Taming the Last Acosta. Susan Stephens

best of care and Romy would provide it for her.

      A gust of wind sweeping down from the Andes made her shudder violently. She wondered if she had ever felt more out of place than she did now. She lived in London, amidst constant bustle and noise. Here in the shadow of a gigantic mountain range everything turned sinister at night and her chest tightened as she quickened her step. The ghostly shape of the wedding tent was far behind her now, and ahead was just a vast emptiness, dotted with faint lights from the hacienda. There were no landmarks on the pampas and no stars to guide her. The Acosta brothers were giants amongst men, and the land they came from was on the same impressive scale. There were no boundaries here, there was only space, and the Acostas owned most of it.

      Rounding a corner, she caught sight of the press coach again and began to jog. Her breath hitched in her throat as she stopped to listen. Was that a twig snapping behind her? Her heart was hammering so violently it was hard to tell. Focusing her gaze on the press coach, with its halo of aerials and satellite dishes, she fumbled for the key, wanting to have it ready in her hand—and cried out with shock as a man’s hand seized her wrist.

      His other hand snatched hold of her camera. Reacting purely on instinct, she launched a stinging roundhouse kick—only to have her ankle captured in an iron grip.

      ‘Good, but not good enough,’ Kruz Acosta ground out.

      Rammed up hard against the motorcoach, with Kruz’s head in her face, it was hard for Romy to disagree. In the unforgiving flesh, Kruz made the evidence of her camera lens seem pallid and insubstantial. He was hard like rock, and so close she could see the flecks of gold in his fierce black eyes, as well as the cynical twist on his mouth. While their gazes were locked he brought her camera strap down, inch by taunting inch, until finally he removed it from her arm and placed it on the ground behind him.

      ‘No,’ he said softly when she glanced at it.

      She still made a lunge, which he countered effortlessly. Flipping her to the ground, he stood back. Rolling away, she sprang up, assuming a defensive position with her hands clenched into angry fists, and demanded that he give it up.

      Kruz Acosta merely raised a brow.

      ‘I said—’

      ‘I heard what you said,’ he said quietly.

      He was even more devastating at short range. She rubbed her arm as she stared balefully. He hadn’t hurt her. He had branded her with his touch.

      A shocked cry sprang from her lips when he seized hold of her again. His reach was phenomenal. His grip like steel. He made no allowance for the fact that she was half his size, so now every inch of her was rammed up tight against him, and when she fought him he just laughed, saying, ‘Is that all you’ve got?’

      She staggered as Kruz thrust her away. She felt humiliated as well as angry. Now he’d had a chance to take a better look at her he wasn’t impressed. And why would he be?

      ‘How does a member of the paparazzi get in here?’

      Kruz was playing with her, she suspected. ‘I’m not paparazzi. I’m on the staff at ROCK!’

      ‘My apologies.’ He made her a mocking bow. ‘So you’re a fully paid-up member of the paparazzi. With your own executive office, I presume?’

      ‘I have a very nice office, as it happens,’ she lied. He was making her feel hot and self-conscious. She was used to being in control. It was going too far to say that amongst photojournalists she was accorded a certain respect, but she certainly wasn’t used to being talked down to by men.

      ‘So as well as being an infamous photojournalist and an executive at ROCK! magazine,’ Kruz mocked, ‘I now discover that the infamous Romy Winner is an expert kick-boxer.’

      Her cheeks flushed red. Not so expert, since he’d blocked her first move.

      ‘I suppose kick-boxing is a useful skill when it comes to gate-crashing events you haven’t been invited to?’ Kruz suggested.

      ‘It’s one of my interests—and just as well with men like you around—’

      ‘Men like me?’ he said, holding her angry stare. ‘Perhaps you and I should get on the mat in the gym sometime.’

      ‘Over my dead body,’ she fired back.

      His look suggested he expected her to blink, or flinch, or even lower her gaze in submission. She did none of those things, though she did find herself staring at his lips. Kruz had the most amazing mouth—hard, yet sensual—and she couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like to be kissed by him, though she had a pretty good idea…

      An idea that was ridiculous! It wouldn’t happen this side of hell. Kruz was one of the beautiful people—the type she liked to look at through her lens much as a wildlife photographer might observe a tiger, without having the slightest intention of touching it. Instead of drooling over him like some lovesick teenager it was time to put him straight.

      ‘Kick-boxing is great for fending off unwanted advances—’

      ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Romy.’

      Kruz’s eyes had turned cold and she shivered involuntarily. There was no chance of getting her camera back now. He was good, economical with his movements, and he was fast.

       Who knew what he was like as a lover…?

      Thankfully she would never find out. All that mattered now was getting her camera back.

      Darting round him, she tried to snatch it—and was totally unprepared for Kruz whipping the leather jacket from her shoulders. Underneath it she was wearing a simple white vest. No bra. She hardly needed one. Her cheeks fired up when he took full inventory of her chest. She could imagine the kind of breasts Kruz liked, and perversely wished she had big bouncing breasts to thrust in his face—if only to make a better job of showing her contempt than her embarrassingly desperate nipples were doing right now, poking through her flimsy top to signal their sheer, agonising frustration.

      ‘Still want to take me on?’ he drawled provocatively.

      ‘I’m sure I could make some sort of dent in your ego,’ she countered, crossing her arms over her chest. She circled round him. ‘All I want is my property back.’ She glanced at the camera, lying just a tantalising distance away.

      ‘So what’s on this camera that you’re so keen for me not to see?’ He picked it up. ‘You can collect it in the morning, when I’ve had a chance to evaluate your photographs.’

      ‘It’s my work, and I need to edit it—’

      ‘Your unauthorised work,’ he corrected her.

      There was no point trying to reason with this man. Action was the only option.

      One moment she was diving for the camera, and the next Kruz had tumbled her to the ground.

      ‘Now, what shall I do with you?’ he murmured, his warm, minty breath brushing her face.

      With Kruz pinning her to the ground, one powerful thigh planted either side of her body, her options were limited—until he yanked her onto a soft bed of grass at the side of the cinder path. Then they became boundless. The grass felt like damp ribbons beneath her skin, and she could smell the rising sap where she had crushed it. Overlaying that was the heat of a powerful, highly sexed, highly aroused man.

      She should try to escape. She should put up some sort of token struggle, at least. She should remember her martial arts training and search for a weakness in Kruz to exploit.

      She did none of those things. And as for that potential weakness—as it turned out it was one they shared.

      As she reached up to push him away Kruz swooped down. Ravishing her mouth was a purposeful exercise, and one at which he excelled. For a moment she was too stunned to do anything, and then the sensation of being possessed, entered, controlled and plundered, even if it was only her mouth, by a man with whom she had