Читать книгу The Forgotten Daughter - Дженни Лукас, Jennie Lucas - Страница 7

ANNABELLE HADN’T WANTED to shake his hand. No way. But he’d stood there with his outstretched and left her no choice.

Touching Stefano’s hand had been like touching fire.

Annabelle had nearly gasped when she’d felt his naked palm, hot and rough against her own, when she felt his calloused fingertips brush the tender spot of her wrist. Electricity sizzled up her arm and ripped through her body. Her earlobes tingled, her breasts became heavy. Tension crackled through her like a lightning storm.

Just from touching his hand.

With a harsh intake of breath, Annabelle ripped her hand away, her cheeks burning hot. Even with her limited experience, she’d never felt anything like this.

“You win,” she said hoarsely, fighting to keep her voice even. “Go get my equipment. I’ll unpack.”

She heard something from him that sounded like a purr of satisfaction, but she was afraid to look at his face, afraid of what he might read in her eyes. Confusion. Fear. Desire.

“Give me the keys to your truck,” he said.

“It’s unlocked,” she muttered, still not looking at him.

“I will park it when I’m done unloading.” She heard sudden amusement in his voice. “That is, unless you fear you cannot trust me not to break your car while driving it into the garage.”

Reaching into her camera bag, she tossed him her keys with the merest sideways glance. But in spite of her efforts not to meet his gaze, she could not resist one tiny peek. Their eyes locked and she held her breath, caught, unable to look away.

He was so beautiful.

Beams of sunlight from the windows illuminated his black hair as his dark eyes ripped through her. Stefano Cortez was so brutal, so masculine.

Her pulse hammered in her throat. Men had hit on her before, but they’d left her completely untouched and unmoved.

Stefano made her tremble from within.

He doesn’t want me, she told herself desperately, fighting her humiliating desire to flee. I’m not his type.

But his dark gaze was so intense. Almost … hungry. She saw the shadow of his chiseled jawline, the silhouette of his Roman nose, the masculine beauty of his face. He was like his house, she thought suddenly. As distant and foreign to modern life as his vast, remote ranch. Like a medieval Spanish caballero.

A warm breeze blew in from an open window, causing the tendrils of her hair to sweep against her cheek as their eyes held.

“Bien,” he whispered finally. “I’ll go. But I am glad you are here, Annabelle. I look forward to it. To all of it.”

As he left, it was as if he took the warm sunlight with him, leaving her in darkness and cold.

When she was alone, Annabelle sagged back against the large bed. Her knees collapsed and she sat down hard on the white down comforter. Her camera bag was still clutched in her lap as she stared blankly at the beam of sunlight against the white wall.

How was she going to get through this week?

How was she going to make it?

Every time Stefano looked at her she felt weak. Just touching his hand had made her jump out of her skin.

Did every woman feel like this? No wonder she’d been warned. But all the warnings hadn’t helped. She still … burned.

Annabelle covered her face with her hands. She had to calm down. Get ahold of herself. Everywhere she traveled, from Chile to Chelsea, men of every age and social rank had thought her single status and apparent freedom was a license to make a play for her. A farmer in South Africa had once tried endlessly to entice her into his bed, but every single time she had refused his endeavors. She’d laughed when the overweight, middle-aged man had pouted like a child when he’d realized that she wasn’t going to take him up on his offer. To assuage the man’s hurt feelings, Annabelle had ultimately bought him a short whiskey in the bar of the hotel she was staying in before sending him on his way.

The South African farmer hadn’t been a bad sort, really. At least he’d been obvious and clear about his intentions. She preferred that straightforward attitude over the slimy, underhanded things that rich tycoons had tried, such as when an American billionaire had set up a fake “photography session” on his private island in the Caribbean. Or when a married duke had invited her to a party in the Highlands, and she’d arrived at his castle to discover his party was only for two. All of them clearly thought Annabelle, with her independent status and liberated career, was fair game and an easy lay.

Of course, Patrick’s ugly lies about her, so many years ago, was probably a big reason for that.

Perhaps it would have been better if she hadn’t ever gone to London to study photography. After her father’s death, she’d buried herself at Wolfe Manor for years, hiding there like a ghost until she was almost twenty-two. If she’d stayed there, she wouldn’t have to fight so hard now in the outside world.

But she couldn’t believe that. She looked down at the camera bag in her arms. Taking pictures—whether of raucous revelers after a football match in London or of hunters pursuing deer in Africa—was the only time Annabelle felt alive. Working brought her peace. And more than peace: contentment. Even joy.

She didn’t want to give that up. She wouldn’t. Not for all the harassing men in the world.

“You want this by the fireplace?”

Annabelle looked up with an intake of breath to see Stefano striding into her room, barely visible beneath all the photography equipment covering his shoulders and arms.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, rising unsteadily to her feet.

He set down the cameras, the umbrellas and scrims, the battery packs and studio lights, her laptop and sleek portable printer, stacking them in a well-organized arrangement into the sitting area of her bedroom. It completely filled the corner between the white fireplace and the old sofa.

Turning back to her, Stefano lifted a dark eyebrow.

“Care to see if I’ve broken anything?”

“Um,” she said incoherently, biting her lip. Staring at the equipment, she looked up at him in amazement. “You carried all of it? In a single trip?”

“It’s more efficient that way, don’t you think?”

“How on earth did you manage it?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps I’m not as clumsy as you thought.”

“I never thought you were—”

His dark gaze went through her, and her throat closed. She forgot what she’d been saying.

Stefano’s sensual lips curved into a smile. “I’ll go put your truck away now. Dinner’s at eight in the dining hall. By the way, meals are casual here.” His dark eyes seemed to twinkle as he looked over her designer suit. “If you think you can manage that.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on the worn heel of his black leather boot. It took several seconds for her to come to her senses.

“I can do casual!” she yelled after him indignantly, but he was already gone.

She exhaled, staring at the closed door. Stefano Cortez was like no other man she’d met. Beyond his masculine beauty and devil-tongued charm, he had a physical strength and power that amazed her.

He’d carried all her gear. In one trip.

Usually, it took Annabelle—even with Marie’s help—four or five trips. And yet he’d carried it all on his back with ease, and then stacked it all efficiently. Looking through the equipment, she saw it was all perfectly in order. She opened the extra cases with her cameras inside, pristine and safe. She took a deep breath, trying to make her heart grow calm and her warm cheeks return to their usual cool state.

She was attracted to him, yes. But it was worse than that. She almost … liked him. And that frightened her most of all.

Annabelle exhaled.

Work. That thought calmed her as nothing else could. She glanced at her watch. She had most of the afternoon, and would make good use of it.

Not bothering to change out of her gray skirt suit, she grabbed an extra camera and put it into her bag. Going downstairs, she went out the front door.

Past the house, on the other side of the courtyard, she saw a whitewashed stable. She peeked inside. There were only twenty stalls, all filled with tall, powerful horses. The stable looked like the remnant of another era, as if she had gone back in history two hundred years to the time of carriages. Closing her eyes, she appreciatively breathed in the smell of fresh hay, horse sweat and leather.

She took a few pictures, then went on to explore the ranch farther. The fields around the sprawling, whitewashed house were wide and beautiful. She saw horses galloping beneath the sun, heard the lazy buzzing of bees in the soft air. The warmth of Santo Castillo was lush and lovely as a childhood summer.

Walking past a grove of trees, Annabelle saw a huge, modern, well-lit building behind the courtyard. A second stable? Annabelle shook her head, laughing at herself. Of course there was another stable. The Cortez horses were famous, after all, and twenty antiquated stalls were hardly enough for all the animals they raised here. Of course the ranch would be modern where it counted.

Opening the door, she walked inside the second stable.

It was enormous, with endless stalls and more horses than she could count. Then she heard laughter. She peeked around the corner and saw five young stablehands, perhaps eighteen or nineteen years old, dark-haired and skinny in T-shirts and jeans. They were working hard, two shoveling hay and three brushing down the horses, but even while so industriously employed the boys were still joking and scuffling. They reminded her of what Stefano must have been like at that age.

One of the teenagers saw her, and he cleared his throat. They all straightened, greeting her respectfully in Spanish.

“Buenas tardes, señorita.”

“Necesita ayuda?”

She shook her head. “I’m going to take some pictures, all right?” she replied in the same language.

They nodded, then went back to work. They seemed self-conscious under her scrutiny, but were too disciplined to do more than give her a shy glance or two beneath their dark lashes.

Annabelle took pictures of the smiling teenagers, of the vast white stable, of the beautiful horses, using her smaller camera with a portrait lens.

“Gracias.” After she left, she went out and took preliminary photos of the golden fields and sharp green mountains, testing the sunlight. She used her telephoto lens on the largest digital camera to capture some shots of the dappled brown horses galloping so gracefully, tossing their heads.

Annabelle took pictures for hours, lost in her work. By the time she came back to herself, the sun was starting to fall gently into the western horizon. The light had changed to soft gold, the color of ripe peaches.

She rubbed the dust and sweat off her forehead as she looked at her watch. Seven-thirty. She looked quickly through the images she’d taken with her digital camera. They were good, but the composition didn’t quite do justice to this magical place. Some critical component was still missing. But what?

She’d have to figure it out tomorrow. The sunset was deepening, the golden light slanting. She tucked her camera back in her bag. Work was over. Now she had no choice but to deal with the problems of the real world.

Like how she would be able to be around Stefano Cortez for an entire week.

Even having dinner with him tonight scared her. We won’t be alone, she told herself. Hadn’t Stefano said everyone at the ranch ate together at the long table in the dining hall? She would just sit far away from him, talk to the laughing teenagers and pretend Stefano wasn’t there.

A childish action, to be sure. But it seemed her only hope. Because as much as she tried to tell herself that her body’s strange reaction to Stefano had been a one-off, and all the warnings she’d heard must have just thrown her, she didn’t quite believe it. She would just have to be icily polite to him from now on—a layer of ice on top of a glacier, she told herself.

But she didn’t believe that, either.

Even just thinking of him caused a shiver of heat down her spine. Why did her body react this way? Why?

Annabelle hurried toward the house. As she passed the large modern stable, she saw the boys were long gone. She was going to be late.

Rushing upstairs to her bedroom, she raced down the empty hallway and jumped into the shower of her en suite bathroom. She was toweling off her hair in two minutes flat. She pulled her wet hair back into a tight ponytail. Far from optimal for scar coverage, but it was all she had time to do.

Her hands trembled as she tried to hurry with her makeup, putting on thick foundation and cover-up over the long red scar that crossed her cheek and forehead. She’d repeated this routine every day, often multiple times, for almost twenty years. She could have done it blindfolded. Drawing back to survey her face in the mirror, she exhaled. At least her scar was invisible.

But she was going to be late, and she was never late for anything. Her cheeks went hot as she imagined Stefano’s darkly amused drawl: Did it take you an hour to find something casual to wear, Miss Wolfe?

And it might. Annabelle zipped open her carefully packed suitcase. I can do casual, she’d told Stefano defiantly, but as she dug through her suitcase she had a sinking feeling in her heart.

Her former assistant had always packed something casual for her on every trip just in case. Unfortunately, now Annabelle was packing for herself, and she hadn’t thought casual clothes were necessary. She double-checked, but the results were the same. Her only “casual” choices were an old silken robe she’d bought in Hong Kong, or a single pair of flimsy flip-flops. Great.

Exhaling, she sat back on her haunches. She missed Marie.

Marie had been the most capable assistant she’d ever had, but she’d put her photography career on indefinite hold to raise her family. My camera will always be there, she’d told Annabelle, but time with my babies will be short and precious.

Just thinking of her assistant’s happy, exhausted face when Annabelle had visited her in the hospital, remembering the way Marie had cooed to her newborn baby as her accountant husband beamed at them both with an adoring, protective smile, Annabelle felt a pain in her throat as sharp as a razor blade.

With an intake of breath, she squared her shoulders. She told herself that self-pity was ugly and ridiculous and she must stop it, she must stop it at once.

Fine, she thought grimly as she reached for a clean pantsuit and pulled it over her sensible white cotton underwear. Let Stefano and his young ranch hands laugh at her in her dressy clothes. She didn’t care. In fact, it would make it easier.

She stared at her expressionless face one last time in the mirror and pulled her blond bangs forward over her now-invisible scar in an automatic gesture. She glanced at her watch: 7:59.

Closing her door behind her, she walked through the darkened hallway and down the sweeping stairs. Though the hacienda had only two floors, it was deceptively large, perhaps even the size of Wolfe Manor. When she finally approached the dining hall, she knew she was late. She came almost at a run.

But when she reached the doorway, she slid to a halt. Her mouth fell open.

She’d expected the dining hall to be brightly lit and filled with the noise of hungry teenaged boys fighting over the bread basket across the long wooden table.

Instead, the upper corners of the soaring ceiling were dark. A cluster of white candles flickered against the whitewashed walls.

Stefano was alone at the table.

When he saw her, he rose slowly to his feet. He looked dark, powerful, like a conquistador from a savage, brutal age. Emotion pulsed through her, a longing that tore at her heart.

He looked at her with eyes glimmering and black as night. Pulling out a high-backed wooden chair from the table, he said in a low voice, “You’re late.”

Annabelle froze, unable to move.

The flickering candlelight cast shadows on his chiseled cheekbones and shadowed, sharp jawline. His dark eyes were illuminated, as if lit by a deep fire.

He walked toward her. Stopping directly in front of her, he looked her up and down. His gaze skimmed over her tight ponytail, her designer pantsuit and low sensible heels.

“You have a funny idea of the word casual,” he murmured.

It broke the spell. She exhaled.

Folding her arms, Annabelle glared up at him. “It was either this or my pajamas.”

His dark eyes glinted with amusement.

“Next time,” he said, his lips curving wickedly as he looked over her body, “choose the pajamas.”

His gaze made her catch her breath. She turned away sharply to look around the dining hall. The candlelight didn’t quite reach the soaring ceilings, leaving the high windows the scarlet color of sunset. The stone fireplace on the other side of the room was shadowy and unlit.

Annabelle swallowed. “Did the electricity go out or something?”

“No.”

“Why the candles?”

“Romance, querida,” he said softly.

She stared at him, shocked. He looked down at her with heavy-lidded eyes, and her heart turned over in her chest.

“After all,” he said, his lips turning up in a smile, “you are here to show the readers of the magazine why Santo Castillo is the top-ranked ranch in Europe. I wanted you to see my home as it might have looked three hundred years ago. I wanted you,” he said in a low voice, “to see the magic.”

Magic? Annabelle already saw the magic. She was looking right at him.

“Come,” he said, holding out his hand. “Join me.”

She stared down at his hand, remembering what had happened last time. She looked up at his handsome face with dismay. How on earth was she supposed to keep her distance with just the two of them like this? A romantic dinner with Stefano Cortez, alone together in a candlelit hall, was not on her agenda!

Keeping her hands at her sides, she licked her lips. “But where is everyone?”

His gaze fell to her mouth. “Who?”

“The stablehands. The rest of your staff. You said they always joined you for dinner.”

“Oh.” Dropping his hand, he shrugged. “They finished eating an hour ago.”

She exhaled. “They ate early?”

“Sí.”

“Why?”

He looked down at her. “I wanted to be alone with you.”

She stared up at him, her mouth a wide O. “But why—why would you want that?”

“So we could talk.”

“Talk? Talk about what?” He smiled. “About your photography project, of course.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks burned. Of course, she thought, angry at herself. What else would he want to talk to me about? “Right.”

Stefano walked back to the long wooden table. Against her will, Annabelle’s eyes traced his lean hips and muscular thighs in his dark jeans. He’d showered and changed his clothes before dinner, and unlike her, he was decidedly casual. And so, so sexy. His black hair was still damp, pulled back tightly with a leather tie. Her eyes traced over his curved biceps to the tanned arms peeking out from his black shirt.

Going behind the table, he pulled out a chair.

“If you please,” he said.

Annabelle’s legs felt as if she were wading through water as she followed him to the table. She felt his gaze on her with every step. She fell into the chair.

Courteously, he pushed her chair forward under the table. He didn’t touch her at all, and for about the tenth time since she’d arrived at his ranch, she felt incredibly foolish for thinking he was coming on to her. He was just being polite. Of course he was, she yelled at herself. He’d outright told her he wasn’t interested in her. So why did she keep imagining that she saw molten desire in his dark eyes?

Clearly she was going mad. When she had been ten years old, her twin brother Alex had used to tease her when she played in the woods on their estate, digging in the stream, pretending each frog was a prince, every field was a distant country and that she could fly around the world in an invisible plane. Alex had laughed himself silly, telling her she was crazy, and he feared his sister would someday go all the way around the bend. Perhaps he’d been right, and all her years of loneliness had finally caught up with her.

Annabelle jumped in her chair as Stefano sat right beside her. She’d thought he would sit across from her, not next to her. He was too close. Way too close. And he smelled so good, like saddle soap and sunlight. Woodsy and clean and masculine. She took a deep breath. He smelled like everything good. Everything dangerous.

Trembling, she tilted as far away from him as she could without falling out of her chair. Subtle, very subtle, she thought sourly, but it was the best she could do when her body was screaming for her to run.

Trying to hide her pounding heart, she grabbed a linen napkin from the table and spread it across her lap. As casually as she could manage, she said, “So, what’s for dinner?”

As if he hadn’t noticed her leaning diagonally away from him, Stefano opened a bottle of wine. “Mrs. Gutierrez has prepared some of my favorite dishes to welcome you to the hacienda. I hope you will enjoy them.”

Pouring red wine into two antique crystal goblets, he held one of them out to her. The wine shimmered crimson in the flickering candlelight. Careful not to brush his fingers with her own, she took the glass.

Looking down at her, he held out his own goblet in toast. “To every delicious pleasure.”

She clinked glasses and then drank deeply, tilting her head back and closing her eyes, waiting for the wine to hit her empty stomach. Her nerves badly needed bracing.

Stefano lifted a large silver lid off a tray and served them both. Annabelle looked down at her filled plate. Her stomach growled at the sight and mouthwatering smell of the country-style Spanish dishes: steaming hot empanadas, red rice and marinated chicken, spicy Basque chorizo, cheese and green olives. She realized that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast—coffee and a granola bar she’d devoured at a gas station on the road from Portugal—and she was starving. She put down her glass and picked up her fork.

“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,