The Forgotten Daughter

His eyes traced slowly over her. The truth was that she looked just like what he needed. A long, tall drink of water to a thirsty man. A mirage. Beautiful. Untouchable. And, oh, he could hardly wait to touch her. “No, you do not.”

Visibly mollified, she gave a single nod. “I will give you my word not to deliberately hurt any innocent person. Is that enough? For you?”

Stefano narrowed his eyes, looking at the determined sincerity of her face. “Sí.” He held out his hand to seal the bargain. She hesitated, staring down at his hand outstretched hand. Biting her lip, she slowly placed her hand against his.

And it was like being struck by lightning.

Stefano felt her hand in his own, skin against skin. Shock sizzled through him as her slender fingers trembled in his rough grasp. He tightened his grip, pressing their palms together, pulling her close in a visceral reaction.

He felt staggered by sudden violent hunger. His mind filled with vivid images, of ripping off her clothes, running his hands down her bare skin. Of pulling her down on the bed, taking her, filling her as her fingernails dug into his back, as he made her scream with savage pleasure.

With a ragged intake of breath, Annabelle ripped away her hand. Her cheeks were red as she turned away.

But the damage had already been done.

Dios mío. Stefano’s breath was shallow. She was the ultimate mystery. She was cold and hot, gentle and cruel.

He stared down at her, his body vibrating with need.

Soon, he vowed grimly, she would be pliant in his arms, spread naked across his bed. He would make her weep with pleasure. He would give her everything. He would take everything.

Nothing on earth would stop him from seducing her now.

CHAPTER THREE

ANNABELLE HADN’T WANTED to shake his hand. No way. But he’d stood there with his outstretched and left her no choice.

Touching Stefano’s hand had been like touching fire.

Annabelle had nearly gasped when she’d felt his naked palm, hot and rough against her own, when she felt his calloused fingertips brush the tender spot of her wrist. Electricity sizzled up her arm and ripped through her body. Her earlobes tingled, her breasts became heavy. Tension crackled through her like a lightning storm.

Just from touching his hand.

With a harsh intake of breath, Annabelle ripped her hand away, her cheeks burning hot. Even with her limited experience, she’d never felt anything like this.

“You win,” she said hoarsely, fighting to keep her voice even. “Go get my equipment. I’ll unpack.”

She heard something from him that sounded like a purr of satisfaction, but she was afraid to look at his face, afraid of what he might read in her eyes. Confusion. Fear. Desire.

“Give me the keys to your truck,” he said.

“It’s unlocked,” she muttered, still not looking at him.

“I will park it when I’m done unloading.” She heard sudden amusement in his voice. “That is, unless you fear you cannot trust me not to break your car while driving it into the garage.”

Reaching into her camera bag, she tossed him her keys with the merest sideways glance. But in spite of her efforts not to meet his gaze, she could not resist one tiny peek. Their eyes locked and she held her breath, caught, unable to look away.

He was so beautiful.

Beams of sunlight from the windows illuminated his black hair as his dark eyes ripped through her. Stefano Cortez was so brutal, so masculine.

Her pulse hammered in her throat. Men had hit on her before, but they’d left her completely untouched and unmoved.

Stefano made her tremble from within.

He doesn’t want me, she told herself desperately, fighting her humiliating desire to flee. I’m not his type.

But his dark gaze was so intense. Almost … hungry. She saw the shadow of his chiseled jawline, the silhouette of his Roman nose, the masculine beauty of his face. He was like his house, she thought suddenly. As distant and foreign to modern life as his vast, remote ranch. Like a medieval Spanish caballero.

A warm breeze blew in from an open window, causing the tendrils of her hair to sweep against her cheek as their eyes held.

“Bien,” he whispered finally. “I’ll go. But I am glad you are here, Annabelle. I look forward to it. To all of it.”

As he left, it was as if he took the warm sunlight with him, leaving her in darkness and cold.

When she was alone, Annabelle sagged back against the large bed. Her knees collapsed and she sat down hard on the white down comforter. Her camera bag was still clutched in her lap as she stared blankly at the beam of sunlight against the white wall.

How was she going to get through this week?

How was she going to make it?

Every time Stefano looked at her she felt weak. Just touching his hand had made her jump out of her skin.

Did every woman feel like this? No wonder she’d been warned. But all the warnings hadn’t helped. She still … burned.

Annabelle covered her face with her hands. She had to calm down. Get ahold of herself. Everywhere she traveled, from Chile to Chelsea, men of every age and social rank had thought her single status and apparent freedom was a license to make a play for her. A farmer in South Africa had once tried endlessly to entice her into his bed, but every single time she had refused his endeavors. She’d laughed when the overweight, middle-aged man had pouted like a child when he’d realized that she wasn’t going to take him up on his offer. To assuage the man’s hurt feelings, Annabelle had ultimately bought him a short whiskey in the bar of the hotel she was staying in before sending him on his way.

The South African farmer hadn’t been a bad sort, really. At least he’d been obvious and clear about his intentions. She preferred that straightforward attitude over the slimy, underhanded things that rich tycoons had tried, such as when an American billionaire had set up a fake “photography session” on his private island in the Caribbean. Or when a married duke had invited her to a party in the Highlands, and she’d arrived at his castle to discover his party was only for two. All of them clearly thought Annabelle, with her independent status and liberated career, was fair game and an easy lay.

Of course, Patrick’s ugly lies about her, so many years ago, was probably a big reason for that.

Perhaps it would have been better if she hadn’t ever gone to London to study photography. After her father’s death, she’d buried herself at Wolfe Manor for years, hiding there like a ghost until she was almost twenty-two. If she’d stayed there, she wouldn’t have to fight so hard now in the outside world.

But she couldn’t believe that. She looked down at the camera bag in her arms. Taking pictures—whether of raucous revelers after a football match in London or of hunters pursuing deer in Africa—was the only time Annabelle felt alive. Working brought her peace. And more than peace: contentment. Even joy.

She didn’t want to give that up. She wouldn’t. Not for all the harassing men in the world.

“You want this by the fireplace?”

Annabelle looked up with an intake of breath to see Stefano striding into her room, barely visible beneath all the photography equipment covering his shoulders and arms.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, rising unsteadily to her feet.

He set down the cameras, the umbrellas and scrims, the battery packs and studio lights, her laptop and sleek portable printer, stacking them in a well-organized arrangement into the sitting area of her bedroom. It completely filled the corner between the white fireplace and the old sofa.

Turning back to her, Stefano lifted a dark eyebrow.

“Care to see if I’ve broken anything?”