Forgotten Daughter

He knew she was baiting him, but he still felt annoyed in spite of himself. It was one thing to criticize him, something else entirely to insult his horses or his home. “You can’t?”

She shrugged. “It’s a beautiful place …”

“But?” he demanded.

Her eyes met his. “You charge double for your horses as compared to other breeders, and you often refuse to sell to customers for no reason. You make your buyers jump through ridiculous hoops.”

“My horses are precious and rare. The only men

who should own them are those who deserve to win races. It is not just a question of money.”

“And yet you charge a vast fortune.” She tilted her head and said doubtfully, “Maybe your horses are worth it …”

“Or?” he said sharply.

“Or maybe … you’re just a brilliant huckster who understands how to trick rich fools out of their money.”

He stared down at her. She gave him a tranquil smile, as if to say, I have more armor than you can possibly comprehend.

His whole body tightened painfully. His interest in bedding her now went beyond desire for her cool beauty to the passion for the hunt. For the thrill of victory. He wanted to best her.

He wanted to hear her cry out his name in the breathless sensual gasp of need.

He wanted her more than he’d wanted anything for a long, long time.

Narrowing his eyes, he evenly returned her smile. “I will be delighted to show you why we’re the best, Miss Wolfe,” he said. “I will leave you in no doubt.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously at his tone. He kept his expression bland, then turned away.

“Come.”

Stefano walked through the wide, dimly lit hallway. As she followed him, he matched his pace to hers. If she increased her speed, so did he. If she slowed down, he did the same. He gave her brief touches, crowding her space—innocently, of course, and always in the context of pointing out various beautiful items in the house, some of them antiques of great value. He guided her past an old Spanish painting of a woman …

“Is that a Goya?” she demanded breathlessly.

“Yes, I believe it is,” he said.

Then he led her into a large room with high ceilings of stucco and slatted wood. “This is the dining hall.” He motioned toward the long wooden table surrounded by chairs. “I eat here with the stablehands. Mrs. Gutierrez, the housekeeper, does not care for our rough manners and so often keeps to her own room. But I don’t stand on ceremony. We are equals.”

Annabelle’s pink lips curved. “Except for the fact that you own the place.”

He gave a sudden sharp grin. “Exactamente.”

They smiled at each other for a moment before Annabelle’s smile fell. Turning away, she gestured toward a faded family coat of arms painted on the high whitewashed stucco wall. “That’s your family crest, I suppose.”

“Mine?” He snorted a laugh. “No. My parents were servants here when this pazo belonged to an aristocratic family. But the family’s younger generation disliked living here and moved to a flashy palacio in Madrid. This house was abandoned. I bought it at a bargain price, using earnings from my brief and glorious show-jumping career.”

She gave him a sideways glance at his sardonic use of brief and glorious. “I heard about that.”

“Did you?” he said coolly.

“All the other ranch owners couldn’t wait to tell me how when you were nineteen, you stopped your horse before a jump in the middle of the London International Equestrian Show. You would have won the show-jumping prize. Instead, you dropped out of the event and never competed professionally again. No one could tell me why. Care to share?”

“Maybe some other time,” he said, never intending to do so. He turned toward the coat of arms in faded paint on the wall. “When I remodeled the house, I left that painting on the wall because it amused my mother.”

“That’s sweet. Are you close to your parents?”

“I was. They died. My mother only lived here a year.”