The Forgotten Daughter Read online

  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 flipflops. 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 d
eep 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, she told herself fiercely. He’s probably just never seen a woman eat properly before. He’s used to dating actresses and stick-figure models. Annabelle gulped another long drink of wine, then picked up her fork again. She tried everything on her plate. When she looked up, she saw Stefano refilling her wine again. She hadn’t even realized her glass was getting low.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?” she demanded with a laugh, only half joking.

  “Would it be difficult?”

  No. She felt half-drunk already just being near him. But she lifted her chin.

  “I can handle my liquor,” she said, although the truth was she handled liquor mainly by staying away from it. She was famous for always sipping mineral water. She’d been teased for it, but having a drunkard for a father and drug addict for a mother tended to make a person more cautious.

  And by the increasing dizziness in Annabelle’s brain she was drinking too much wine, too fast. Candlelight flickered against the high stucco walls of the dining hall as she looked at him. She suddenly realized her body had shifted in the chair. Instead of leaning away, she was now leaning forward, almost touching him. He could move a few inches and touch her.

  Her attempt to calm her nerves with wine wasn’t working.

  “You’re different than people say,” Stefano said in a low voice. His dark eyes caressed her face.

  Annabelle stiffened, hating the thought of being the subject of gossip. She knew people called her an ice queen. People could be so vicious, even cruel, not caring whom they hurt in their own amusement. “I have no interest in hearing what people say about me.”

  He shook his head, smiling.

  “Yet another way,” he murmured, “in which you are different from any woman I’ve met.”

  “Because I don’t swoon at your feet?”

  Stefano gave that same low, sensual laugh.

  “Sí,” he said with visible amusement. “Most women do swoon, believe it or not. But it’s more than that.”

  As he looked at her, searing her with his intense gaze, she felt her skin flush with heat and her body start to melt. Please, don’t let me swoon, she prayed. Don’t let me make an utter fool of myself.

  Setting her wineglass down, she sat back in her chair. “You said you wished to talk about work. Let’s talk about that.”

  “Is work really all you care about?” “Yes.”

  “I can hardly believe such a beautiful woman would say such a thing,” he said softly.

  Was he flirting with her? Was he?

  She started to reach for her wine, then caught herself and angrily pushed it away.

  Stupid wine!

  Stupid candlelight!

  Stupid handsome man who was like a dark prince out of a sensual dream!

  “My work is all that matters,” she bit out forcefully. “It is all I care about.”

  He stared at her, his brow furrowed.

  “That’s wrong,” he said. “You are a young, desirable woman. Enjoy your work, yes.

  But there’s so much more to life.”

  “Not for me,” she said, lifting her chin.

  “Especially for you. I admire your work a great deal, Annabelle. You have an eye like no other photographer today. So take my advice or leave it, as you choose.” He sat back in his chair casually, breaking the spell. “But you might consider taking pictures of the yearlings on the upper slope …”

  As they discussed various aspects of the ranch, he gave her suggestions about people and animals and the best angles of his ranch’s rugged landscape. They finished their dinner, but just as Annabelle started to relax into a business discussion, he suddenly asked with gleaming eyes, “So have you decided about me yet?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you decided if I am a brilliant huckster or a saint?”

  She flushed, then met his gaze steadily. “I haven’t decided yet. Maybe neither. Maybe just a man.”

  He leaned toward her.

  “I want you to know me,” he said softly. “All of me.”

  She felt hot beneath his gaze, then he leaned back again in his chair. “I set the price of my horses high for a reason. No one buys them who is not prepared to treat them like gold.”

  She snorted. “Because they are just as expensive, pound for pound.”

  “You think I am greedy?”

  “No. I think you are arrogant and proud.”

  His lips curved as he said softly, “What else do you think you know about me?”

  Annabelle swallowed. She already knew too much. She knew he was impossibly beautiful, like a dark angel, and every time she was around him her body felt tight with her heart in her throat. She knew he made her feel the warmth of sunlight and a soft sultry breeze of awareness every time he was near. “I think you’re a playboy who toys with women’s hearts.”

  Frowning, he leaned forward.

  “I do not toy with anyone’s heart,” he said sharply. “Women who come to my bed know it will be for a short time. I am always clear. If a woman deceives herself into believing our affair will last, she has only herself to blame.”

  Annabelle sucked in her breath. “So you actually admit you’re a womanizer.”


  Stefano’s gaze traced slowly over her in the candlelight. Prickles of heat spread across her skin beneath her linen suit. “Does it bother you?”

  “Morally, you mean?” Setting her jaw, she shook her head. “No. Why would it?”

  “It frightens you.”

  “Frightens?” She forced out a laugh, and then told the biggest lie of all. “I’m not the least bit frightened of you.”

  “But you are.” His dark eyes glimmered. “I can see that. What I don’t quite understand is why.”

  “Don’t think you know me. We just met,” she bit out. “You don’t know anything about me!”

  He swirled his goblet, making the red wine gleam like rubies in the candlelight. “I’ve already learned a great deal by watching you.” Tilting his head, he observed her. “I know, for instance, that you always behave rudely when someone’s getting too close.”

  “Don’t be idiotic!”

  Stefano’s black eyes burned through her.

  “Exactly.”

  Annabelle’s cheeks went hot.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” she mumbled, looking away.

  He leaned his elbow against the dining table, looking at her in the candlelight. “Why are you so defensive? What have men tried with you?”

  She stared at him, then said stiffly, “I don’t see how that’s any interest of yours.”

  “Oh, come on,” he said with a cajoling smile. “Just this morning, Afonso Moreira was complaining to me on the phone, saying you were quite impossible to seduce. An ice queen, I think his words were.”

  “Moreira is a fool,” she retorted. “His idea of seduction was to make smacking sounds with his lips every time I passed him in the hallway. When I ignored him, he slapped my backside.”

  Stefano’s eyes widened. “What did you do? Slap his cheek?”

  “I had no need to resort to violence,” she said uncomfortably. “I simply let him know that his attentions were not appreciated.”

  His smile spread into a grin that made his eyes twinkle. “Yes, I bet you did,” he said.

  “I can only imagine. He’s probably still frozen solid in a chunk of ice from your response.”