Lazaro's Revenge. Jane Porter

overbright.

      “It doesn’t exactly work that way,” he said at last. “You are my guest here. This is my house. We will be together virtually night and day the next several weeks. I suggest you get used to my company. Quickly.”

      He walked out.

      Zoe stood there for several moments before her muscles twitched to life. Slowly she placed the half-full brandy glass on the coffee table before wiping her damp palms on the sides of her pale traveling coat.

      She remembered when she boarded the flight yesterday evening how chic she’d thought she’d looked in the long thin cream coat and cream-colored cowboy boots. She and Daisy had grown up in boots. Just like they’d grown up in the saddle, working the farm. She might look fragile, but there was nothing fragile about her.

      Just her feelings, maybe.

      Zoe pushed up her coat sleeve and looked at her wristwatch. Almost seven-thirty. She’d arrived in Buenos Aires over six hours ago. Daisy must be frantic.

      Forehead furrowing, Zoe looked about for a phone. He’d said there was no phone but she didn’t believe him. Everyone had phones these days. She’d look for a phone jack first. The phone jack would be a dead giveaway that he’d merely unplugged the phone and hidden it away. She’d find the phone and call for help first chance possible.

      “Your bath is ready.”

      Lazaro had returned and he stood in the doorway. He’d changed into dark slacks and a thick dark sweater. The dense weave of the sweater flattered his hard features, softening his long crooked nose and square chin.

      He almost looked human.

      Almost.

      “I’m not going to take a bath. I’m not going to stay here.” She left the fire, walked swiftly from the living room to the hall, holding her breath as she moved past him.

      She half expected him to stop her as she reached for the door but he didn’t move. He didn’t even bat an eyelash as she yanked the heavy door open.

      “It’s a long walk to town,” he said mildly. “And very dark. There aren’t any streetlights on the pampas.”

      She gripped the doorknob, hating him, hating his reasonable tone. “I’ve been in the country before.”

      “Then you know how confusing it gets to walk without landmarks, without roads, without any sign of human life.”

      “Your ranch can’t be that remote.”

      His eyebrows merely lifted.

      “I’m sure there’s something out there,” she insisted.

      “Sheep. Cows. Deer—”

      “Not very frightening.”

      “Jaguars, pumas, cougars.”

      Zoe swallowed hard. “You’re lying.”

      “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

      “All you’ve done is lie to me,” she flung back at him, turning to face him, hand still tight on the iron doorknob.

      “I haven’t lied to you yet—”

      “At the airport you asked me if I was Zoe Collingsworth—”

      “And you said yes.” A humongous brown moth flit from the front porch light into the hall. Lazaro moved toward Zoe and gently but firmly closed the door. “I asked you for your baggage tag and you gave it to me. You came with me, Zoe. Happily. Willingly. Immediately.”

      Tears of shock and shame filled her eyes. “You let me think you worked for Dante!”

      “And I do.”

      Zoe fell back, leaned against the closed door. She pressed her palms to the surface. “You what?”

      “I work for your brother-in-law. I work for Dante Galván.”

      She couldn’t have heard him right. Something had to be wrong with her head or her ears. “What can you possibly do for him?”

      “Everything.”

      Lazaro’s lips had twisted and his cynical smile filled her with fresh horror. She closed her eyes and pressed a fist between her eyebrows, pressing at the throbbing in her head. This was crazy. Worse than crazy. “Please explain what you mean by everything,” she choked, unable to look at him. “Are you some kind of Boy Friday?”

      “Hardly. I’m the president of Galván Enterprises.”

      Her head jerked up, eyes opening. “But Dante’s the president.”

      “Dante is the chief executive officer. I run day-today operations.”

      “Since when?”

      “Since two years ago.”

      “But—”

      “Enough. I don’t want to discuss this anymore, not with you swaying on your feet. You’re tired, you need to bathe, eat, relax. Believe me, we’ll have plenty of time to talk later.”

      He turned away but she didn’t follow. “How much time?” she called after him.

      He stopped walking, slowly faced her. “What?”

      “You said we’d have plenty of time to talk later. I want to know how much time it is. How long do you intend to keep me here?”

      “Depends. It could be a week, could be two, but if I were you, I’d plan on two.”

      She opened her mouth to protest but he’d already turned the corner and disappeared down another hallway into a different part of the house.

      Zoe followed much more slowly, passing through a darkened bedroom into a large luxurious bathroom. It was the most sumptuous bath she’d ever seen. The floor, walls, bath—even the shower stall itself—were covered in a gorgeous red marble. The sink and bathtub were made of gold, the tub was oversize, at least big enough for two people, and already filled with water.

      Lazaro left her to undress, but Zoe couldn’t.

      She sank to the edge of the tub, sat on the wide surround and stared at the steamy water. Pools of scented oil floated on the water surface. He’d put something in there, something that smelled rich, comforting.

      She couldn’t reconcile anything he’d told her.

      Minutes passed and still she didn’t move, couldn’t move.

      A knock sounded on the outside of the bathroom door. She didn’t answer and the knob turned, the door slowly opened.

      “Are you all right?” Lazaro’s voice came from the shadows outside the door.

      What a question! Was she all right?

      No, she wasn’t all right, she was anything but all right. Her father was dying. Her sister was on bedrest with a difficult pregnancy. She’d been proposed to by an old family friend who was more old than friend. All right? No, Zoe concluded silently, savagely, she was most definitely not all right.

      Lazaro stepped inside the bath and looked at her. She hadn’t moved, he saw, and he gave his head a small imperceptible shake. He felt sympathy for her and it was the last emotion he wanted to feel.

      Moving toward her, he crouched down in front of her. “You’re getting yourself all worked up. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. Nothing bad will happen to Daisy, either. I promise.”

      Her mouth quivered. Her eyes searched his, her lashes damp, matted. “How can I trust you?”

      “I don’t know.” He fought the urge to touch her, fought the desire to reach out and cup her cheek. Her skin looked so soft, so tender. Like her heart, he thought, she was soft. She shouldn’t have ever been exposed to a man like him.

      This was Dante’s doing.

      In Dante’s