by Jennie Lucas
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 at 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.
Annabelle sucked in her breath as Stefano cupped her face with his large hands. The feel of his palms, rough and calloused against her soft skin, caused a tremble down her body.
“All other women fade into shadow beside you,” he said. His dark eyes seared her. “I want you, Annabelle. And I intend to have you. I will seduce you slowly, bit by bit, until you cannot resist me. Until you are mine. In my bed. At my pleasure.”
Her heart was hammering in her throat. Swallowing, she lifted her chin. “Many men have tried, Stefano—tried and failed.”
“But I will not.” His fingertips brushed her skin and it felt like the hot breeze of summer after a long winter. His thumb stroked her sensitive lower lip, and her whole body shuddered with repressed need.
Stefano lowered his head until it was inches from hers, and she closed her eyes, even as her body trembled for flight.
“Soon I will show you, querida,” he whispered huskily against her skin, his breath warm against her hair. “Soon, I will show you the depths of the fire inside you.”
She felt his hands on her skin, felt his powerful body against hers, and her knees went weak. She sagged in his arms as warmth and the exquisite anguish of desire flooded her body.
She could not resist … could not….
Then one of Stefano’s fingers brushed lightly over her raised scar. The effect was electric. She heard the harsh echo of a man’s voice.
You’re ugly beneath that make-up, Annabelle. A hideous monster. No wonder your mother overdosed on drugs when you were a baby. No wonder your father tried to kill you.
With a choked gasp, Annabelle ripped away from him.
“Never,” she spat out. Her eyes glittered at him in the moonlight. “I don’t care how charming or sexy or powerful you are. I’m no man’s one-night stand.” She lifted her chin.
“You’ll never have me, Stefano. Never.”
Chapter Four
Stefano sat up straight in his bed.
For a few seconds, he stared across his empty bedroom, looking at the slanted moonlight on the wall. It was still the middle of the night. Had he heard a noise? Or just imagined it?
He held still for a minute, listening; but when he heard only silence, he lay back against his pillow with a disgruntled sigh.
I’m no man’s one-night stand.
After Annabelle had stomped off the terrace last night, leaving him standing there alone, Stefano had been shocked. He’d never been refused by a woman before—and in such a way!
You’ll never have me, Stefano.
Why was he failing? What had he done wrong? He’d been so close to taking her in his arms and kissing her senseless. He’d thought he read her body’s signals correctly. He’d seen the flush of desire on her skin and the deep yearning of her eyes in the moonlight. Cupping her face in his hands, touching her soft skin, he’d felt her tremble. Even her words had confirmed what he’d already known from her body: she thought he was charming. Sexy.
Powerful. In short, she’d been putty in his hands.
Then she’d run away from him, practically sprinting in those two-inch heels.
Scowling, Stefano tried to straighten the cotton sheets twisted around his feet. He generally rose early in the morning, taking the rhythm of sunrise and sunset for his work on the ranch. He only made exceptions when he had been up all night making love. But the exception had not been required.
Never.
Irritated by how much her words bothered him, Stefano plumped his pillow, turned on his side and tried to get comfortable. After her rude rejection, he’d gone to bed early, but it had taken him a long time to fall asleep. Now … he looked at his clock—2:00 a.m. And his mind was already filled with the way she’d mercilessly crushed his pride. How she’d exposed his arrogance for what it was—unfounded.
He set his jaw. She was even infiltrating his dreams. He’d awoken when he imagined he’d heard her scream. Clearly it was only his own injured pride that was so shocked by her rejection that—
Then he heard it again.
Annabelle was screaming.
He leaped to his feet and raced barefoot down the hall in only his boxer briefs, his feet slapping against the cool tile floor. Cold fear gripped his heart as he pushed open her door and ran across the darkened room to the four-poster bed.
He found Annabelle asleep, her eyes squeezed shut, as she twisted and turned on the mattress. Her fingers clutched the white blankets, her body tense. In the shadowy darkness of the room as she gave a sudden heartbreaking cry.
“Annabelle,” he said urgently. Sitting on the bed beside her, he gripped her shoulders.
“Annabelle! Wake up!”
With a gasp, she opened her eyes. Her gaze was wide, terrified. Then she saw him and burst into tears. Not quiet, ladylike tears, either, but great gulping sobs.
Stefano felt his throat go tight. He pulled her into his arms.
“Shh,” he whispered, stroking her hair, comforting her like a crying child. “You had a bad dream, but it’s over. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
He repeated those words over and over as she clutched him like a life preserver that would save her from drowning in the cold ocean.
She held him tight, weeping against his bare shoulder.
As Stefano held her, he looked down at her in the dim shadows, unable to clearly see her face pressed against his chest. “What did you dream?” he asked in a low voice. “What happened?”
She clutched him closer, her fingers pressing against the bare skin of his back. When she spoke, her voice was sodden and muffled. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Seeking to comfort her, he reached for the small light on the nightstand. But her arm whipped around him, quick as a flash to turn it off.
“No light,” she choked out.
No light? He frowned, looking down at her head. “I only want to chase away your fears. Whatever dark terrors filled your night, queri da,” he whispered, stroking her soft hair,
“they cannot hurt you now. Not while I am here.”
He felt her tremble. “Thank you,” she whispered almost too softly to hear.
He held her for a long time; he did not even know how long. As the thin slant of moonlight slowly moved across the far wall, she gradually relaxed in his arms
. Her breathing became steady and even. But still she held him tight, like a desperate child.
He could hardly believe this was the same woman who’d so coldly pushed him away just hours before. Where were all her vaunted defenses? Where were her armored walls?
He breathed the scent of her hair. She smelled like apples and sunshine with a hint of soap. And she felt even better, soft and womanly and warm. She was wearing only a button-down pajama top of thin cotton and—he groaned when he felt the brush of her bare thigh against his—no pajama pants.
They were both half-naked. Holding each other on her bed. In the dark.
His body tightened with need.
No! Stefano set his jaw. He’d come to comfort her, to make sure she was safe, not to seduce her when she was defenseless. Not to take advantage of her weakness like a coward!
He took a deep breath.
“You are safe now, querida.” He kissed her temple softly, over the sweaty tendrils of her hair. He started to push away. “I will leave you now, to your sleep …”
“No!” The cry seemed to come from her heart as her hands pulled him back to her. Her lovely, delicate hands. He could feel the stroke of her fingertips against his naked skin, against his back and hip, pulling him against her on the bed. Where he wanted to be. He nearly groaned.
“What are you asking of me?”
For a moment, she did not answer. Then she said in a low voice, “I want you to stay with me while I sleep. Please … won’t you?”
He wanted to tell her no. He wanted to leave her and return to his bed, far away from the temptation she offered. Madre de Dios, he was only a man.
But her request had been timid, almost fearful, as if she were already bracing herself for his inevitable refusal. As if she expected some cutting reply, and yet her need was so great she’d had no choice but to ask, anyway.
How was it possible that such a beautiful woman, an international star of photography, a wealthy girl from an aristocratic family, could sound so timorous and pitiable when asking for the merest human kindness?
Stefano exhaled. Swallowing, he put his head down on her pillow. Stretching out his long, lean body, he pulled her down beside him. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his chest, and tried to ignore the feel of her soft, plump breasts beneath his arms. He closed his eyes, willing himself not to notice the feel of her sweetly curved backside pressing back against his groin, with only thin cotton fabric separating them. He took a deep breath.