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?”
“The stablehands. The rest of your staff. You said they always joined you for dinner.”
“Oh.” Dropping his hand, he shrugged. “They finished eating an hour ago.”
She exhaled. “They ate early?”
“Sí.”
“Why?”
He looked down at her. “I wanted to be alone with you.”
She stared up at him, her mouth a wide O. “But why—why would you want that?”
“So we could talk.”
“Talk? Talk about what?” He smiled. “About your photography project, of course.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks burned. Of course, she thought, angry at herself. What else would he want to talk to me about? “Right.”
Stefano walked back to the long wooden table. Against her will, Annabelle’s eyes traced his lean hips and muscular thighs in his dark jeans. He’d showered and changed his clothes before dinner, and unlike her, he was decidedly casual. And so, so sexy. His black hair was still damp, pulled back tightly with a leather tie. Her eyes traced over his curved biceps to the tanned arms peeking out from his black shirt.
Going behind the table, he pulled out a chair.
“If you please,” he said.
Annabelle’s legs felt as if she were wading through water as she followed him to the table. She felt his gaze on her with every step. She fell into the chair.
Courteously, he pushed her chair forward under the table. He didn’t touch her at all, and for about the tenth time since she’d arrived at his ranch, she felt incredibly foolish for thinking he was coming on to her. He was just being polite. Of course he was, she yelled at herself. He’d outright told her he wasn’t interested in her. So why did she keep imagining that she saw molten desire in his dark eyes?