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Narrowing his eyes, he evenly returned her smile. “I will be delighted to show you why we’re the best, Miss Wolfe,” he said. “I will leave you in no doubt.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously at his tone. He kept his expression bland, then turned away.
“Come.”
Stefano walked through the wide, dimly lit hallway. As she followed him, he matched his pace to hers. If she increased her speed, so did he. If she slowed down, he did the same. He gave her brief touches, crowding her space—innocently, of course, and always in the context of pointing out various beautiful items in the house, some of them antiques of great value. He guided her past an old Spanish painting of a woman..
“Is that a Goya?” she demanded breathlessly.
“Yes, I believe it is,” he said.
Then he led her into a large room with high ceilings of stucco and slatted wood. “This is the dining hall.” He motioned toward the long wooden table surrounded by chairs. “I eat here with the stablehands. Mrs. Gutierrez, the housekeeper, does not care for our rough manners and so often keeps to her own room. But I don’t stand on ceremony. We are equals.”
Annabelle’s pink lips curved. “Except for the fact that you own the place.”
He gave a sudden sharp grin. “Exactamente.”
They smiled at each other for a moment before Annabelle’s smile fell. Turning away, she gestured toward a faded family coat of arms painted on the high whitewashed stucco wall. “That’s your family crest, I suppose.”
“Mine?” He snorted a laugh. “No. My parents were servants here when this pazo belonged to an aristocratic family. But the family’s younger generation disliked living here and moved to a flashy palacio in Madrid. This house was abandoned. I bought it at a bargain price, using earnings from my brief and glorious show-jumping career.”
She gave him a sideways glance at his sardonic use of brief and glorious. “I heard about that.”
“Did you?” he said coolly.
“All the other ranch owners couldn’t wait to tell me how when you were nineteen, you stopped your horse before a jump in the middle of the London International Equestrian Show. You would have won the show-jumping prize. Instead, you dropped out of the event and never competed professionally again. No one could tell me why. Care to share?”
“Maybe some other time,” he said, never intending to do so. He turned toward the coat of arms in faded paint on the wall. “When I remodeled the house, I left that painting on the wall because it amused my mother.”
“That’s sweet. Are you close to your parents?”
“I was. They died. My mother only lived here a year.”
She looked up at him. Her gray eyes were sympathetic and even seemed to gleam with tears. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “My own mother died when I was just two.”
“I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. “But your father? Is he alive still?”
She averted her face. Her voice was strangely muffled as she asked, “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
She’d deliberately changed the subject. He wondered about it but just said, “I’m an only child.”
“I have seven brothers,” she said. “But I rarely see them.”
He looked at her, trying to see her face.
“Your house is lovely,” she said softly, refusing to meet his gaze. “But I’ve seen enough. Please take me to my room now.”
Without waiting for his reply, she turned on her heel and left the dining hall.
Stefano followed her, watching Annabelle as she walked. She was graceful, like a dancer. She was quiet, he thought, but not hard or cold as people called her—at least, not when she wasn’t actively trying to push back his advances. She was gentle. Wistful. Even sad.
Why did no one know this? Why had no one ever seen it in her?
Annabelle’s steps floundered as she paused at the base of the stairs. He saw the pink color in her pale cheeks. “I don’t know where we’re going. You need to lead.”
“Yes,” he said soothingly. Leading was what he did best. Going up on the sweeping staircase—noting the way she shrank back when he passed her—he led her to the second floor.
He’d remodeled the house when he bought it, but he’d changed very little of the look. He liked the solid old furniture, the traditional architecture. He’d added modern wiring and wireless internet, replacing the windows and appliances to make them more environmentally sound. But he preferred the house as it was. It was not just home—it was a symbol of what mattered and what did not.
His father had been a lowly stable keeper, and now the stables belonged to Stefano. His mother had once been a maid here, and now he possessed every stick of furniture.
His parents had been proud of their son’s success. They’d loved him. For one year, before his mother had died, they’d been happy here. If only Stefano had known sooner about her illness …
He froze the thought cold, and stopped abruptly in front of a door. “This is your room, Miss Wolfe.”
Annabelle stared at him with eyes the swirling gray of storm clouds. For a moment, she frowned up at him, as if bewildered by his sudden change in mood. Then she walked past him.
It was the best guest bedroom in the hacienda, the largest except for his own. He entered the doorway and relaxed at the comfort all around him. The room was bathed in beams of warm sunlight from the windows. The large bed had a lathed wooden frame, and a handwoven rug covered the clay tile floor. In a separate sitting area, an old desk held framed vintage photos of flowers, and an overstuffed sofa overlooked a small fireplace.
He set down her suitcase and duffel. “Will this do?”
She blinked, setting down her camera bag as she looked slowly around her. “It’s lovely.” She glanced at the corner by the fireplace. “I can store the rest of my photography equipment there.”
“Bien.” He watched her face, waiting for the moment when she would see the magnificent view out the windows. He wasn’t disappointed.
Annabelle’s eyes widened. Her full pink lips parted in astonishment as she walked across the bedroom and pushed open the French doors.
Smiling, he followed her onto the veranda. Like her, he saw horses crossing the golden fields beneath the verdant sharp mountains and blue sky. As always, his heart rose in his throat at the vision of his land.
“It’s so beautiful,” Annabelle whispered, leaning on the railing and staring out at the vast view. “I’ve never seen anything so lovely.”
Stefano exhaled. He hadn’t realized until then how much her earlier words about the ranch had wounded him. But of course she hadn’t meant them, not truly. How could anyone not see the miraculous beauty of his home?
He leaned on the railing beside her. “Every morning I wake,” he said softly, “it’s like waking up in heaven. I can hardly believe Santo Castillo is mine.”
“No wonder you rarely leave here.” She threw him a sideways glance. “Your women must love it.”
“Women?”
“Your queue of lovers.”
“I don’t bring any women here. If I wish to, as you say, take a lover, I go to the village tavern and rent a room for the night.” Leaning his elbows against the railing, he looked up at the wide blue sky. “I do not allow strangers here.”
“Except for this Saturday.”
He stared at her blankly.
“Your polo match. The charity gala,” she said with exaggerated patience. “The most exclusive event of the horse-racing world.” She shook her head with a laugh. “Did you already forget?”
He inhaled.
“Yes,” he said flatly. “I did.”
For a few happy moments, he’d forgotten his land would soon be overrun by service trucks and hired staff and white tents, by flashy cars and the sharp stiletto heels of skinny women in slinky dresses, by the flashy horse trailers of rich men who wouldn’t know a good horse from an old ass.
Annabelle blinked, staring at him. “You don’t like hosting the charity event?”
“No,” he said, looking down. “I dread it every year.”
“So why do it?”
He leaned back from her. “Perhaps I do it for publicity. Perhaps that is why my ranch is so exclusive,” he said coldly. “To get good press, to charge higher prices for my horses.”
“If you wanted more press, you would do the celebrity circuit in New York and London, you would do the horse-racing circuit in Kentucky and Dubai,” she observed. “But you stay here. You rarely even give interviews. That’s hardly the way to get press coverage.”
He looked at her. “Then perhaps I do it because I’m just a brilliant huckster who understands how to trick rich fools out of their money.”
An awkward pause fell between them. They were side by side, inches apart, leaning over the railing on the veranda.
“Maybe,” she said doubtfully. He heard her hesitate, then she added quietly, “Although I heard that you donated your fee for participating in this cover story to your charitable foundation. Most men would brag about something like that. You almost go out of your way to avoid credit.”
He stiffened. “So?”
“So,” she said quietly, “are you some kind of saint, Mr. Cortez?” Snorting a laugh, he looked at her. “A saint?” He gave her a sensual, heavy-lidded stare. “You know very well that I am not.”
She frowned at him. “I’m just trying to understand. For the cover story. Who are you, Mr. Cortez? Who are you really?”
He stared down at her for a long moment, then left the railing. “I will go get the rest of your equipment while you unpack.”
Abruptly, he opened the French doors and went back inside. But to his surprise, she followed.
“I’m coming with you to get the equipment,” she said, lifting her chin.
He shook his head. “You are my guest. And it is silly how you fight me every time I try to do you the smallest kindness.”
“I’m not your guest.” She glared at him. “And you don’t know anything about my equipment. You might break it.”
“I won’t,” he said indignantly.
“I know you won’t, because I’m coming with you.”
Her cool gray eyes challenged him. Defied him. Tempted him.
In the cool shadows of her bedroom, standing so close in front of the bed, Stefano looked down at her. He heard the sound of her breath, saw the pink flush of her pale skin. They were so close. The temperature between them was already hot and rising.
He had the sudden impulse to push her back against her bed, to run his fingers through her lustrous blond hair and pull it down from its tight chignon. He wanted to rip off her prim suit and see her lingerie beneath, to kiss and lick and suckle her skin.
He wanted to show her how unlike a saint he really was.
He’d already taken a step toward her before he stopped. Dios mío. This was not his style! He was known for his seduction—not for throwing women down on a bed like a rough brute!
His hands tightened.
The more she pushed him away, the more he wanted her. The harder he would pursue her. The more absolute became his need to possess her.
He would see those cool gray eyes turn bewildered with sensual need. She would press her lips against his skin and he would hear her soft sigh. First, her surrender. Then, her release.
She would be completely his.
But not like this. Not like a barbarian. He would take her like a civilized man—by stealth. By seduction.
This time it was his own rough breathing he heard in his ears as he turned away from her. “Unpack your suitcase,” he ordered. “I often carry equipment far heavier than yours.”
“Wait,” she bit out.
He stopped halfway to the door. “Sí?”
“I forgot to mention one condition of my work. One I insist upon with every assignment.”
He waited, folding his arms with a guarded expression.
She gave him that small, tight smile he was starting to recognize came before an attack. “You will agree not to interfere with my work. I must be allowed to speak to anyone at Santo Castillo, and photograph anything I like.”
Stefano didn’t like the sound of that. He’d had one or two reporters write about him over the past decade, and though he’d always managed to gloss over questions he didn’t wish to answer, he despised the thought of having his privacy invaded. He’d bargained only on having a few photos of his land taken in exchange for the magazine’s generous payment that local villages so sorely needed. Bad enough that he already had to dread the charity event invasion on Saturday. He would remain in control of all photographs of his home. Always.
He gave Annabelle a gracious smile, holding out his hands in a conciliatory gesture.
“We will compromise,” he said, meaning he would win. “I’ll just need the last word on all photographs, and final approval before you send anything to the magazine.”
Annabelle’s brow furrowed in disbelief as she snapped her camera bag shut. “Give you control over my work? Absolutely not.”
Watching her from beneath hooded eyes, he shrugged with a practiced carelessness. “Then perhaps we should tell the magazine to cancel the cover story. Perhaps you should leave now.”
“Agreed.” To his shock, she picked up her suitcase and lifted her camera bag back onto her shoulder. “I’ll drive back to London and explain to Equestrian that you’ll be returning their fee. Grab my duffel, will you?”
Carrying her suitcase and camera bag, she headed for the door in those sturdy beige shoes.
Stefano cursed softly under his breath. A woman who not only electrified his body, who not only shied away from his pursuit, she called him on a bluff?
Who was this woman?
“Wait,” he said harshly. She stopped, then turned around in the shadowy doorway. She waited, arms folded. He could not remember the last time he’d had to entice a woman, to lure her, to play the game, using all the skills of his body and mind to tame her. He could not remember the last time a woman had defied him—beaten him—and it made him want her all the more. He stalked toward her.
“Vale. You keep the final word,” he said, then added in a low voice, “But I ask you to consider the feelings of the younger members of my staff and villagers. Do not publish anything that will leave them feeling exposed or embarrassed.”
Annabelle’s eyes widened. For a moment she seemed to go pale as if in memory.
Then, throwing her head back, she glared at him. “Do I look like a celebrity gossip reporter to you?”
