annabelle had wanted to be with him so badly, she’d made a compromise with her soul: bargaining for four days of happiness at the expense of a little pain in the future. She’d told herself she couldn’t possibly fall in love with Stefano in four days. As he’d said himself—surely he wasn’t that adorable!
She still had two days left, she tried to comfort herself.
Two days. But only one night.
Tomorrow night, she would be the official photographer at his annual charity polo match and gala. Then, late at night, she would pack up her equipment and drive back to London. She’d go edit the photographs of Santo Castillo for Equestrian, then catch a flight to Argentina.
She’d looked forward to visiting Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego. But now, she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Stefano, her first lover. Her only lover.
The man she loved.
No! Annabelle’s hands flew to her head in consternation. She couldn’t let herself love him. Stefano Cortez would never commit to any woman. She would have to be barking mad—or utterly masochistic—to let herself love a man who’d never love her back!
Trembling, Annabelle carefully pulled away from his arms and crept out of his bed. She took a shower in his en suite bathroom, then got dressed in clothes she’d borrowed from his wardrobe: an oversize white cotton shirt and jeans cinched to her hips with his leather belt.
Looking down at her clothes, Annabelle smiled. Stefano had been so gleeful to finally get her out of her dressy suits. She’d finally given up her sleek and professional outfits as impractical, and instead relished the comfort and good sense of Stefano’s oversize cotton shirts and rolled-up jeans.
He’d sent for new work boots for her in the village. He offered to get her new clothes, as well. But she’d refused. She loved wearing Stefano’s clothes. It was intimate. She sometimes thought she caught his scent of saddle soap and sunlight. Feeling the worn, soft cotton against her skin felt like being in his constant embrace.
Now, she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. And for once, it wasn’t the angry red scar across her face that drew her eyes. It was her mouth.
She touched her bruised lips. She could still feel Stefano’s kiss. His perfect body. She’d been sleeping in his bed every night. His sensual, powerful body commanded her without words. He gave her such pleasure, made her feel so alive….
“There you are,” she heard him growl behind her. “Why did you leave bed so early?”
Annabelle looked up at the mirror and saw him behind her, standing naked in the open doorway. In spite of their many days together, she blinked in astonishment at his masculine perfection. His shoulders were so broad, his body muscular and lithe. She couldn’t look from his image in the mirror as he walked into the gleaming white bathroom. Her eyes traced downward from his handsome face and dark, chiseled jawline to his hard chest and flat belly and lower still …
He wanted her to come back to bed. A lot.
His darkly amused eyes met hers in the mirror and she licked her lips, blushing. Coming behind her, he turned her around in his arms.
“I missed you.” He looked down at her. “I was disappointed to wake up alone.”
Closing her eyes, she breathed in his woodsy, masculine scent, in the pleasure and comfort of his embrace.
Only one night left.
Swallowing, Annabelle pushed away from him, tucking her smallest digital camera into the back pocket of her oversize jeans. Trying to hide the emotion on her face, hiding her desire to cling to him forever, she said sadly, “I have to work today.”
“Forget work,” he commanded, stroking her cheek. “Stay in bed.”
She shivered with longing, staring up at his handsome face. “I’ve forgotten work too much already,” she said. She shook her
head. “Equestrian will wonder what on earth I’ve been doing all week here.”
“Then let’s both give back their advance,” he said, nuzzling her neck. “I would happily lose a hundred thousand euros for a single hour of having you in my arms.”
Annabelle sighed. Looking up at his handsome face, she was beyond tempted. She wanted nothing more than to stay here, in the warmth of his bedroom, with its rustic furniture and incredible view of the vast fields and horses outside. She wanted nothing more than to stay here in his arms forever.
No. No, she couldn’t give in to that feeling! I don’t love him, she told herself desperately. Absolutely not …
A loud bang came from outside the house. Crossing to the bedroom window, Stefano peeked through the blinds, then winced at the roar and hum of moving vans and the shouting of men outside.
“We’re under siege,” he said grimly, pulling away from the window.
She grinned. “You invited them here.”
“I hate this time of the year.”
“You only gave the party planners a single day to set up for tomorrow. What did you expect? What else could they do but send an army? And it is for charity.”
“I still hate it.” He scowled, then lifted a dark eyebrow with a wicked half smile. “Come distract me …”
She tilted her head as if considering. “I suppose I could use your services today.”
“Aha—”
“.as my assistant,” she finished.
He pouted, then brightened. “Taking any photographs in the meadow today?” he suggested sweetly.
She snorted, then turned back to the mirror and reached for her simple diamond stud earrings, which she put on one at a time. Her makeup and toiletries had already taken up residence across his private bathroom counter. Grabbing her small collection of tiny brushes, she put on her makeup, carefully covering the scar on her face. “Sadly, no. I need to go to the village. For my story.”
“Go to Algares? Why?”
“You grew up there—many of the young stablehands you now employ came from there.”
“So?”
“It’s the first village you helped with your charity foundation, long ago. I want to see how it’s changed. The village is part of the story. I have to include it.”
Stefano looked irritated, and was just opening his mouth to argue when they heard another loud bang outside, and the sound of a truck’s loud, incessant beep as it backed up in the courtyard. Men started yelling in Spanish and they heard a woman’s loud voice in French telling them they were setting it up all wrong. The men answered angrily in Spanish, and the multilingual dispute had the ranch’s dogs barking in a cacophony of noise.
“On second thought,” Stefano growled, “I’ll come with you.”
“You will!” Annabelle said, thrilled she didn’t have to leave him in order to finish her work. So much for guarding her heart, she thought to herself sourly.
Stefano swiftly showered and put on a cotton shirt and jeans that fit him far better than they fit her. He didn’t need a belt to keep the jeans snug against his lean hips. After he pulled on his boots, they walked to his six-car garage, where he climbed into an old 1950s Willys Jeepster. Getting in beside him, Annabelle looked at the rare open-topped truck with appreciation. “Nice,” she said. “Not flashy. Real.”
“Glad you like it.” He started the engine. Maneuvering his truck around the vans and trucks sprawled all over his lawn, past people unloading supplies from food to flowers to polo equipment, Stefano drove past the chaos and down the peaceful tree-lined avenue. They passed the old stone gate, crenellated and covered with moss in the shade, and Annabelle realized it was the first time she’d left the ranch for almost a week.
She wasn’t sure she wanted to go back into the real world, to be honest. But the village was only a few miles away, down the slender road clinging to the edge of the rocky green hills. All too quickly, they arrived at Algares, a tiny, prosperous village of whitewashed houses tucked in the valley.
The moment they arrived, a crowd of children appeared, rushing from the houses, running in the dust behind the Jeepster. They joyfully shouted Stefano’s name.
“Children are following us,” Annabelle said, looking back in amazement.
Stefano glanced back in the mirror. A smile lifted the hard edges of his mouth. “I know.”
Parking the truck on the street, Stefano climbed out and held out his arms. “¡Hola, mis amigos!”
The laughing children ran to him eagerly. Bending to their eye level, he patted one little girl on the shoulder as he smiled at another child and asked him something in Spanish.
Annabelle climbed slowly out of the truck. Children were bouncing all around Stefano, a little girl in pigtails and a pinafore tugging on his shirt to get his attention, an older boy excitedly telling him a story in Spanish about a football game. From nearby doorways, she saw mothers, young and old, coming out the doorways of their gleaming, tidy homes to smile at their children who held the total attention of the tall, powerful Señor Cortez.
Annabelle slowly looked around her. This was Algares, which ten years ago had been called the poorest village in Spain? Now, it was charming, picture-perfect, a scene of warmth and domestic happiness. With a slow intake of breath, she raised her camera and took pictures of the village, the children and the tall, handsome man smiling at them.
Stefano and Annabelle spent hours visiting different families in the village, all of whom clamored for the honor of making their lunch. The people were so warm and friendly, she thought. Both children and parents clearly thought the world of Stefano. Annabelle took tea in more than one snug house, and when they heard she was doing an article, they insisted on telling her all about how Stefano had saved their jobs or improved their lives, how his foundation had built a playground for the old park and bought supplies for schoolchildren. About how he’d helped their sons, after the boys had gotten into trouble with the law and started down the wrong path, by hiring them as stablehands and giving them not just a job … but a vocation.
Stefano had helped them, as he helped everyone he cared about.
Annabelle took pictures of everything. She took photos of Stefano most of all. When he looked at her, she lost her breath. When he smiled, her heart lifted to her throat.
After they’d visited practically every house in Algares, Annabelle’s arm was wrapped companionably around his as they walked down the street. He was so much more than a playboy, she thought, sneaking sideways glances at him. She’d known his charitable foundation was important to him, but she’d never realized what a difference he made.
What an amazing man, Annabelle thought. She swallowed. The way she really felt about him now.
Clumsily, she stumbled over her feet.
“Careful, querida.” Stefano caught her before she fell face-first into the street. “You seem tired,” he said, tilting his head at her. He pointed at the village pub. “Why don’t we stop and have a drink?”
Trembling, Annabelle looked at the building across the street. The tavern was two stories high, on a corner lot with a painted sign dangling cheerfully from the eaves. It was charming and cheerful and, as Annabelle stared up at it, she hated it on sight.
If I wish to, as you say, take a lover, I go to the village tavern and rent a room for the night.
“One drink before we leave,” Stefano suggested. “You can even take a picture or two, if you like. This place is a local landmark.”
“I just bet it is,” she muttered with a surge of bitterness, and lifted her camera.
When she was done, they went inside. The pub was fairly empty and very well-swept. Annabelle tried to hide the way her body was shaking as Stefano led her to the small table in the window. As she sat down across from him, she wondered how many women had already joined him at this very table. And how many more would sit with him here in the coming weeks.
“Your usual, señor?” the bartender called in Spanish.
“Sí,” Stefano replied wit
h a grin. “And the lady will have.” He turned to her, waiting. “I’m not thirsty,” Annabelle said. “Come, you must have something. One drink.”
“What are you having?” she asked him listlessly.
“A beer.”
“I’ll have the same.”
He lifted an eyebrow in approval, then relayed her drink to the bartender. Turning back to her at the small table, he asked abruptly, “Can I see the new pictures you’ve taken?”
She bit her lip. “Will you tell me honestly what you think of them?”
“Do you really want me to?”
Reluctantly, Annabelle handed him her digital camera. The camera seemed tiny in his large hands as he looked slowly through the digital images she’d taken of the village, and the ranch before that.
Watching him, she licked her dry lips. She adored these new pictures. The photographs she’d taken over the past few days seemed rich and vibrant, full of life, even to her artist’s critical eye.
But would he scorn them as he had her last pictures? Would he call them frozen and dead?
Trembling, she peeked over his shoulder as Stefano went through picture after picture. And Annabelle suddenly noticed something she’d never seen before. Her eyes went wide with shock.
No wonder she loved these pictures. There was Stefano in the village, bending on one knee as he talked to the children. Stefano tilting his head back, giving advice to the young stablehands at Santo Castillo. Stefano standing alone in the paddock at sunset, training a yearling. Even her pictures of the wild, vast landscape somehow had his blurry elbow on the edge of the frame. Every single picture had Stefano in it. She’d even taken one of him last night, at a private moment in his bed. She’d wanted to capture the tenderness and passion of his dark eyes, and so she’d taken a picture of him as the red-and-orange sunset from the window cast a halo over his dark head, like fire.
Stefano was in all her pictures now. He was in her soul. In her heart. Annabelle gave a strangled, silent gasp. She was in love with him. She’d tried desperately to fight it. She hadn’t wanted to love him. For days, she’d denied her feelings, even to herself, because she knew loving him would destroy her.
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