Forgotten Daughter

Nervously, she wiped her mouth with a napkin and washed down the last bit of empanada with a bit more wine. “You’re not eating?”

“I am,” he said, taking a bite of chorizo. “I just keep getting distracted.”

“By me?”

His dark eyes gleamed. “Sí.”

Her cheeks went hot as she put down her fork. He’s not flirting, she told herself fiercely. He’s probably just never seen a woman eat properly before. He’s used to dating actresses and stick-figure models. Annabelle gulped another long drink of wine, then picked up her fork again. She tried everything on her plate. When she looked up, she saw Stefano refilling her wine again. She hadn’t even realized her glass was getting low.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” she demanded with a laugh, only half joking.

“Would it be difficult?”

No. She felt half-drunk already just being near him. But she lifted her chin.

“I can handle my liquor,” she said, although the truth was she handled liquor mainly by staying away from it. She was famous for always sipping mineral water. She’d been teased for it, but having a drunkard for a father and drug addict for a mother tended to make a person more cautious.

And by the increasing dizziness in Annabelle’s brain she was drinking too much wine, too fast. Candlelight flickered against the high stucco walls of the dining hall as she looked at him. She suddenly realized her body had shifted in the chair. Instead of leaning away, she was now leaning forward, almost touching him. He could move a few inches and touch her.

Her attempt to calm her nerves with wine wasn’t working.

“You’re different than people say,” Stefano said in a low voice. His dark eyes caressed her face.

Annabelle stiffened, hating the thought of being the subject of gossip. She knew people called her an ice queen. People could be so vicious, even cruel, not caring whom they hurt in their own amusement. “I have no interest in hearing what people say about me.”

He shook his head, smiling.

“Yet another way,” he murmured, “in which you are different from any woman I’ve met.”

“Because I don’t swoon at your feet?”

Stefano gave that same low, sensual laugh.

“Sí,” he said with visible amusement. “Most women do swoon, believe it or not. But it’s more than that.”

As he looked at her, searing her with his intense gaze, she felt her skin flush with heat and her body start to melt. Please, don’t let me swoon, she prayed. Don’t let me make an utter fool of myself.

Setting her wineglass down, she sat back in her chair. “You said you wished to talk about work. Let’s talk about that.”

“Is work really all you care about?” “Yes.”

“I can hardly believe such a beautiful woman would say such a thing,” he said softly.

Was he flirting with her? Was he?

She started to reach for her wine, then caught herself and angrily pushed it away.

Stupid wine!

Stupid candlelight!

Stupid handsome man who was like a dark prince out of a sensual dream!

“My work is all that matters,” she bit out forcefully. “It is all I care about.”

He stared at her, his brow furrowed.

“That’s wrong,” he said. “You are a young, desirable woman. Enjoy your work, yes. But there’s so much more to life.”