‘Let me look at you...’
That voice again. She jerked her hands free. Dante Acosta was a exciting force of nature but he knew it and had no shame when it came to wielding his power. It was up to Jess to resist him. If she could. She hadn’t made too good a job of resisting him ten years ago and, seeing him again, she was inclined to forgive her teenage self.
Her hands had felt so small and safe in his—which was all part of the illusion. This was no time to be seduced by a man with more money than Croesus and the morals of an alley cat. How would that help her father? If there was one thing she’d learned since returning home to take care of her father, it was that vultures were always circling. Everyone was out for a deal. Why should Dante Acosta be any different?
‘Jess?’
‘Apologies. Sorry. I’m forgetting my manners. Welcome—welcome to Bell Farm. Would you like a drink? I expect you’ve had a long journey.’
‘From Spain?’ A casual shrug of his massive shoulders hinted at executive travel in the most luxurious of circumstances. ‘Not so bad.’
Why did everything about Dante Acosta make her feel like this? She was always blasé about men. Because none could compare with Dante Acosta, as she had discovered ten years ago when she kissed him.
‘Tea, surely?’ she said to distract herself from the insistent throb between her legs.
‘Can’t stand the stuff.’
‘Oh.’ That took her by surprise. ‘Something else, perhaps?’
‘What have you got?’
From any other lips those words could be taken as an innocent request for a verbal menu. When they came from Dante Acosta the prompt was laden with deadly charm. ‘Whatever you like,’ she said brightly. ‘The stalls outside sell pretty much everything.’
As one corner of his mouth tugged slightly as if to say Touché, she knew he’d feel like velvet steel beneath her hands.
Had nothing changed in ten years? Was she still as reckless?
Far from it, Jess told herself firmly. She was no longer a reckless teen but a medical professional who had left a successful career at a leading London teaching hospital to come home to help her father.
‘I’m sure you want to see my father, not me,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Would you like me to take you to him?’
‘There’s no need,’ Dante said with a narrow-eyed look. ‘I’ll find my own way.’
As he turned, Jess felt as if she’d been appraised and discarded. That was fine. This wasn’t about her. She’d arranged the event with the specific intention of attracting an Acosta or the like, someone with a deep love of horses and plenty of money to bail her father out of trouble by buying up his stock. If Dante didn’t bite she’d have to find someone who would.
* * *
So, Dante mused as he wove his way through the crowd to reach the show ring—if a hastily tidied up paddock with a rickety fence could be described as such a thing—the little vixen he remembered had matured into a beautiful, understated, though rather too serious woman. He missed the mischief in Jess’s eyes, as well as the excessively impulsive nature that had prompted her, at the tender age of seventeen, to stand on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his lips.
His senses surged, remembering. He had reined in those senses then and would do so again. He wasn’t here to waste time on a serious-minded woman. He wasn’t ready to take any woman seriously. Why restrict his diet when the menu was so varied?
Leaning on the hated cane, he paused to greet some fellow polo players. Jess had attracted a motley crowd, from locals to minor royals and celebrities as well as sightseers from far and wide. Towering men in black suits with earpieces and suspicious bulges beneath their jackets followed hot on the heels of a well-known sheikh. Dante had never relied on security personnel for his safety, preferring to rely on his own skills to protect him.
One career had foundered while the other had soared, he mused, moving on when he spotted Jess walking arm in arm with her father. His team had informed him that the farm was in serious financial trouble. They were already working on the ins and outs and would advise him on the questions he’d pose before the day was out.
One thing was certain. Jess had left her job and risked her career to come here to save her father and the farm. She was unusually determined, and he admired that.
He also detested loose ends. If Jess hadn’t been seventeen ten years ago, who knew what might have happened between them?
The marquee was already crowded by the time he entered. He recognised more horse breeders, trainers and players like himself jostling to get to the front under Jim Slatehome’s nose. He wouldn’t have it all his own way today. There would be stiff competition for the better horses.
So he’d go one better.
He could offer double—triple—what anyone else could without feeling a pinch. He could easily afford it. Jim had sold him some good stock in the past, and what he’d seen of the ponies in the field so far suggested Jim had never really gone away, but had made himself invisible so he could nurse his grief.
The urge to help Jim Slatehome overwhelmed him suddenly. To fend off the competition meant putting something else in the pot. After the most recent text from his team an idea was already brewing. How would Jess take his idea, if he went ahead and bought the farm? Not well, he suspected as watched her standing like a protection officer at her father’s side. It had cost her everything to be here, financially, career-wise, every which way. His team had filled him in on the details. She’d qualified top of her class as a physiotherapist specialising in sports injuries. Her first job was at a prestigious teaching hospital in London, but she’d given that up to go freelance, which could be tricky. Rumour said she was successful. If she was as good as her reputation suggested, she could guarantee an endless stream of patients from the battleground of polo alone. The thought of those soft hands tracking right up his legs was—
Out of bounds, Dante told himself sternly. He was here for business and nothing else. He’d seen the vixen and satisfied his curiosity, and that had to be enough.
Thankfully, the Sheikh sidled up to him at that moment and as they got talking about horses Dante grew more determined than ever to win the day. He’d handle Jess’s objections. As her father mounted the podium and began his speech, Dante stared at Jess.
CHAPTER TWO
HER FATHER’S SPEECH went well. He seemed buoyed up. Maybe the brief chats he’d managed to snatch with Dante had served as a reminder that Jim Slatehome had once been great and would be so again. That was Jess’s dearest hope as she congratulated her father, and prompted him to start discussing specific ponies with potential buyers.
‘Be patient,’ he implored. ‘I’m going to speak to Dante while you circulate amongst our guests. Keep them happy while I’m away. This talk is important, Jess,’ he added with a significant look.
‘I’d rather stay with you.’ She glanced at Dante, standing waiting for her father to join him, and felt the same punch to her senses, added to which was the fear that they were cooking something up between them. Dante’s expression betrayed nothing beyond a cool stare in her direction.
‘This is still my farm, Jess.’
The reminder struck home. Anything she could do to see her father back on top had to be all right with Jess. ‘Promise me you won’t do anything silly before you and I have talked it through.’
‘Like fortune-telling in a tent under the name of Skylar?’ her father suggested, lifting one bushy brow.
‘You’ve got me there,’ Jess admitted wryly as she checked her watch to make sure she had time to chat to the guests before she was due to inhabit the small gaudy tent that would house the mysterious Skylar.
‘Go,’ her father prompted urgently.
With a last suspicious glance at the tall, dark man in the shadows who made her heart pound like crazy, she planted a kiss on her father’s cheek and did as he said.
&
nbsp; The day had turned cold Jess discovered when she stepped out of the marquee. Or maybe apprehension was chilling her. The sky was blue. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen and if the air wasn’t exactly tropical it was still warm for the time of year in this part of England. In honour of the heatwave Jess had dressed in a thick sweater, a down gilet and a padded coat. Even in summer it could be frigid on the moors.
It would have been a great time to appreciate how well the event was going, had it not been for the turmoil in her head. Seeing Dante again had affected her more than she could ever have imagined, bringing back those few moments in the stable ten years ago, when just for a moment Dante had responded, spoiling her for all other men. There had been men—of course there had, she was almost twenty-seven—serious men, driven by the need to educate; nerdy men obsessed with their phones; bon viveurs whose sole aim in life appeared to be preserving their bodies by pickling them in alcohol; gym bunnies and those she would have been wiser to swerve. But none compared to the brigand with attitude, known to one and all as The Wolf.