CHAPTER ONE
‘QUEMÉSTUequeraiosfazesnaminhacama?’
In response to the deep, masculine, insanely sexy voice that penetrated the fog of sleep enveloping her, Orla Garrett let out an involuntary but happy little sigh and burrowed deeper into the cocoon of beautifully crisp, cool sheets she’d created for herself.
Duarte de Castro e Bragança usually paid her dreams a visit the night following the day they’d spoken on the phone. Every time his name popped up on the screen her stomach fluttered madly. The ensuing conversation, during which his velvety yet gravelly tones sent shivers racing up and down her spine, unfailingly left every nerve-ending she possessed buzzing.
They’d never met in person and their calls weren’t particularly noteworthy—she ran an ultra-exclusive invitation-only concierge business of which he was a member, so they generally involved his telling her what he wanted and her assuring him it would be done—but that didn’t seem to matter. Her subconscious inevitably set his voice to the photos that frequently appeared in the press and which she, along with probably every other hot-blooded person on the planet, couldn’t help but notice, and went into overdrive.
It was unusual to be dreaming of him now when she hadn’t spoken to him in over a month. Even stranger that he was speaking in his native Portuguese when he only ever addressed her in the faintly accented yet flawless English he’d acquired thanks to a British public school education, followed by Oxford.
But she knew from experience that there was little she could do to prevent it, and really, why would she want to even try? The moves he made on her... The way she woke up hot and breathless and trembling from head to toe... It was as close as she got to the real thing these days, not that the real thing had ever been any good in her albeit limited experience, which was why she gave it such a wide berth.
Besides, there was no harm in a dream. It wasn’t as if she harboured the secret hope that the things he did to her would ever become reality. The very idea of it was preposterous.
Firstly, quite apart from the fact that she steered well clear of things she wasn’t any good at, getting involved that way with a client—any client—would be highly unprofessional.
Secondly, there was no way a staggeringly handsome, fast-living aristocratic billionaire winemaker would ever notice her in the unlikely event they did get round to meeting.
And finally, the entire world knew how devoted reformed playboy Duarte had been to his beautiful wife and how devastated he’d been when she’d died of an overdose six weeks after giving birth to their stillborn son, even if he was now reported to be handling the double tragedy with unbelievable stoicism.
No, her dreams were private, safe and, even better, unlike reality, completely devoid of the hyper-critical voice that lived in her head, constantly reminding her of how much she had to do and how, if she wanted to feel good about herself, she must not fail at any of it. In the dreams that featured Duarte, perfection wasn’t something to strive for; it was a given.
‘Hello,’ she mumbled into a gorgeous pillow that was neither too hard nor too soft but just right.
‘I said, who are you and what the hell are you doing in my bed?’
This time he did speak in English, his spine-tingling voice a fraction closer now, and, as a trace of something deliciously spicy wafted up her nose and into her head, warmth stole through her and curled her toes.
‘Waiting for you,’ she murmured while wondering with a flicker of excitement what he might do next.
Thanks to a last-minute let-down, she’d been working flat out for the past week, preparing his estate for the annual meeting of the world’s top five family-owned wine-producing businesses. Her exhaustion ran deep. Her muscles ached. A massage, even an imaginary one, would be heavenly.
‘Get up. Now.’
Well, that wasn’t very nice, was it? Unlike those of Dream Duarte, who generally smouldered and purred at her before drawing her into a scorchingly hot clinch, these words were brusque. This Duarte sounded annoyed. Impatient. Where was the smile? Why was the hand on her shoulder shaking her hard instead of kneading and caressing? And, come to think of it, why could she smell him so vividly? His scent had never been part of her dreams before...
Realisation started off as a trickle, which swiftly became a torrent, and then turned into a tsunami, crashing through her like a wrecking ball and smashing the remnants of sleep to smithereens.
With her heart slamming against her ribs, Orla sat bolt upright and cracked her head against something hard. Pain lanced through her skull and she let out a howl of agony that was matched in volume by a thundering volley of angry Portuguese which accompanied a sudden lurch of the mattress.
Ow, ow, ow.
God, that hurt.
Jerking back, she clutched her forehead, rubbing away the stars while frantically blinking back the sting of tears, until the pounding in her head finally ebbed to a dull throb and the urge to bawl receded.
If only the same could be said for the shock and mortification pulsating through her. If only she could fling herself back under the covers and pretend this wasn’t happening with equal success. But unfortunately she couldn’t and it was, so gingerly, with every cell of her being cringing in embarrassment and horror, she opened her eyes.
At the sight of the man sitting hunched on the bed, shaking his head and running his hands through his dark, unruly hair, her breath caught. She went hot, then cold, then hot again. Her stomach flipped and her pulse began to race even faster.
Yes, Duarte was actually here, very much not a figment of her imagination, and oh, dear lord, this was awful. He’d caught her asleep on the job. She’d all but invited him to join her in bed. And then she’d headbutted him—her most important, wealthiest client—and that was saying something when to even be considered deserving of an invitation their members had to have a minimum net worth of half a billion dollars.
At least she’d kept her clothes on when, energy finally depleted, she’d crashed out, which was a mercy, even if they were on the skimpy side, since it was hot in the Douro Valley in June. But how on earth was she going to redeem herself?
That he hadn’t been expected back for another three weeks was no excuse. Her company promised perfection on every level. Their clients demanded—and paid outrageously for—the very best. This was the absolute worst, most mortifying situation she could have ever envisaged.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she breathed shakily, deciding that grovelling would be a good place to start as she pulled up the spaghetti strap of her T-shirt, which had slipped off her shoulder and down her arm.
Duarte snapped his head round, his dark gaze colliding with hers, and the breath was whipped from her lungs all over again. The pictures she’d seen of him in the press didn’t do him justice. Not even slightly. They didn’t capture the size or presence of the man, let alone his vital masculinity, which hit her like a blow to the chest and instantly fired parts of her body she hadn’t even known existed. They didn’t accurately reflect the breadth of his shoulders or the power of his jean-clad thighs that, she noticed as her palms began to sweat, were within touching distance. Nor did she recall ever seeing in any photo quite such cold fury blazing in the obsidian depths of his eyes or a jaw so tight it looked as if it were about to shatter.
‘Can I get you some ice for your head?’ she managed, inwardly wincing at the memory of how hard she’d crashed against him before remembering the emergency first-aid kit that she kept in her bag just in case. ‘Painkillers, perhaps?’
‘No,’ he growled, his expression as black as night, tension evident in every line of his body. ‘You can answer my question.’
Right. Yes. She should do that. Because now was not the time to be getting caught up in his darkly compelling looks that were having such a strangely intense effect on her. Now was the time for damage control.