The Forgotten Daughter. Jennie Lucas
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walked toward her. Stopping directly in front of her, he looked her up and down. His gaze skimmed over her tight ponytail, her designer pantsuit and low sensible heels.
“You have a funny idea of the word casual,” he murmured.
It broke the spell. She exhaled.
Folding her arms, Annabelle glared up at him. “It was either this or my pajamas.”
His dark eyes glinted with amusement.
“Next time,” he said, his lips curving wickedly as he looked over her body, “choose the pajamas.”
His gaze made her catch her breath. She turned away sharply to look around the dining hall. The candlelight didn’t quite reach the soaring ceilings, leaving the high windows the scarlet color of sunset. The stone fireplace on the other side of the room was shadowy and unlit.
Annabelle swallowed. “Did the electricity go out or something?”
“No.”
“Why the candles?”
“Romance, querida,” he said softly.
She stared at him, shocked. He looked down at her with heavy-lidded eyes, and her heart turned over in her chest.
“After all,” he said, his lips turning up in a smile, “you are here to show the readers of the magazine why Santo Castillo is the top-ranked ranch in Europe. I wanted you to see my home as it might have looked three hundred years ago. I wanted you,” he said in a low voice, “to see the magic.”
Magic? Annabelle already saw the magic. She was looking right at him.
“Come,” he said, holding out his hand. “Join me.”
She stared down at his hand, remembering what had happened last time. She looked up at his handsome face with dismay. How on earth was she supposed to keep her distance with just the two of them like this? A romantic dinner with Stefano Cortez, alone together in a candlelit hall, was not on her agenda!
Keeping her hands at her sides, she licked her lips. “But where is everyone?”
His gaze fell to her mouth. “Who?”
“The stablehands. The rest of your staff. You said they always joined you for dinner.”
“Oh.” Dropping his hand, he shrugged. “They finished eating an hour ago.”
She exhaled. “They ate early?”
“Sí.”
“Why?”
He looked down at her. “I wanted to be alone with you.”
She stared up at him, her mouth a wide O. “But why—why would you want that?”
“So we could talk.”
“Talk? Talk about what?” He smiled. “About your photography project, of course.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks burned. Of course, she thought, angry at herself. What else would he want to talk to me about? “Right.”
Stefano walked back to the long wooden table. Against her will, Annabelle’s eyes traced his lean hips and muscular thighs in his dark jeans. He’d showered and changed his clothes before dinner, and unlike her, he was decidedly casual. And so, so sexy. His black hair was still damp, pulled back tightly with a leather tie. Her eyes traced over his curved biceps to the tanned arms peeking out from his black shirt.
Going behind the table, he pulled out a chair.
“If you please,” he said.
Annabelle’s legs felt as if she were wading through water as she followed him to the table. She felt his gaze on her with every step. She fell into the chair.
Courteously, he pushed her chair forward under the table. He didn’t touch her at all, and for about the tenth time since she’d arrived at his ranch, she felt incredibly foolish for thinking he was coming on to her. He was just being polite. Of course he was, she yelled at herself. He’d outright told her he wasn’t interested in her. So why did she keep imagining that she saw molten desire in his dark eyes?
Clearly she was going mad. When she had been ten years old, her twin brother Alex had used to tease her when she played in the woods on their estate, digging in the stream, pretending each frog was a prince, every field was a distant country and that she could fly around the world in an invisible plane. Alex had laughed himself silly, telling her she was crazy, and he feared his sister would someday go all the way around the bend. Perhaps he’d been right, and all her years of loneliness had finally caught up with her.
Annabelle jumped in her chair as Stefano sat right beside her. She’d thought he would sit across from her, not next to her. He was too close. Way too close. And he smelled so good, like saddle soap and sunlight. Woodsy and clean and masculine. She took a deep breath. He smelled like everything good. Everything dangerous.
Trembling, she tilted as far away from him as she could without falling out of her chair. Subtle, very subtle, she thought sourly, but it was the best she could do when her body was screaming for her to run.
Trying to hide her pounding heart, she grabbed a linen napkin from the table and spread it across her lap. As casually as she could manage, she said, “So, what’s for dinner?”
As if he hadn’t noticed her leaning diagonally away from him, Stefano opened a bottle of wine. “Mrs. Gutierrez has prepared some of my favorite dishes to welcome you to the hacienda. I hope you will enjoy them.”
Pouring red wine into two antique crystal goblets, he held one of them out to her. The wine shimmered crimson in the flickering candlelight. Careful not to brush his fingers with her own, she took the glass.
Looking down at her, he held out his own goblet in toast. “To every delicious pleasure.”
She clinked glasses and then drank deeply, tilting her head back and closing her eyes, waiting for the wine to hit her empty stomach. Her nerves badly needed bracing.
Stefano lifted a large silver lid off a tray and served them both. Annabelle looked down at her filled plate. Her stomach growled at the sight and mouthwatering smell of the country-style Spanish dishes: steaming hot empanadas, red rice and marinated chicken, spicy Basque chorizo, cheese and green olives. She realized that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast—coffee and a granola bar she’d devoured at a gas station on the road from Portugal—and she was starving. She put down her glass and picked up her fork.
“It’s delicious,” she blurted out after the first bite of chicken.
“Gracias,” Stefano said as he refilled her nearly empty wineglass with red Rioja wine. He took a sip of his own wine and Annabelle realized he’d barely had any yet, while she was apparently on her second glass. She would need to slow down. No more Dutch courage, she ordered herself, and she dug into her empanada with gusto. He smiled, watching her with satisfaction.
She hesitated, suddenly self-conscious, but the baked Spanish pastry filled with fish and tomato was so flavorful and delicious she couldn’t stop herself from taking another big bite.
“I’m probably making a pig of myself,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. “But it’s so good.”
His lips curved with approval. “On the contrary. I like a woman with appetite.”
Nervously, she wiped her mouth with a napkin and washed down the last bit of empanada with a bit more wine. “You’re not eating?”
“I am,” he said, taking a bite of chorizo. “I just keep getting distracted.”
“By me?”
His dark eyes gleamed. “Sí.”
Her cheeks went hot as she put down her fork. He’s not flirting,
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