The Girl That Love Forgot

He paused, smiling down at her. “Would you care for a tour of the house?”

“A tour around the house?” She stared up at him, her brow furrowed. “While you’re carrying my luggage on your back?”

“So?”

She squinted at him doubtfully, then shook her head. “It’s your funeral. Sure. I would love a tour so I don’t get lost. Just make it short.”

Her words were abrasive, but Stefano could read her body. He saw the stiffness of her shoulders and tremble of her wrists. Beneath her cold demeanor, she was desperately trying to hide her attraction.

Testing her, Stefano placed one hand on the small of her back, as if to guide her.

He heard her intake of breath, the hiss through her teeth as she jumped away. She glared up at him with wide-set gray eyes.

He hid a smile. Maybe he wouldn’t have to wait until tomorrow, after all.

He looked back at her innocently, motioning down the hall. “This way, Miss Wolfe.”

She set her jaw, hitching her leather bag up her shoulder as she growled, “You’re the tour guide. You go first.”

She clearly didn’t want him to touch her, not even briefly, not even over multiple layers of her buttoned-up, businesslike clothing. Hostia, the woman was aware of him. And she was skittish, in spite of her defiant words.

He’d never seen a woman who so badly needed to be kissed. With her hair in a tight blond chignon, she had the cool poise of Grace Kelly, and the same hint of simmering fire beneath the surface.

Stefano wanted her. Not just for the novelty of a challenge. He wanted her for pure pleasure.

But Afonso Moreira had been right. This was not a woman who would easily be tamed. Her guard was up far too high. If Stefano wooed her too strongly, she would flee. He’d seen that in the courtyard. So to calm her fears, he’d implied he did not want her, and allowed her to draw her own conclusions.

Let’s just say you’re not my usual type. It wasn’t even a lie. His usual type was beautiful, willing and uncomplicated. A pretty tourist passing through the nearest village. A French socialite or New York debutante he would see once a year, or better yet, never again.

Annabelle Wolfe was unique. Special. And he would have her.

Stefano walked ahead in the hallway, listening to the clack-clack of her two-inch heels on the tile floor behind him.

“This is the main salon,” he pointed out as they passed the wide arched doorway. They continued down the hall past an old suit of armor, gleaming in the dull light. “Through that door is the library. And that hallway there leads to the kitchen.”

“This place is like a maze.” Her voice was cool, almost sardonic. “Will I need a map?”

He slowed, walking beside her. “Somehow I doubt that. You spend your life traveling the world, do you not? From Zanzibar to the Yukon, I’ve heard.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you have a home?”

“London.” Her voice was clipped, as if reluctant to give even the smallest tidbit of personal information.

“And yet are you ever there? That’s hardly a home.”

“The world is my home,” she bit out.

“I do not envy your life,” he said softly.

She lifted her chin, and her gray eyes glittered like silver shards in snow.

“For the past few months,” she said, “I’ve visited horse ranches all over Europe. I’m curious to see how your ranch can possibly be the best. Because so far I can’t see it.”

He knew she was baiting him, but he still felt annoyed in spite of himself. It was one thing to criticize him, something else entirely to insult his horses or his home. “You can’t?”

She shrugged. “It’s a beautiful place …”