The woman he loved.
His hands clenched. He loved Annabelle. He loved her. And. he’d let her go.
“Well?” the brunette murmured as she swayed her body against his, barely in time to the music. “What do you think?”
Looking down at the woman, he stopped.
“Sorry,” he said roughly. “I changed my mind.”
Turning, he left her on the dance floor. He had to find Annabelle. Right now. He would drive to London. Fly around the world. Cross the Sahara or climb Mount Everest. He would find her and make her his own.
As he walked off the dance floor, he heard a man give a low whistle behind him. “Look at that woman, mate. Great pity that.”
“What? Who?” another man said.
“At the door. Beautiful woman scarred across the face.”
Sucking in his breath, Stefano turned. There in the parted doorway of the tent, beneath the beams of fairy lights from above,
Annabelle stood dressed in a white gown. Her wavy blond hair cascaded down her shoulders.
He saw her pause, watched her search the crowd with her eyes.
Then she saw him.
Stefano couldn’t wait. He went toward her, shoving recklessly through the crowds.
Once they were in front of each other, in the moving shadows beneath the swaying fairy lights, Stefano stopped. Looking at her beautiful face, the rest of the crowds disappeared. And he sucked in his breath.
For the first time in public, Annabelle wore no makeup over her scar. He could see the harsh red line slashing her lovely face, but it did not hide her incredible beauty. Nothing could.
“You—you’re showing your scar,” he whispered.
“Yes.” Her gray eyes were shining. “I’m not afraid anymore. I’m not afraid of anything, except … losing you.”
She held out her hand.
Stefano stared at it, then looked up at her face. She looked like an angel. Like a dream.
She looked like the answer to the question of the rest of his life.
Stefano took her hand. He exhaled, almost shuddering at the exquisite bliss of her touch. He hadn’t realized how much he’d feared she was a mirage, a ghost who would disappear if he tried to touch her. The feel of her hand proved otherwise. She was no ghost. She was flesh and blood.
Like a miracle, she’d come back to him. Dios mío. Stefano’s hand tightened over hers. What had he done, what good thing had he ever done in his life, to deserve this second chance?
“Forgive me, Annabelle,” he said in a low voice.
“Forgive you?” Her voice was gentle and soft as water as she shook her head. She laughed, and it was like the chiming of bells. “I am the one who is sorry. I tried to force you to make a promise you weren’t ready to give—”
“But I am.” He took a deep breath. “I thought I’d lost you, and it nearly killed me,” he whispered. “I never want to feel that way again. I never want to lose you.”
He pulled her into his arms, and passionately kissed her.
Around them, he heard shocked whispers and gasps. He pulled away from Annabelle, and from the corner of his eye, he saw the people in the tent starting to elbow one another and point.
Stefano didn’t care. He fell to his knees before her.
Annabelle gasped. Her gentle hands brushed against his hair. “What are you doing?”
The whispers built in noise. The dancers halted on the dance floor. Even the musicians stopped playing their instruments.
Or maybe Stefano just couldn’t hear the music over the pounding of his own heart.
Closing his eyes, he pressed his cheek against her waist. Then he looked up at her.
“Annabelle, I love you.”
She bit her full, pink lip. Putting her hands on his cheeks, she looked down at him, her face bemused and uncertain. “Are you sure?”
Rising to his feet, he cupped her face, stroking her tearstained cheeks. “Look at my face. And ask if it’s true.”
She searched his gaze, then tears filled her eyes. “I love you, Stefano,” she whispered. “So much.”
Her lips trembled and it was too much for him to resist. He kissed her with passion so searing and pure it burned through his heart, and he knew his love for her would last forever.
He heard whistles and ribald comments from nearby guests. Pulling away, Stefano looked down at her beautiful face. Her eyes were still closed, her lips still swollen from their summer days of endless kisses. He wanted to kiss her forever.
But what he felt for Annabelle was private. Tucking her hand over his arm, he led her away from the gossiping, chattering, madding crowd.
Outside the white tent, the warm Spanish night was dark with illuminated stars like scattered diamonds. Stefano heard the distant call of birds and whinny of horses. He loved this land with all his heart.
No. It now took second place in his heart. His guiding star, his love, stood before him now in a white dress.
“I have a question for you,” he said, pulling her into his arms.
Beneath the night sky, she looked at him. She didn’t push. She just waited, her gray eyes glowing with trust and love. He stroked her cheek, tilting her head back beneath the dark canopy of stars. Her sweet, innocent, beautiful face held such love and promise that it brought tears to his eyes. He loved her more than life. He never wanted to be without her …
“Marry me,” he said.
Her lips parted. She looked up, searching his face.
“Marry me,” he demanded, more forcefully. With a choked gasp, she threw her arms around his neck.
“Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes.” Pulling away from him, she vowed, “I will cancel my assignment in Argentina. I will cancel everything. I never want to leave you again.”
But he frowned, furrowing his brow. “But photography is your passion.”
She pressed her cheek against his chest. “Fou are my passion.”
He stroked her hair softly, his heart aching with love. But he could not allow her to make the sacrifice. Looking down at her, he took a deep breath. “I will come with you.”
She looked up in shock. “But I’ll be away for a month.”
“So?”
She shook her head, tears in her eyes. “I can’t ask you to leave your home!”
“Oh, Annabelle.” Holding her face in his hands, Stefano looked down at her with adoration. “Don’t you understand? It’s you, querida.” With a low laugh, he shook his head. “You. you are my home.”
A month later, flying first class back from Buenos Aires to London, Annabelle was so nervous that she could barely hold still in the white leather seat.
“Champagne, Señora Cortez?” the flight attendant asked, holding out a silver tray.
Señora Cortez. She and Stefano had married in a simple ceremony at Santo Castillo, the day after she’d turned in her photo essay to Equestrian magazine. When the magazine’s editors had seen her pictures, they’d instantly forgiven her for missing the polo match and gala. They’d retitled the cover story to Stud Ranch Wedding: Stefano Cortez Elopes with Equestrian Photographer in Whirlwind Affair. The publishers had already ordered a double printing as they expected the gossipy exclusive to be their best-selling edition ever.
Fortunately, Annabelle and Stefano had left it all behind, spending the past few weeks in Tierra del Fuego and Patagonia. Had it already been a month since she became Mrs. Cortez? Annabelle’s new name still sounded like music to her. But Annabelle shook her head at the flight attendant’s question, refusing the champagne.
“Sí, gracias,” her husband said beside her, and took a sip from the flute before leaning back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. Her husband. Looking at him still made Annabelle flutter inside—as did the memory of the lavish four days they’d spent at a luxury hotel in Buenos Aires for a belated honeymoon.
Annabelle shivered. They would have to go back to Buenos Aires sometime and actually remember to leave their hotel suite. All she’d seen of the city had been from their veranda
at midnight, when she’d gone out to see the twinkling lights and feel the cool breezes of the Rio de la Plata against her skin. But even then, she’d been swiftly distracted when her new husband followed her on the veranda wearing only a robe. He’d kissed her passionately in the darkness and, well, one thing had led to another….
She blushed. Stefano was an amazing lover. And even more—an amazing partner. He’d worked well as her assistant as she’d photographed the Pampas, and seeing his innocent wonderment over the beautiful landscape had given her such pleasure. Though hardly an equal recompense to the pleasure he gave her at night.
Annabelle’s smile spread to a grin. She would accept fewer photography jobs from now on, taking only the truly fascinating assignments. She craved time nesting at Santo Castillo. She was even, at this moment, feeling the strange urge to learn how to sew and bake.
Her old assistant, Marie Thompson, had sent flowers to the Buenos Aires hotel yesterday when she’d heard of their marriage. Annabelle had immediately telephoned her in Cornwall for a nice chat. Just six weeks ago, she’d envied Marie for being loved by an adoring husband. Now she knew what that felt like.
And she would soon know something else Marie had experienced, as well …
Annabelle’s legs bounced with nervous energy as she glanced out the airplane window. She looked down at the scattered, wispy clouds over the green continent of South America beneath them. She tried to gather her thoughts, but her heart was soaring higher than the plane.
Stefano stopped the bounce of her legs by putting his hand on her knee. “Are you really so nervous?” he murmured, smiling. “Just by the thought of going back to Wolfe Manor?”
“I am excited to see my brothers again,” she admitted. “We haven’t all been home together for almost twenty years. I can’t wait to see how Jacob has fixed up Wolfe Manor. And tell them all the news.”
Stefano’s smile spread into a grin. Putting his arm around her, he kissed her on the temple. “You mean the news that you’re my wife?”
“Yes.” She looked at him with a sudden smile. “And there’s more.”
“More?” he said lazily, stroking her knee. “You mean that I can’t keep my hands off you? They’ll see that for themselves.”
“More than that.” She took a deep breath. “We’re going to have a baby.”
Stefano’s jaw dropped as he stared at her.
Then his joyful shout reverberated across the first-class cabin as he gathered her in his arms.
“Oh, querida … Are you sure?”
She nodded, smiling through tears of happiness. “It must have been our very first time … after.”
“A baby.” He looked awestruck, then adorably anxious as he demanded, “But how are you feeling? Can I get you anything? Should you be resting?”
She wiped tears from her eyes. “I’m wonderful.”
“You’re crying,” he said accusingly.
She shook her head, laughing. “I’m pregnant.” Reaching up, she stroked his cheek and looked up into his ruggedly handsome face. “But I’ve never been so happy.”
Pulling her into his lap, Stefano kissed her, so long and hard and passionately that it made the people around them in first class smile. When the kiss ended, Annabelle closed her eyes as he held her in his arms, tenderly against his heart.
She’d once been warned about Stefano Cortez.
Be careful, Miss Wolfe, they’d said. You won’t be able to resist him. No woman can.
All the warnings had been true. He’d taken her body. Her heart. Her soul.
“I love you, Annabelle,” Stefano whispered. Lowering his mouth over hers, he breathed, “I will love you forever.”
As he kissed her tenderly, his hands resting protectively over her flat belly, she had never felt so cherished, so adored. The plane flew them back to England, back to Wolfe Manor. And it was somewhere over Brazil that Annabelle knew for certain that she would be safe, and loved, for the rest of her life.
2010: Jacob faces his past …
Curious after his meeting with his brother Rafael, Jacob begins to wonder about his siblings he left behind … what are they doing with their lives? Intrigued, Jacob begins to following their adventures in the newspapers and on the internet. At first Jacob was content to observe them all from a distance, and certainly wasn’t ready to walk back into their lives. How could he after abandoning them all so terribly so many years ago?
But then he receives a call that changes everything … Wolfe Manor, the home he has spent his life trying to escape, is crumbling. Jacob’s first instinct is to tear the dilapidated building down. His second is that he couldn’t allow such a landmark building to be destroyed. And finally, he’s starting to feel his past closing in around him. It’s time to go home …
Now Jacob is ready to face crumbling Wolfe Manor and reunite the family he abandoned. He knows this won’t be easy and his homecoming rekindles all the nightmares from the past he has tried desperately to run from. But Jacob cannot run forever and hiding has left him feeling empty.
Can Jacob heal his black soul, and reunite his siblings? Will the Wolfe dynasty rise again?
BEHIND THE SCENES AT WOLFE MANOR …
Share a secret about Stefano or Annabelle?
Everyone thinks that Annabelle Wolfe really has it together—that she is so independent and powerful with her international photography career. The truth is that she is insecure and has a broken heart, at least until Stefano forces her out of her shell.
Who is the biggest, baddest Wolfe?
Ooh—I think I’d have to go for Jacob. Kate Hewitt wrote his story, which follows mine and is the eighth book, the culmination of the whole series
Which Wolfe brother did you most fancy?
Jacob. Naturally I’d be attracted to the biggest, bad-dest alpha.
Which is Annabelle’s favourite room in Wolfe Manor?
Annabelle grew to despise the manor as a prison, after so many years feeling trapped there when she was scarred after her father’s attack. But she has fond memories of playing in the woods and streams on the estate as a child.
How did your hero pop the big question?
In the dark Spanish night, beneath stars scattered like diamonds.
JENNIE’S WRITING SECRETS …
What do you enjoy most about writing as part of a continuity series; how does it differ from writing a single title?
It’s more social—I loved collaborating with the other authors of the series.
What do you think makes a great hero/heroine?
I think a great heroine is someone I can identify with and sympathise with, maybe a woman who works really hard and takes care of others, but who doesn’t feel very valued or adored. And I love it when a hero really shows her how beautiful she truly is.
When you are writing, what is a typical day?
I write when my kids are napping or at pre-school. If I’m close to deadline, I might also write during nights and weekends, although I prefer not to do that. I work on a laptop while sitting on the sofa or stretched out on the floor listening to music. I drink lots of coffee in the morning and diet soda in the afternoon, and snack constantly while I work—a habit I’m trying to break! But I feel so lucky and that I truly have the best job in the world writing love stories.
KATE HEWITT
BAD BLOOD
LONE WOLFE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KATE HEWITT discovered her first Mills & Boon® romance on a trip to England when she was thirteen, and she’s continued to read them ever since. She wrote her first story at the age of five, simply because her older brother had written one and she thought she could do it too. That story was one sentence long—fortunately they’ve become a bit more detailed as she’s grown older.
She has written plays, short stories, and magazine serials for many years, but writing romance remains her first love. Besides writing, she enjoys reading, travelling, and learning to knit.
After marrying the man of her dreams—her ol
der brother’s childhood friend—she lived in England for six years and now resides in Connecticut, with her husband, her three young children, and the possibility of one day getting a dog.
Kate loves to hear from readers—you can contact her through her website: www.katehewitt.com.
To my fellow writers in this continuity: thanks for making it such a fun journey!
CHAPTER ONE
WOLFE MANOR was no more than a darkened hulk in the distance when Mollie Parker’s cab pulled up to its gates.
‘Where to now, luv?’ the driver called over his shoulder. ‘The gates are locked.’
‘They are?’ Mollie struggled to a straighter position. She’d been slumped against her bags, the fatigue from her flight catching up with her, making her content to doze gently in the warm fug of the taxi. ‘Strange, they haven’t been locked in ages.’ She shrugged, too tired to consider the conundrum now. Perhaps some local youths had been wreaking havoc up at the old manor house yet again, throwing stones at the remaining windows or breaking in for a lark or a dare. The police might have needed to take matters a step further than they usually did. ‘Never mind,’ Mollie told the cabbie. She reached into her handbag for a couple of notes. ‘You can just drop me here. I’ll walk the rest of the way.’
The cabbie looked sceptical; not a single light twinkled in the distance. Still, he shrugged and accepted the money Mollie handed him before helping her take her two battered cases out of the cab.
‘You sure, luv?’ he asked, and Mollie smiled.
‘Yes, my cottage is over there.’ She pointed to the forbiddingly tall hedge that ran alongside the gates. ‘Don’t worry. I could find the way with my eyes closed.’ She’d walked the route between the gardener’s cottage and the manor many times, when Annabelle had been living there. Her friend had rarely left the estate, and Mollie, the gardener’s tear-away daughter, had been one of her only friends.
But now Annabelle was long gone, along with her many brothers; Jacob, the oldest, had started the exodus when he’d turned his back on his family at only eighteen years old. He’d left the manor house to slowly moulder and ruin without a single thought of who might age along with it.
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