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.”
