The Forgotten Daughter. Jennie Lucas

looked at her. “Then perhaps I do it because I’m just a brilliant huckster who understands how to trick rich fools out of their money.”

      An awkward pause fell between them. They were side by side, inches apart, leaning over the railing on the veranda.

      “Maybe,” she said doubtfully. He heard her hesitate, then she added quietly, “Although I heard that you donated your fee for participating in this cover story to your charitable foundation. Most men would brag about something like that. You almost go out of your way to avoid credit.”

      He stiffened. “So?”

      “So,” she said quietly, “are you some kind of saint, Mr. Cortez?” Snorting a laugh, he looked at her. “A saint?” He gave her a sensual, heavy-lidded stare. “You know very well that I am not.”

      She frowned at him. “I’m just trying to understand. For the cover story. Who are you, Mr. Cortez? Who are you really?”

      He stared down at her for a long moment, then left the railing. “I will go get the rest of your equipment while you unpack.”

      Abruptly, he opened the French doors and went back inside. But to his surprise, she followed.

      “I’m coming with you to get the equipment,” she said, lifting her chin.

      He shook his head. “You are my guest. And it is silly how you fight me every time I try to do you the smallest kindness.”

      “I’m not your guest.” She glared at him. “And you don’t know anything about my equipment. You might break it.”

      “I won’t,” he said indignantly.

      “I know you won’t, because I’m coming with you.”

      Her cool gray eyes challenged him. Defied him. Tempted him.

      In the cool shadows of her bedroom, standing so close in front of the bed, Stefano looked down at her. He heard the sound of her breath, saw the pink flush of her pale skin. They were so close. The temperature between them was already hot and rising.

      He had the sudden impulse to push her back against her bed, to run his fingers through her lustrous blond hair and pull it down from its tight chignon. He wanted to rip off her prim suit and see her lingerie beneath, to kiss and lick and suckle her skin.

      He wanted to show her how unlike a saint he really was.

      He’d already taken a step toward her before he stopped. Dios mío. This was not his style! He was known for his seduction—not for throwing women down on a bed like a rough brute!

      His hands tightened.

      The more she pushed him away, the more he wanted her. The harder he would pursue her. The more absolute became his need to possess her.

      He would see those cool gray eyes turn bewildered with sensual need. She would press her lips against his skin and he would hear her soft sigh. First, her surrender. Then, her release.

      She would be completely his.

      But not like this. Not like a barbarian. He would take her like a civilized man—by stealth. By seduction.

      This time it was his own rough breathing he heard in his ears as he turned away from her. “Unpack your suitcase,” he ordered. “I often carry equipment far heavier than yours.”

      “Wait,” she bit out.

      He stopped halfway to the door. “Sí?”

      “I forgot to mention one condition of my work. One I insist upon with every assignment.”

      He waited, folding his arms with a guarded expression.

      She gave him that small, tight smile he was starting to recognize came before an attack. “You will agree not to interfere with my work. I must be allowed to speak to anyone at Santo Castillo, and photograph anything I like.”

      Stefano didn’t like the sound of that. He’d had one or two reporters write about him over the past decade, and though he’d always managed to gloss over questions he didn’t wish to answer, he despised the thought of having his privacy invaded. He’d bargained only on having a few photos of his land taken in exchange for the magazine’s generous payment that local villages so sorely needed. Bad enough that he already had to dread the charity event invasion on Saturday. He would remain in control of all photographs of his home. Always.

      He gave Annabelle a gracious smile, holding out his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

      “We will compromise,” he said, meaning he would win. “I’ll just need the last word on all photographs, and final approval before you send anything to the magazine.”

      Annabelle’s brow furrowed in disbelief as she snapped her camera bag shut. “Give you control over my work? Absolutely not.”

      Watching her from beneath hooded eyes, he shrugged with a practiced carelessness. “Then perhaps we should tell the magazine to cancel the cover story. Perhaps you should leave now.”

      “Agreed.” To his shock, she picked up her suitcase and lifted her camera bag back onto her shoulder. “I’ll drive back to London and explain to Equestrian that you’ll be returning their fee. Grab my duffel, will you?”

      Carrying her suitcase and camera bag, she headed for the door in those sturdy beige shoes.

      Stefano cursed softly under his breath. A woman who not only electrified his body, who not only shied away from his pursuit, she called him on a bluff?

       Who was this woman?

      “Wait,” he said harshly. She stopped, then turned around in the shadowy doorway. She waited, arms folded. He could not remember the last time he’d had to entice a woman, to lure her, to play the game, using all the skills of his body and mind to tame her. He could not remember the last time a woman had defied him—beaten him—and it made him want her all the more. He stalked toward her.

      “Vale. You keep the final word,” he said, then added in a low voice, “But I ask you to consider the feelings of the younger members of my staff and villagers. Do not publish anything that will leave them feeling exposed or embarrassed.”

      Annabelle’s eyes widened. For a moment she seemed to go pale as if in memory.

      Then, throwing her head back, she glared at him. “Do I look like a celebrity gossip reporter to you?”

      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