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“Ah. My Portuguese rival.” He lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “What else did he say?”
“He said you’re a playboy who steals women’s hearts, along with their virtue. He said I should lock my door.”
As she looked up at him, white sunlight lit his black hair like a halo. He looked like a dark angel as his eyes became like endless pools of night.
“Moreira is right,” he said quietly.
Her mouth fell open. She hadn’t expected that reply in a million years. “He—he is?”
“Sí.” His sensual lips curved upward. “That’s exactly the kind of man I am.”
Annabelle’s heart pounded in her throat as she stared up into his darkly handsome face. She was dimly aware of the warm wind against her skin, loosening her chignon, blowing blond tendrils across her cheek. For an instant, she was lost in the swirling darkness of his gaze.
His eyes weren’t black as she’d first thought. They were a multitude of colors as infinite as Spanish earth, obsidian and sable, coffee and burnt sienna. Full of warmth. Full of life.
He reached his hand toward her cheek, his fingers a millimeter from her skin, so close she could almost feel the warmth of his fingertips.
Annabelle felt her heart slow, then stop. She was only dimly aware of her feet turning in the dusty courtyard, ready to bolt back to her truck, back to London.
Stefano frowned, his forehead furrowed as he stared down at her. Abruptly, he pulled away, dropping his hand.
“Yes, you are a beauty, Miss Wolfe,” he said almost casually. “No doubt many men find you attractive. But I …”
His voice trailed off.
Annabelle’s lips parted. “But you … don’t?”
Stefano gave her a half-lidded smile. “Let’s just say you’re not my usual type.”
His words should have come as a relief to her. Instead, they felt strangely like a rejection, a low dull hurt she hadn’t expected. She pressed her lips together. “Oh. Good.”
“So you see,” he said quietly, looking down at her, “you have no reason to be afraid of me.”
Annabelle looked up at him, horrified. Had he seen her fear? Had he known she’d been briefly tempted to run away—from Santo Castillo, from her assignment, from him—like some terrified virgin?
But that was exactly how he made her feel. Every inch the terrified virgin she was.
But her job and reputation were on the line. Straightening her shoulders, she tossed her head and lied, “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Bien.” He moved closer, his eyes locked with hers as he whispered, “I promise you have no need to lock your door.”
Feeling like a fool, she looked away, her cheeks hot with embarrassment. She’d been so sure that the notorious playboy would try to seduce her. But she wasn’t his type. She was apparently the one woman on earth who left him cold.
While Annabelle felt differently. She felt … warm. More than warm. She felt hot every time he looked at her. Just being near him made her skin flush pink and her core melt.
For the first time in Annabelle’s life, she felt a physical shock of awareness. Of attraction. Of. desire.
And he wasn’t even trying to seduce her.
Funny. Either Stefano Cortez didn’t realize the effect he had on women, or he didn’t care. Either way, no wonder he’d left a trail of broken hearts in his wake.
“You must let me help you.” Reaching around her, Stefano opened the back of her truck. He pulled out her suitcase and duffel bag, then looked at all the photography equipment behind it. “I’ll come back for the rest.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“It is to me.” He lifted her heavy suitcase on his shoulder, then casually added her duffel bag on top, as if the weight were nothing. “Follow me to your bedroom, señorita.”
Balancing both bags easily on his shoulder, he started walking toward the whitewashed house on the other side of the courtyard.
Follow me to your bedroom.
Staring after him, Annabelle shivered. She tugged her camera bag up higher on her shoulder, wishing—not for the first time—that she were truly the ice queen that everyone believed her to be. Because she traveled the world for her career, people thought she was fearless. The truth was that when she wasn’t behind her camera lens, she felt vulnerable. Afraid. Unable to trust anyone. And always so alone.
Annabelle took a deep breath. She could hear the leaves of the shadowy trees waving in the hot wind above her. Her assignment would be over in a week and she’d never have to see Stefano Cortez again. One week with him. How hard could it be?
She watched the way he moved, his long, leonine strides as he carried her bags toward the hacienda.
Stefano Cortez was the most dangerous playboy she’d ever met.
Thank heaven he was not attracted to her. God help her if he ever really tried to seduce her. She would not survive the onslaught of that sensual charm.
If he ever chose to take her …
Would she be able to resist? Or would his fire consume her, leaving only the charred ashes of her heart behind?
Her feet shuffled in the dust, ready to run, ready to jump back in the Land Rover, start the engine and not stop till she reached London.
Instead, Annabelle forced herself to be professional and do what she must. She slowly walked across the courtyard.
He doesn’t want me, she told herself. I’m perfectly safe.
But as Annabelle approached the doorway of the house where he waited for her, his dark eyes seared hers. And she shivered.
All the warnings about Stefano Cortez … were true.
CHAPTER TWO
SEDUCING ANNABELLE WOLFE was not going to be easy.
But then, Stefano Cortez thought in lazy amusement as he led her down the shadowy hallway of the hacienda, truly enjoyable experiences in life rarely were easy. It was the difficulty of a challenge that gave any goal its true flavor and delight.
“We have all tried,” Afonso Moreira had growled over the phone that morning. “We tried and failed. The woman is made of ice.”
“Then you have barely tried,” Stefano had replied scornfully.
“I used all my best tricks. Woman is immune. No man could seduce her. Not even you, Cortez.”
“I can seduce any woman,” Stefano had replied arrogantly. “You’ve said it yourself.”
The older man snorted a laugh. “Annabelle Wolfe is just what you need. The ice queen will set you down a peg or two. You will not win this time, Cortez. I’ll relish your failure.”
Now, Stefano glanced back at the beautiful English photographer as she followed him down the hall. Her eyes were lowered to the tile floor. She kept her distance as they walked, careful not to touch him.
No. Seducing her would not be easy. The famously elusive Miss Wolfe had evaded most men who’d tried to hunt her. Only a few had battled their way into her bed, most famously her old tutor and mentor. Patrick Arbuthnot, a famous photographer himself, had visited Gabriel’s charity event at Santo Castillo a few years ago, and he’d sung the praises of Annabelle’s passion and the bliss of her body, claiming he’d been the man who broke her.
The ice queen. Stefano had heard the epithet everywhere but he couldn’t understand it. From a distance, he supposed she was attractive in a cool, restrained sort of way. If he had to pick a color for Annabelle Wolfe it would be gray, gray like her suit, gray like afternoon shadows, like twilight in winter.
But from close up, he’d been astonished by the glory of her natural beauty. She wore makeup on her skin, but no lipstick or mascara. Strange. Her eyelashes were blond, as were her eyebrows. She was tall and slender and beautiful, and yet strangely the ultimate effect was to evade notice.
Icy? No. She was prickly and rude, but her body—ah. Stefano could read what her body was telling him, and it was far warmer. He’d seen the roses in her cheeks, the warmth of her creamy skin and tremble of her slender body when he’d reached toward her in the courtyard. When he even looked at her.
He wanted to break through her cool reserve. To find out how wild she could be once she lost that restraint. Once she clutched his naked body to her own with a gasp as heat and sweat and passion mingled between them.
He could hardly wait.
And … for the first time in a decade, he might actually have to wait. It would take time to woo this woman. Perhaps he might not have her in bed tonight. Perhaps not until tomorrow.
The challenge intrigued him. It offered a pleasurable distraction this week, his least favorite week of the year, when his land and home would be invaded—first by event planners, then wealthy tycoons and their fur-dripping wives. Stefano held his annual polo match and gala for a good cause, to help poverty-stricken local villages, and yet he hated it every year.
So he would think of Annabelle Wolfe instead. Looking at her willowy figure in the shadowy light of the hallway made his body tense in an entirely different way. It was delicious.
He paused, smiling down at her. “Would you care for a tour of the house?”
“A tour around the house?” She stared up at him, her brow furrowed. “While you’re carrying my luggage on your back?”
“So?”
She squinted at him doubtfully, then shook her head. “It’s your funeral. Sure. I would love a tour so I don’t get lost. Just make it short.”
Her words were abrasive, but Stefano could read her body. He saw the stiffness of her shoulders and tremble of her wrists. Beneath her cold demeanor, she was desperately trying to hide her attraction.
Testing her, Stefano placed one hand on the small of her back, as if to guide her.
He heard her intake of breath, the hiss through her teeth as she jumped away. She glared up at him with wide-set gray eyes.
He hid a smile. Maybe he wouldn’t have to wait until tomorrow, after all.
He looked back at her innocently, motioning down the hall. “This way, Miss Wolfe.”
She set her jaw, hitching her leather bag up her shoulder as she growled, “You’re the tour guide. You go first.”
She clearly didn’t want him to touch her, not even briefly, not even over multiple layers of her buttoned-up, businesslike clothing. Hostia, the woman was aware of him. And she was skittish, in spite of her defiant words.
He’d never seen a woman who so badly needed to be kissed. With her hair in a tight blond chignon, she had the cool poise of Grace Kelly, and the same hint of simmering fire beneath the surface.
Stefano wanted her. Not just for the novelty of a challenge. He wanted her for pure pleasure.
But Afonso Moreira had been right. This was not a woman who would easily be tamed. Her guard was up far too high. If Stefano wooed her too strongly, she would flee. He’d seen that in the courtyard. So to calm her fears, he’d implied he did not want her, and allowed her to draw her own conclusions.
Let’s just say you’re not my usual type. It wasn’t even a lie. His usual type was beautiful, willing and uncomplicated. A pretty tourist passing through the nearest village. A French socialite or New York debutante he would see once a year, or better yet, never again.
Annabelle Wolfe was unique. Special. And he would have her.
Stefano walked ahead in the hallway, listening to the clack-clack of her two-inch heels on the tile floor behind him.
“This is the main salon,” he pointed out as they passed the wide arched doorway. They continued down the hall past an old suit of armor, gleaming in the dull light. “Through that door is the library. And that hallway there leads to the kitchen.”
“This place is like a maze.” Her voice was cool, almost sardonic. “Will I need a map?”
He slowed, walking beside her. “Somehow I doubt that. You spend your life traveling the world, do you not? From Zanzibar to the Yukon, I’ve heard.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you have a home?”
“London.” Her voice was clipped, as if reluctant to give even the smallest tidbit of personal information.
“And yet are you ever there? That’s hardly a home.”
“The world is my home,” she bit out.
“I do not envy your life,” he said softly.
She lifted her chin, and her gray eyes glittered like silver shards in snow.
“For the past few months,” she said, “I’ve visited horse ranches all over Europe. I’m curious to see how your ranch can possibly be the best. Because so far I can’t see it.”
He knew she was baiting him, but he still felt annoyed in spite of himself. It was one thing to criticize him, something else entirely to insult his horses or his home. “You can’t?”
She shrugged. “It’s a beautiful place …”
“But?” he demanded.
Her eyes met his. “You charge double for your horses as compared to other breeders, and you often refuse to sell to customers for no reason. You make your buyers jump through ridiculous hoops.”
“My horses are precious and rare. The only men who should own them are those who deserve to win races. It is not just a question of money.”
“And yet you charge a vast fortune.” She tilted her head and said doubtfully, “Maybe your horses are worth it …”
“Or?” he said sharply.
“Or maybe … you’re just a brilliant huckster who understands how to trick rich fools out of their money.”
He stared down at her. She gave him a tranquil smile, as if to say, I have more armor than you can possibly comprehend.
His whole body tightened painfully. His interest in bedding her now went beyond desire for her cool beauty to the passion for the hunt. For the thrill of victory. He wanted to best her. He wanted to hear her cry out his name in the breathless sensual gasp of need.
He wanted her more than he’d wanted anything for a long, long time.
