“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.
“You must let me help you.” Reaching around her, Stefano opened the back of her truck. He pulled out her suitcase and duffel bag, then looked at all the photography equipment behind it. “I’ll come back for the rest.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“It is to me.” He lifted her heavy suitcase on his shoulder, then casually added her duffel bag on top, as if the weight were nothing. “Follow me to your bedroom, señorita.”