With an intake of breath, she squared her shoulders. She told herself that self-pity was ugly and ridiculous and she must stop it, she must stop it at once.
Fine, she thought grimly as she reached for a clean pantsuit and pulled it over her sensible white cotton underwear. Let Stefano and his young ranch hands laugh at her in her dressy clothes. She didn’t care. In fact, it would make it easier.
She stared at her expressionless face one last time in the mirror and pulled her blond bangs forward over her now-invisible scar in an automatic gesture. She glanced at her watch: 7:59.
Closing her door behind her, she walked through the darkened hallway and down the sweeping stairs. Though the hacienda had only two floors, it was deceptively large, perhaps even the size of Wolfe Manor. When she finally approached the dining hall, she knew she was late. She came almost at a run.
But when she reached the doorway, she slid to a halt. Her mouth fell open.
She’d expected the dining hall to be brightly lit and filled with the noise of hungry teenaged boys fighting over the bread basket across the long wooden table.
Instead, the upper corners of the soaring ceiling were dark. A cluster of white candles flickered against the whitewashed walls.
Stefano was alone at the table.
When he saw her, he rose slowly to his feet. He looked dark, powerful, like a conquistador from a savage, brutal age. Emotion pulsed through her, a longing that tore at her heart.
He looked at her with eyes glimmering and black as night. Pulling out a high-backed wooden chair from the table, he said in a low voice, “You’re late.”
Annabelle froze, unable to move.
The flickering candlelight cast shadows on his chiseled cheekbones and shadowed, sharp jawline. His dark eyes were illuminated, as if lit by a deep fire.
He walked toward her. Stopping directly in front of her, he looked her up and down. His gaze skimmed over her tight ponytail, her designer pantsuit and low sensible heels.
“You have a funny idea of the word casual,” he murmured.
It broke the spell. She exhaled.
Folding her arms, Annabelle glared up at him. “It was either this or my pajamas.”
His dark eyes glinted with amusement.
“Next time,” he said, his lips curving wickedly as he looked over her body, “choose the pajamas.”
His gaze made her catch her breath. She turned away sharply to look around the dining hall. The candlelight didn’t quite reach the soaring ceilings, leaving the high windows the scarlet color of sunset. The stone fireplace on the other side of the room was shadowy and unlit.
Annabelle swallowed. “Did the electricity go out or something?”
“No.”
“Why the candles?”
“Romance, querida,” he said softly.
She stared at him, shocked. He looked down at her with heavy-lidded eyes, and her heart turned over in her chest.
“After all,” he said, his lips turning up in a smile, “you are here to show the readers of the magazine why Santo Castillo is the top-ranked ranch in Europe. I wanted you to see my home as it might have looked three hundred years ago. I wanted you,” he said in a low voice, “to see the magic.”
Magic? Annabelle already saw the magic. She was looking right at him.
“Come,” he said, holding out his hand. “Join me.”
She stared down at his hand, remembering what had happened last time. She looked up at his handsome face with dismay. How on earth was she supposed to keep her distance with just the two of them like this? A romantic dinner with Stefano Cortez, alone together in a candlelit hall, was not on her agenda!
Keeping her hands at her sides, she licked her lips. “But where is everyone?”
His gaze fell to her mouth. “Who?”