In the Argentine's Bed / Secret Baby, Public Affair: In the Argentine's Bed

He settled into the sofa beside her. Close. His muscled thigh brushed against her skirt.

Her pulse quickened.

The heat of his body mingled with the warmth of the fire and her own elevated body temperature.

What if Tarrant found out she’d slept with the man he thought was his son?

She swallowed hard. He wouldn’t.

Amado would never tell. The old-world-honor thing. She sensed that he kept his emotions close to his chest. They’d spent hours together and while he’d talked about each of his wines like a beloved mistress, there’d been no mention whatsoever of his personal life.

She also suspected that—like his charming vineyard tour and his expert foot massage—he did this quite often.

Which, rather than alarming her, actually took the pressure off.

She sensed his steady dark gaze on her as she sipped her drink. Mmm. Sticky, rich, dulce de leche sweetened the coffee.

“Where does your family live now?”

His question jarred her out of the sensual fog she’d drifted into. “You mean my parents?”

He frowned. “Yes, and your brothers and sisters.”

“I don’t have any brothers and sisters. There’s just me. My parents are back in the Philippines. They’re running a program there for at-risk teens.”

“They sound like good people.”

“They are. I wish I was more like them. Or at least I feel I should wish that. But someone’s got to devote their life to finding the best wines in the world, don’t you think?”

Her words rang in the still air. Heat crept up her neck, embarrassment that she’d laid bare her insecurities.

Amado didn’t blink. “Each of us has his or her own path. By trying to follow the wrong one, you do a disservice to yourself and to others.” He laid a big, reassuring hand on her arm. “And I can’t think of a more worthy pursuit than the quest for excellent wine.” He tilted his head and his eyes glittered. “But then, I’m biased.”

Her arm heated under his palm. He was close enough that she could smell his scent. She distracted herself by trying to analyze it.

Complex aroma, rich and appealing. A risky but invigorating blend of coffee, fermented grapes, burnt wood and hardworking male.

Full and robust bouquet. The finish might well be bittersweet…but worth it.

His palm moved over her forearm. Not really going anywhere, just moving back and forth. Stroking her.

She glanced at his face, but he didn’t look up. He seemed intent on the simple motion. Was this some kind of weird Argentine seduction trick?

If it was, it appeared to be working. Strange sensations bubbled inside her. When his hand slid to her thigh, resting lightly on it through the thin fabric of her skirt, it felt as natural and unthreatening as a handshake.

Or a kiss on the cheek.

Amado’s lips brushed her cheekbone so lightly she wondered for a moment if she’d imagined it or simply wished it.

The second time his mouth rested for a moment right beside hers, until her lips stung with anticipation. His breath heated her skin.

His hand slid up her thigh, bringing her dress with it, until the hem climbed over her knee.

She realized she was leaning toward him. Since it felt so natural, she leaned closer, her nipples tight and tingling under her blousy top.

She slid one arm around him, aware of his muscled back through the soft fabric of his shirt.

Amado’s bare palm on her thigh made her gasp. He’d hiked her skirt up almost to her underwear and warmth from the fire baked her skin.

She glanced at his face. His eyes were closed, his expression simple and familiar: the intense appreciation of a connoisseur.

Susannah’s eyes slid shut as his mouth claimed hers, hot and ready. She could feel his body heat through their clothes. Almost without thinking, she pulled gently at his shirt until it came loose from his pants in the back, then she slid her fingers over the firm ridges of muscle on either side of his spine.

Excitement built inside her as their kiss deepened. Heat gathered between her legs and desire thickened inside her.

It had been a long time since she’d kissed anyone. Usually she avoided personal entanglements. She was busy, she traveled a lot, and she didn’t need the drama.

But this was perfect. They both knew what they wanted, and there was a neat and tidy ending already in sight.

Unless he was Tarrant’s son, of course. A frisson of unease rippled through her.

But that was unlikely. With his dark coloring and smooth, sculpted features, Amado didn’t look like the angular, blue-eyed Tarrant. And Clara certainly didn’t fit the mold of Tarrant’s glamorous ex-lovers.

She shoved the potential complication from her mind.

Tonight would be a delicious interlude. A sweet taste of pleasure, like the sip of a wine she knew she wouldn’t buy for the company, but that she drank purely for her own enjoyment.

Amado cupped her breast in his broad hand, strumming her nipple until it peaked against his palm.

“Come with me,” he breathed the words in her ear.

He picked up her hand and squeezed it in his. Anticipation shone in his coffee-brown eyes.

She rose from the sofa, legs shivering. Her whole body tingled with arousal, from her scalp to the soles of her well-massaged feet.

He led her by the hand, the perfect gentleman, except that he was doing something a perfect gentleman would never do—seduce a virtual stranger.

Somehow that gave her an illicit thrill.

She’d always been the good girl, the minister’s daughter no one even dared to look at, let alone entice into bed. She’d been taught from toddlerhood to set a good example for those around her. To think about others and put her own needs aside.

For a long time, she never even knew she had needs.

Right now, as her belly throbbed with desire, she was aware of little else.

Chapter Three

Amado led Susannah past antique furniture and rugs glowing with the rich colors of natural pigments. The house had obviously been lovingly cared for by generations of grateful owners.