The Forgotten Daughter. Jennie Lucas
I have heard.”
Pulling the heavy camera bag up higher on her shoulder, she muttered, “Afonso Moreira told me you’d be like this.”
“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