The Forgotten Daughter Page 2

  “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.

  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 s
peed, 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 wan
ted 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.