“It’s delicious,” she blurted out after the first bite of chicken.
“Gracias,” Stefano said as he refilled her nearly empty wineglass with red Rioja wine. He took a sip of his own wine and Annabelle realized he’d barely had any yet, while she was apparently on her second glass. She would need to slow down. No more Dutch courage, she ordered herself, and she dug into her empanada with gusto. He smiled, watching her with satisfaction.
She hesitated, suddenly self-conscious, but the baked Spanish pastry filled with fish and tomato was so flavorful and delicious she couldn’t stop herself from taking another big bite.
“I’m probably making a pig of myself,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. “But it’s so good.”
His lips curved with approval. “On the contrary. I like a woman with appetite.”
Nervously, she wiped her mouth with a napkin and washed down the last bit of empanada with a bit more wine. “You’re not eating?”
“I am,” he said, taking a bite of chorizo. “I just keep getting distracted.”
“By me?”
His dark eyes gleamed. “Sí.”
Her cheeks went hot as she put down her fork. He’s not flirting, she told herself fiercely. He’s probably just never seen a woman eat properly before. He’s used to dating actresses and stick-figure models. Annabelle gulped another long drink of wine, then picked up her fork again. She tried everything on her plate. When she looked up, she saw Stefano refilling her wine again. She hadn’t even realized her glass was getting low.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” she demanded with a laugh, only half joking.
“Would it be difficult?”
No. She felt half-drunk already just being near him. But she lifted her chin.
“I can handle my liquor,” she said, although the truth was she handled liquor mainly by staying away from it. She was famous for always sipping mineral water. She’d been teased for it, but having a drunkard for a father and drug addict for a mother tended to make a person more cautious.
And by the increasing dizziness in Annabelle’s brain she was drinking too much wine, too fast. Candlelight flickered against the high stucco walls of the dining hall as she looked at him. She suddenly realized her body had shifted in the chair. Instead of leaning away, she was now leaning forward, almost touching him. He could move a few inches and touch her.
Her attempt to calm her nerves with wine wasn’t working.
“You’re different than people say,” Stefano said in a low voice. His dark eyes caressed her face.
Annabelle stiffened, hating the thought of being the subject of gossip. She knew people called her an ice queen. People could be so vicious, even cruel, not caring whom they hurt in their own amusement. “I have no interest in hearing what people say about me.”
He shook his head, smiling.
“Yet another way,” he murmured, “in which you are different from any woman I’ve met.”
“Because I don’t swoon at your feet?”
Stefano gave that same low, sensual laugh.
“Sí,” he said with visible amusement. “Most women do swoon, believe it or not. But it’s more than that.”
As he looked at her, searing her with his intense gaze, she felt her skin flush with heat and her body start to melt. Please, don’t let me swoon, she prayed. Don’t let me make an utter fool of myself.
Setting her wineglass down, she sat back in her chair. “You said you wished to talk about work. Let’s talk about that.”
“Is work really all you care about?” “Yes.”
“I can hardly believe such a beautiful woman would say such a thing,” he said softly.
Was he flirting with her? Was he?
She started to reach for her wine, then caught herself and angrily pushed it away.
Stupid wine!
Stupid candlelight!
Stupid handsome man who was like a dark prince out of a sensual dream!
“My work is all that matters,” she bit out forcefully. “It is all I care about.”
He stared at her, his brow furrowed.
“That’s wrong,” he said. “You are a young, desirable woman. Enjoy your work, yes. But there’s so much more to life.”
“Not for me,” she said, lifting her chin.
“Especially for you. I admire your work a great deal, Annabelle. You have an eye like no other photographer today. So take my advice or leave it, as you choose.” He sat back in his chair casually, breaking the spell. “But you might consider taking pictures of the yearlings on the upper slope …”
As they discussed various aspects of the ranch, he gave her suggestions about people and animals and the best angles of his ranch’s rugged landscape. They finished their dinner, but just as Annabelle started to relax into a business discussion, he suddenly asked with gleaming eyes, “So have you decided about me yet?”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you decided if I am a brilliant huckster or a saint?”
She flushed, then met his gaze steadily. “I haven’t decided yet. Maybe neither. Maybe just a man.”
He leaned toward her.
“I want you to know me,” he said softly. “All of me.”
She felt hot beneath his gaze, then he leaned back again in his chair. “I set the price of my horses high for a reason. No one buys them who is not prepared to treat them like gold.”
She snorted. “Because they are just as expensive, pound for pound.”
“You think I am greedy?”
“No. I think you are arrogant and proud.”
His lips curved as he said softly, “What else do you think you know about me?”
Annabelle swallowed. She already knew too much. She knew he was impossibly beautiful, like a dark angel, and every time she was around him her body felt tight with her heart in her throat. She knew he made her feel the warmth of sunlight and a soft sultry breeze of awareness every time he was near. “I think you’re a playboy who toys with women’s hearts.”
Frowning, he leaned forward.
“I do not toy with anyone’s heart,” he said sharply. “Women who come to my bed know it will be for a short time. I am always clear. If a woman deceives herself into believing our affair will last, she has only herself to blame.”
Annabelle sucked in her breath. “So you actually admit you’re a womanizer.”
Stefano’s gaze traced slowly over her in the candlelight. Prickles of heat spread across her skin beneath her linen suit. “Does it bother you?”
“Morally, you mean?” Setting her jaw, she shook her head. “No. Why would it?”
“It frightens you.”
“Frightens?” She forced out a laugh, and then told the biggest lie of all. “I’m not the least bit frightened of you.”
“But you are.” His dark eyes glimmered. “I can see that. What I don’t quite understand is why.”
“Don’t think you know me. We just met,” she bit out. “You don’t know anything about me!”
He swirled his goblet, making the red wine gleam like rubies in the candlelight. “I’ve already learned a great deal by watching you.” Tilting his head, he observed her. “I know, for instance, that you always behave rudely when someone’s getting too close.”
“Don’t be idiotic!”
Stefano’s black eyes burned through her.
“Exactly.”
Annabelle’s cheeks went hot.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she mumbled, looking away.
He leaned his elbow against the dining table, looking at her in the candlelight. “Why are you so defensive? What have men tried with you?”
She stared at him, then said stiffly, “I don’t see how that’s any interest of yours.”
“Oh, come on,” he said with a cajoling smile. “Just this morning, Afonso Moreira was complaining to me on the phone, saying you were quite impossible to seduce. An ice queen, I think his words were.”
“Moreira is a fool,” she retorted. “His idea of
seduction was to make smacking sounds with his lips every time I passed him in the hallway. When I ignored him, he slapped my backside.”
Stefano’s eyes widened. “What did you do? Slap his cheek?”
“I had no need to resort to violence,” she said uncomfortably. “I simply let him know that his attentions were not appreciated.”
His smile spread into a grin that made his eyes twinkle. “Yes, I bet you did,” he said. “I can only imagine. He’s probably still frozen solid in a chunk of ice from your response.”
Annabelle felt a lump in her throat at the criticism. “You think I’m cold and horrible, then?”
“To the contrary, señorita.” His dark eyes met hers. “I think you’re magnificent.”
Her breath caught in her throat. She looked at the floor. “So what has worked with you?” she mumbled. “With women?”
He took another sip of wine, then glanced at her with a playboy’s careless smile. “Usually this is what works. Flirting, asking questions, drinking wine. Why?” His smile spread to a grin. “Is my charm starting to get to you?”
She felt her cheeks grow hot. “That’s not what I meant. I know you think no woman can resist you. But what about you? Has any woman ever gotten under your skin?”
“Oh.” The smile on his face faded. He lifted a dark eyebrow, then looked toward the faded paint of the crest of arms on the far wall. “Did you know, as a boy, I used to steal horses from this estate?”
Was he changing the subject? Frowning, she gave an incredulous laugh. “Really? I can’t believe it.”
“All right, not steal,” he said. “Borrow. I felt sorry for the horses because the owners ignored them. I took them for exercise when my father wasn’t looking. Then I was caught riding a stallion bareback by one of the guests—the coach of a famous show-jumping team. Instead of denouncing me to the owner, he invited me to join his team. I said no. I was only eighteen and didn’t want to leave my family. Until …” His lips turned downward. “Until the coach’s beautiful blond daughter asked me in a way I couldn’t resist.”
A dull ache filled Annabelle like a thud. Why? She couldn’t be jealous! What did she care about some blond girl who’d once had power over Stefano? She didn’t! “So what happened?”
Again that shrug. “Last I heard, she married a wealthy man in Mexico City. But I cared for her, once. When I was too young to know better. Until I discovered the kind of woman she really was.”
“What kind?”
“The wrong kind.” He looked at her. “Is that what you wanted to know?”
She licked her lips. “You speak of the coach and his daughter so scornfully. But … they took you from poverty, didn’t they? They gave you your start?”
“In a way,” he said grudgingly. “I used money from my year of show-jumping to buy this ranch sixteen years ago.”
She shook her head, furrowing her brow. “Then I don’t understand why you stopped your horse at the equestrian show. Why turn on the people who’d helped you?”
He looked away. “I had my reasons.”
“And—”
“I answered your question,” he said. “Now it’s your turn.”
“What do you want to know?” she said hesitantly.
“Why are you so alone?”
She stared at him in shock, her mouth open.
“You came here without an assistant,” he continued silkily. “I’d imagined most photographers of your caliber would travel with an entourage.”
Ah. So that was what he’d meant. For a moment she’d thought he’d meant … that he’d somehow seen.
The loneliness of her entire adult life.
Annabelle’s lips turned down. “My assistant had a baby last week. She’s with her husband in Cornwall. Until I replace her,” she said in a small voice, “I’m on my own.”
“Ah. Que lástima” He held out his arms expansively. “But at least you are not the one to be tied down, sí? No dilapidated cottage garden for you to weed, no tiny babies crying and keeping you up all night. No husband to cook for every day, ironing his shirts and washing his socks. Sí,” he said approvingly. “An artist like yourself must always have solitude and freedom.” He lifted his goblet, looking down at her. “To freedom.”
Her throat hurt as she lifted her wineglass.
“To freedom.”
They clinked glasses, and he drank deeply. Annabelle took a tiny sip, but the wine now tasted sour. She’d had freedom, yes. For many, many years. Practically all her life.
What was the difference between freedom and emptiness? What was solitude, but loneliness?
Annabelle put down the glass, feeling suddenly weary. She placed her elbows on the long wooden table, leaning her forehead against her hands as she rubbed her eyes with her fingertips.
“Are you not feeling well?” he asked with concern.
“I think I’ve had too much wine,” she said in a low voice.
“I will escort you to your bedroom.”
Back to her bedroom? She looked up sharply. “No!”
He stared at her, his brow furrowed.
She exhaled. “What I mean is … I’m not ready for bed. I just need some fresh air.”
“Of course.” Tossing his linen napkin on the table, he rose gracefully to his feet and held out his arm. “Let me take you outside.”
Annabelle stared at the muscled, bare forearm revealed by the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. She was afraid to touch him again, afraid of the reaction she knew it would cause. She placed her fingers as lightly as possible on his arm.
As her fingertips felt the rough dark hair of his warm skin, she felt the same sizzle as before. She could feel the strength and grace of his body as he walked beside her. She trembled, looking up at him through her lashes.
The sprawling house was quiet and dark as he led her down the hallway. Apparently, the stablehands and housekeeper had all gone to bed. The only sound Annabelle heard was the echo of their footsteps.
They were alone.
She nervously glanced up at him through her lashes. It took a great deal of willpower, all her pride, not to turn and run away. She thought again of her truck parked in the garage. She could be back in London in seventeen hours, less if she pushed hard on the gas pedal.
As soon as they were out on the terrace, she dropped his arm, exhaling in relief. Then she blinked in amazement at the view of the wide-open night sky and moon-drenched fields beneath.
She felt the cool air against her skin and took a deep, cleansing breath.
Then Stefano spoke from the darkness beside her.
“So Moreira failed to seduce you,” he said in a low voice. He looked at her. “How would a man succeed?”
Silvery moonlight frosted his hard-edged cheekbones, the hard masculine edge of his jawline. She couldn’t look away from the sensual shape of his mouth, illuminated in soft silver light.
“Annabelle,” he said softly, and her name on his lips was like music.
With an intake of breath, she stumbled back from him, grabbing a stone column on the terrace for support. He grabbed her upper arm. She felt his warmth through the linen of her jacket sleeve and shivered.
“How could a man seduce you?” His voice was low, but his eyes were fierce.
Annabelle took a deep breath.
Like this, she thought. Everything about him seduced her. Candlelight and conversation. The comfort and beauty of his home. The strength of his body. The power of his will. The intensity of his dark eyes.
But she couldn’t tell him that. He was probably just making small talk. How great a fool would she be to tell him she was already falling for his playboy charm? He didn’t need another gullible female believing the lying promises of his gaze.
“I told you.” She looked away. In the distance, she saw the dark shadows of the craggy hills against the pale violet of the moonlit horizon. “I am impossible to seduce.”
He moved closer. “I don’t believe you.”
She pulled away, looking a
t him with narrowed eyes.
“Why do you care?” she said. “You have enough women queuing up for your bed. You certainly don’t need one more falling at your feet.”
Silence fell, the only sound the distant call of night birds. He looked down at her, his body absolutely still, so close and yet not touching her.
“Ah,” he said quietly, “but you’re the woman I want.”
He wanted her?
With a sharp intake of breath, Annabelle looked up. He couldn’t have just said what she thought he said! She felt the soft night breeze against her skin. Saw a wispy cloud pass in front of the full white moon above. She licked her suddenly dry lips and tried to contain the tremble of her body from within.
“But you said … you said I’m not your type,” she stammered.
“You’re not.”
“Then—”
“You’re not a type,” he cut in. “You’re different than any woman I’ve met before. Beautiful, independent, talented, restrained. I’ve had many lovers. But never a woman like you.”
Shaking, Annabelle stared up at him, feeling hot and cold all over. Her only armor against her own traitorous body’s desire had been her belief that Stefano didn’t want her. Hearing he did want her was the spark. It caused the dry timber of her lonely heart to burst into fire.
She tried to fight it. Crossing her arms, she turned away. “Why?” she said bitterly. “So you can brag about your conquest of the ice queen to your friends?”
He sucked in his breath. “Who made you like this?”
She lifted her chin. “Like what?”
He set his jaw. “I do not brag. I have no need to. And I do not see why you would even have such a fear. I’ve only ever heard one man boast about you. The rest of your lovers have been remarkably discreet. Even of such a glorious conquest as you.”
The rest of my lovers? Annabelle thought over the lump in her throat. There were no rest. There was not even one, just Patrick, a spurned would-be lover, the former mentor whom she’d thought to be her trusted friend. Until the day he’d tried to drag her into bed, and when she’d refused, he’d struck back at her in the lowest way he could.
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