Дженни Лукас – The Forgotten Daughter (страница 2)

Annabelle waited for him to scowl at her rudeness, but to her chagrin he only looked amused.

“In your case, Miss Wolfe,” he said softly, “I might make an exception.”

Her heart leaped in her throat. She swallowed, trying to slow her quick, shallow breath.

Do not trust his charm. Do not, she told herself fiercely.

“I work best alone.” She raised her chin. “So thanks, but I won’t need your company. Or want it.”

He blinked.

Annabelle took a deep breath, remembered how hard Equestrian had fought to get this exclusive at Santo Castillo, and tried to modulate her tone. “Forgive me if that sounds harsh. I just don’t like to have anyone hovering over me as I work.” She tried to smile. “And I’m sure you have a great deal to do for your charity gala this weekend….”

Abruptly, he lifted his hand toward her. She jumped back, wide-eyed and jittery as a colt. He frowned. “Allow me to carry your bag, Miss Wolfe.”

Oh. So that was why he’d reached for her. A warm blush curled her cheeks. “That’s not necessary.”

“You are my guest.”

“Thank you, but I can manage my own equipment.”

“Por supuesto. But it seems a great deal for one person.”

“Usually I have an assistant …” Annabelle stopped, thinking of Marie who was now in Cornwall with her husband and newborn baby. She took a deep breath. “But I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. My photos of your ranch will be fine. The project will be fine. I work best alone,” she repeated.

“So you said.” Stefano looked down at her, and she felt a bead of sweat break out between her breasts.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you.” Her voice trailed off as she struggled to think of words that wouldn’t sound ridiculous. Like you want to rip off my clothes. Like you want to drink me for tea. Like you want to fling me over your shoulder, throw me into your bed and lick every inch of me. She finished awkwardly, “Like you’ve never seen a woman before.”

He barked a laugh. “I’ve seen many, as you know. And yet.” He paused. “I cannot stop looking at you.”

“Why?”

“Because you are more beautiful than I even imagined.”

She swallowed. “I … I am?”

He gave a single nod. “The photos I’ve seen of you hardly did you justice.”

A chill went down Annabelle’s spine.

The photos I’ve seen of you.

Which photos did he mean? Recent pictures of Annabelle at her brother’s society wedding in London? Pictures of her sunburned face as she’d traveled on assignment through the Sahara and the plains of Mongolia earlier that winter?

Or … images from nearly twenty years ago, when her drunken father had tried to kill her as a teenager?

Had Stefano Cortez stumbled upon the before-and-after images that had once been in every British newspaper—the first showing Annabelle as a blonde, smiling fourteen-year-old with rosy cheeks, the second showing her with a monster’s swollen face, her eyes like slits, a savage red whip slash peeling back her skin?

Annabelle searched Stefano’s expression with hard eyes. But only a smile curved his sensual mouth as he looked back at her.

She exhaled with a flare of her nostrils. Good. He didn’t know about her past. As juicy and notorious as the Wolfe family scandal had once been, the world had moved on. People had forgotten.

But not Annabelle. She would never forget. She still had scars to prove it. On her body. On her face. Beneath her carefully applied makeup and long blond bangs, the vestige of the violent red scar from her father’s whip would always remain.

Tilting his head, Stefano frowned down at her. “You do not care for compliments.”

“Why do you say that?” she evaded.

“You look almost … angry.”

“It’s fine.” He was far too observant. Annabelle smoothed imaginary crumbs off her light-gray suit, then looked up. “But you should know I am well aware of your reputation. I do not intend to be another notch in your bedpost. You are wasting your compliments on me.”

His dark eyes gleamed. “No compliment on a pretty woman is ever wasted. And you are more than pretty. You are … belleza.”

“You’re wasting your time, Casanova,” she said sharply. “I am quite impossible to seduce.”

His gaze deepened with interest, as if she’d just offered him an irresistible challenge. A few strands of his chin-length black hair escaped the leather tie at the nape of his neck, falling forward to frame the brilliance of his dark eyes.

“So I have heard.”

Pulling the heavy camera bag up higher on her shoulder, she muttered, “Afonso Moreira told me you’d be like this.”

“Ah. My Portuguese rival.” He lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “What else did he say?”

“He said you’re a playboy who steals women’s hearts, along with their virtue. He said I should lock my door.”

As she looked up at him, white sunlight lit his black hair like a halo. He looked like a dark angel as his eyes became like endless pools of night.

“Moreira is right,” he said quietly.

Her mouth fell open. She hadn’t expected that reply in a million years. “He—he is?”

“Sí.” His sensual lips curved upward. “That’s exactly the kind of man I am.”

Annabelle’s heart pounded in her throat as she stared up into his darkly handsome face. She was dimly aware of the warm wind against her skin, loosening her chignon, blowing blond tendrils across her cheek. For an instant, she was lost in the swirling darkness of his gaze.

His eyes weren’t black as she’d first thought. They were a multitude of colors as infinite as Spanish earth, obsidian and sable, coffee and burnt sienna. Full of warmth. Full of life.

He reached his hand toward her cheek, his fingers a millimeter from her skin, so close she could almost feel the warmth of his fingertips.

Annabelle felt her heart slow, then stop. She was only dimly aware of her feet turning in the dusty courtyard, ready to bolt back to her truck, back to London.

Stefano frowned, his forehead furrowed as he stared down at her. Abruptly, he pulled away, dropping his hand.

“Yes, you are a beauty, Miss Wolfe,” he said almost casually. “No doubt many men find you attractive. But I …”

His voice trailed off.

Annabelle’s lips parted. “But you … don’t?”

Stefano gave her a half-lidded smile. “Let’s just say you’re not my usual type.”

His words should have come as a relief to her. Instead, they felt strangely like a rejection, a low dull hurt she hadn’t expected. She pressed her lips together. “Oh. Good.”

“So you see,” he said quietly, looking down at her, “you have no reason to be afraid of me.”

Annabelle looked up at him, horrified. Had he seen her fear? Had he known she’d been briefly tempted to run away—from Santo Castillo, from her assignment, from him—like some terrified virgin?

But that was exactly how he made her feel. Every inch the terrified virgin she was.

But her job and reputation were on the line. Straightening her shoulders, she tossed her head and lied, “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Bien.” He moved closer, his eyes locked with hers as he whispered, “I promise you have no need to lock your door.”

Feeling like a fool, she looked away, her cheeks hot with embarrassment. She’d been so sure that the notorious playboy would try to seduce her. But she wasn’t his type. She was apparently the one woman on earth who left him cold.

While Annabelle felt differently. She felt … warm. More than warm. She felt hot every time he looked at her. Just being near him made her skin flush pink and her core melt.

For the first time in Annabelle’s life, she felt a physical shock of awareness. Of attraction. Of. desire.

And he wasn’t even trying to seduce her.

Funny. Either Stefano Cortez didn’t realize the effect he had on women, or he didn’t care. Either way, no wonder he’d left a trail of broken hearts in his wake.