Greed (A Sinful Empire Trilogy Book 1)

by Eva Charles

  A stranger.

  I still don’t know the identity of the buyer. Attorney Moniz has been dealing with the representative of a trust. The Iberian Trust. But someone’s hiding behind that trust—that’s for damn sure.

  The bile rises in my throat as I imagine the possibilities. In truth, a complete stranger is preferable to some of the alternatives my mind conjures.

  I shove the cap and sunglasses into my tote, but I don’t bother to even finger-comb my hair. Who cares if I look like hell? Nobody. In less than an hour, I’ll be nothing more than a tragic footnote in the history of the region.

  When I step into the lobby, a young woman in a smart blue dress is at the reception desk. I don’t remember her, but it’s been six years since I was last here. Shortly after my eighteenth birthday. I’m sure a lot has changed. Like I have.

  She looks up as I approach. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning. I have an appointment with Attorney Moniz. Daniela D’Sousa,” I add, just above a whisper, as though my name alone might summon demons from the rafters.

  “Of course, Ms. D’Sousa,” she says kindly. “He told me to send you right up when you arrive. Do you know where his office is located?”

  “Is it still at the top of the staircase, across from the library?”

  “Yes.” She nods, adjusting the brooch on her silk scarf. “I think he might still be on a call, but if the door is open, go right in and take a seat.”

  I turn toward the stairs, but a sense of unease stops me in my tracks. “Is Attorney Moniz alone?”

  Moniz assured me the buyer wouldn’t be here. “It’s too early for the civilized to do business, and it will be easier for you this way.” But circumstances can change, and I don’t want to be caught off guard.

  “At this hour?” The receptionist’s blonde head bobs up and down as she smiles reassuringly. “Can I bring you some coffee or tea?”

  “Tea would be wonderful. Thank you.”

  I breathe a small sigh of relief and find the stairs. Pedro Moniz, my father’s lawyer and old friend, made this long, tortuous process, mired in arcane Portuguese property law, as easy as possible for me.

  Although there was nothing he could say or do to blunt the heartache.

  The paintings in the stairwell are the same ones that have hung here since I was a child. The Douro Valley’s most important churches, port houses, and vineyards captured on canvas for all to admire.

  I squeeze the railing and lower my gaze before I get to the painting of Quinta Rosa do Vale.

  It’s a stunning piece of art, painted right before harvest, when the grapes were plump, their purple skins pulled tight over the sweet flesh.

  I can’t bear to look at it.

  One foot in front of the other, Daniela. It’s almost over.

  When I reach the top, Moniz’s door is open, but the lights are off. Apart from the hissing and groaning of a radiator awakening, it’s quiet. Too quiet.

  Maybe he’s finished with the call. Or perhaps he’s taking it from one of the other rooms.

  The receptionist said to go in and have a seat.

  I clutch my tote and step timidly across the threshold into the dark office. At first, it appears I’m alone. But as my eyes adjust, I notice a man at the window in the far corner of the room. He’s gazing at the sunrise with a phone to his ear.

  As the shadowy figure comes into focus, the hair on the back of my neck rises. Even with his back to me, even in the dim light, even after all this time, I recognize him immediately.

  A warning blares inside my head, and I turn to flee. But the doorway is blocked by the man who sat behind me on the plane—the hulking giant who looks like he plays American football for a professional team.

  I can’t breathe.

  “Excuse me, please,” I plead, as though he might let me by if I’m polite.

  The hulk doesn’t utter a word or spare me even a small glance, and he doesn’t budge. But I’m desperate to leave before the man at the window notices me, and I attempt to muscle my way through.

  It’s a waste of energy. He’s an unmovable force.

  When I pivot to find an alternate exit, Antonio Huntsman is there, eyes flaring, almost daring me to run, again.

  2

  Daniela

  I freeze in my tracks, a cornered animal with little hope for survival.

  He’s still too, intensely focused, like a predator who could be easily triggered.

  It’s been years since I’ve seen him in person, but the younger version of this man still haunts my dreams—more often than I care to admit.

  The last time we were this close, he stole a kiss. That’s what I tell myself, because it’s easier than admitting I gave it to him—that I wanted that kiss.

  Twenty minutes after the reckless kiss, his car was forced off the road, into the river. When I left Porto, he was in critical condition, and it was unclear whether he would survive.

  But it’s hard to kill the devil.

  He doesn’t look any worse for wear. In many ways, he looks the same. Maybe more confident. The intensity still vibrates off him in a way that signals danger. Beautiful danger. Irresistible danger. The kind that beckons, not with a word but with a smoldering gaze.

  Standing here, with his hand buried in his trouser pocket, he’s a photographer’s dream.

  Venomous snakes always hide under pretty skins.

  I continue to hold myself as still as possible, only swallowing to clear my airway.

  “Our fate—yours and mine—is entwined for eternity. For now, you’re safe, Princesa. But when I come back, it’ll be for more than a kiss.” Those were his last words to me.

  The door clicks shut behind me, cutting off more of my air supply.

  “Where’s Moniz?” I gasp, my voice barely audible.

  “I gave him the morning off.” Antonio gestures toward one of the chairs near the desk. “Have a seat, Daniela.”

  His commanding tenor raises gooseflesh on my arms.

  He knows you’re here to sell the property. He wants it.

  Sit and hear him out, or stand and fight. Those are my choices.

  My soul shrivels at the thought of a Huntsman owning my mother’s vineyards.

  You’re not in a position to be sentimental. Especially now. Don’t waste time pretending you won’t sell to him. You’ll do what you need to do so you can get back to Isabel and Valentina.

  Maybe I can negotiate something, because between him and the guard stationed outside the door, I don’t think fighting is going to get me far.

  I lower myself to the edge of the seat, using the chair’s sturdy arm for support. “I assume this is about the vineyards.”

  He shakes his head, unbuttoning his suit jacket before propping himself on the corner of the desk, where he can lord over me like a king.

  “I have a plane to catch and no time for games. What is this about?”

  He doesn’t reply, but he looks me up and down, suggestively, his eyes lingering here and there without a tinge of shame. It’s much the way he leered when he visited after my father died. It’s still appalling, but this time, I don’t blink.

  Six long years have passed since that visit, and in the interim, my life has shifted, dramatically. Instead of having an entire staff to help me with tedious chores, I’m now the maid. Rather than a lavish wing to myself, I share a bedroom with a child. Not a single person treats me like I’m from an important Portuguese family—they don’t even know, and if they did, they wouldn’t care.

  Some might see this fall from grace as a tragedy, others as my comeuppance. I don’t have the energy to conduct a thorough analysis. At the end of the day, I do what’s necessary to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads. It’s a simple, sometimes grueling life, but it’s kept us safe.

  When Antonio completes his lewd appraisal, his dark, piercing eyes meet mine. It’s a look designed to intimidate. And it does. But despite the intermittent tremor in my left eye, I don’t shrink—that would only emp
ower him.

  The old radiator gurgles in the corner. Otherwise, the room is deathly quiet. The air between us so heavy, it’s practically weeping. Antonio’s scrutiny is hard and threatening, without a glimmer of humanity.

  My hands are beginning to ache from being clasped so tightly, but at least they’re not shaking.

  I don’t know his intentions, but I can guess. This is about the vineyards. It has to be.

  There’s a binding contract on the property. You’re too late, Antonio.

  Although it’s never too late for wealthy, powerful men to get their way. It’s either handed to them at the very last minute, or they snatch it from unwitting hands. There’s rarely a penalty for that kind of behavior, so they walk away unscathed and emboldened. And they do it again, and again, because the greedy are insatiable.

  I glance at him. His expression hasn’t softened—if anything, it’s more menacing. More determined.

  Antonio is about to make my life a living hell. It’s written all over him, twisting in his sharp features, scraping through the vast silence—metal against metal. I feel it in my bones. A chill so pervasive that a hot bath and layers of spun wool won’t cure it.

  “Why are you here?” I ask softly, my voice straining under the stress.

  He doesn’t reply. He hasn’t said a single word since he told me to have a seat. For now, he seems content to let my anxiety build.

  The wait is making me jittery. Inside, the threads are spooling tighter and tighter. Soon they’ll snap, and my emotions will spin out of control. I can’t allow it to happen.

  I know pain. Torn flesh, bitter anguish, heartache—I know the demons intimately. Even more, I know how to battle through the suffering.

  Yes, I might end up bloodied and scarred, but Antonio Huntsman can’t throw anything at me I can’t handle.

  I sit up taller and dig in my heels. “What do you want?”

  This time, there’s not a shred of softness or deference in my tone. It’s insistent and demanding, leaving no doubt that I’ll ask again, and again, until he answers the question.

  His gaze narrows, zeroing in on mine with laser focus. “It’s time to come home, Daniela.”

  His voice is firm. Uncompromising. And while I doubt anyone ever says no to him, his jaw is set, as though he’s bracing for a fight.

  This isn’t at all what I expected. I assumed he got wind of the sale and would demand I breach the contract with the buyer and sell him the property instead.

  The butterflies in my stomach swirl frantically while I try to form a coherent response that won’t back me farther into a corner.

  “I don’t understand.” I choose the words carefully, feigning ignorance, although it’s not much of a stretch. I really don’t know where he’s headed.

  “Porto is your home. You belong here. This is your legacy.”

  It takes me long moments to wrap my head around it. But when I finally do, it feels as though my soul has been exposed to the light, filleted with surgical precision.

  Porto is your home. You belong here. This is your legacy.

  If I didn’t know better, I would think the bastard is privy to my dreams—my ridiculous fantasies. The ones I never share with anyone. Not even Isabel. Dreams that are so far out of reach, the edges are fuzzy.

  He knows the property is changing hands today. Of course he does. Despite Moniz’s efforts to conceal the sale, that shouldn’t come as a total surprise. But he also knows what’s in my heart. He knows how much I want to keep Quinta Rosa do Vale, how much I want to come home, back to my old life, and he’s using that knowledge to play me in the cruelest way.

  He wants me to come home. Bullshit. He wants the vineyards. Don’t let him lure you off the path. It’s not safe.

  I look straight into his eyes. All these years of hiding have taught me to lie without squirming. “My home is in Canada now, with my great-aunt. She needs me.” It’s the same lie I told last time to throw him off my trail. But I went directly to the US, without ever setting foot in Canada.

  Antonio wraps his long fingers around the beveled edge of the desk and angles forward ever so slightly.

  “Really?”

  His tone is smug. So smug I’d like to slap him across the face hard enough to make my palm sting.

  “What does she need? Someone to water the flowers around her grave?”

  He knows she’s dead. Why would he bother with my relatives? Why?

  I lower my eyes, giving myself a few seconds to regroup.

  3

  Daniela

  If he knows about my great-aunt, what else does he know?

  I imagine him digging into the past, unearthing secrets meant to remain buried forever.

  I’m so worked up I can’t think straight, and a few measly seconds isn’t enough to clear my head.

  It doesn’t matter who buys the property. But it does. No, it doesn’t. Not anymore. You’re out of options. He knows the deal is almost done, and he’s not going to allow the sale unless it’s to him. Remember who you left back in the US. That’s your only concern now.

  “I’ve entered into a sales agreement with a buyer,” I blurt when the voices arguing inside my head become too much. “We’ve been working on the sale for several years, but I’m willing to sell you the vineyards, if you can persuade the buyer to let me out of the contract.”

  I despise myself right now. My cowardice. My unwillingness to fight for something that rightfully belongs to me. But I hate him even more. I hate him with every fiber of my being.

  “The employees need to be treated fairly,” I add, modulating my voice to hide how much I loathe him. “A strong severance package, or better, they’ll be allowed to keep their jobs. The contract I came to sign protects everyone who works at Quinta Rosa do Vale. That’s all I care about.”

  “That’s all you care about? You don’t care if I torch the house you grew up in, or the vineyards your family nurtured for generations? The vineyards that provide grapes to make the Port that keeps the entire region afloat? And you don’t care about money for yourself? Is that right?”

  What a prick.

  But I can deal with it. My new life has made me stronger and, to some extent, tougher. It’s taught me how much the human spirit can bend to survive. The universe already taught me that lesson once, but I was too young to grasp it fully at the time. Now I could write a thesis on it.

  I’m a survivor. Plain and simple. Antonio Huntsman’s bullying doesn’t even nick the surface.

  It takes some doing, but I gather the courage to respond.

  “I can live without your money. And the region will manage without Quinta Rosa do Vale’s grapes. But if you want to burn the property to the ground, be my guest. I’m not going to stop you. To be clear, I’d rather see it in a mountain of ashes than with your family.”

  His closely groomed beard doesn’t hide the tic in his jaw.

  “Tough words from a woman confined to the four corners of this room. If I were you, I’d be pleading for mercy instead of trying to piss me off.”

  In the US, I’m a woman struggling to make ends meet, like so many others. There’s nothing unique about me. But here, I’m still a D’Sousa. And I’ll be damned before I beg a Huntsman for anything.

  “You’re going to do what you want to do,” I reply coolly. “You’re going to take what you want to take. Pleading for mercy doesn’t work with men like you.” I’ve seen it firsthand. “I’m not getting on my knees for the likes of you.”

  He crosses his arms over his broad chest and sits back. But his scowl doesn’t recede.

  “Work it out with the buyer. I’ll sign whatever you want,” I assure him, standing. “But I’ve got a plane to catch, so if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Sit down,” he growls. “We’re done when I say we’re done. Not one second sooner.”

  His voice is low, laced with simmering rage.

  I don’t sit. Not because I want to challenge him—although I do—but my better sense tells me he’s too a
ngry to push any further. I don’t sit because the stress and the jet lag are catching up with me. My body feels like it’s running seconds behind my brain.

  “You will sit in that chair by your own accord, or with my assistance, but you will do it.”

  He shifts his leg, and I collapse into the seat before he makes good on the threat.

  His father had no reservations about raising his hand to a woman. Children learn what they live. I highly doubt Antonio Huntsman is above manhandling me.

  “I don’t know what more you want from me.”

  I sound beaten, and in many ways, I am.

  “You’re in a better position to work it out with the buyer,” I explain, although he knows it. “You have more influence, more lawyers, more money. I have nothing but the property—that I’ve already agreed, in writing, to sell.”

  “The buyer? Iberian Trust?” He peers down at me with an expression that seems less hostile now.

  I nod.

  “That trust belongs to the Huntsman portfolio.”

  At first I don’t understand what he’s talking about. I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept well in weeks, and I didn’t sleep a wink on my overnight flight. My brain churns slowly as it tries to make sense of it. Then it dawns on me. It was here, in front of me, all along.

  I should have known. Moniz should have known.

  The question I have for him is within easy grasp. It’s right there, but when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. It’s as though my tongue has been immobilized, swaddled in layers of dusty cotton.

  It takes considerable effort, but eventually I manage to eke out the words without choking. “You’re the buyer?”

  Antonio shakes his head. “I’m not a buyer. The paperwork is a sham. Quinta Rosa do Vale already belongs to me.” He reaches down and takes a lock of my hair between his fingers. “As do you.”

  I jerk away from his touch, but his grip tightens until my scalp screams. At first the pain is welcome, cutting through a growing numbness. But soon the throb becomes too much, and I’m forced to sit still while he fingers my hair. Still, but not quiet.