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 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
