JENNIE LUCAS - The Forgotten Daughter

A warm breeze blew in from an open window, causing the tendrils of her hair to sweep against her cheek as their eyes held.

“Bien,” he whispered finally. “I’ll go. But I am glad you are here, Annabelle. I look forward to it. To all of it.”

As he left, it was as if he took the warm sunlight with him, leaving her in darkness and cold.

When she was alone, Annabelle sagged back against the large bed. Her knees collapsed and she sat down hard on the white down comforter. Her camera bag was still clutched in her lap as she stared blankly at the beam of sunlight against the white wall.

How was she going to get through this week?

How was she going to make it?

Every time Stefano looked at her she felt weak. Just touching his hand had made her jump out of her skin.

Did every woman feel like this? No wonder she’d been warned. But all the warnings hadn’t helped. She still … burned.

Annabelle covered her face with her hands. She had to calm down. Get ahold of herself. Everywhere she traveled, from Chile to Chelsea, men of every age and social rank had thought her single status and apparent freedom was a license to make a play for her. A farmer in South Africa had once tried endlessly to entice her into his bed, but every single time she had refused his endeavors. She’d laughed when the overweight, middle-aged man had pouted like a child when he’d realized that she wasn’t going to take him up on his offer. To assuage the man’s hurt feelings, Annabelle had ultimately bought him a short whiskey in the bar of the hotel she was staying in before sending him on his way.

The South African farmer hadn’t been a bad sort, really. At least he’d been obvious and clear about his intentions. She preferred that straightforward attitude over the slimy, underhanded things that rich tycoons had tried, such as when an American billionaire had set up a fake “photography session” on his private island in the Caribbean. Or when a married duke had invited her to a party in the Highlands, and she’d arrived at his castle to discover his party was only for two. All of them clearly thought Annabelle, with her independent status and liberated career, was fair game and an easy lay.

Of course, Patrick’s ugly lies about her, so many years ago, was probably a big reason for that.

Perhaps it would have been better if she hadn’t ever gone to London to study photography. After her father’s death, she’d buried herself at Wolfe Manor for years, hiding there like a ghost until she was almost twenty-two. If she’d stayed there, she wouldn’t have to fight so hard now in the outside world.

But she couldn’t believe that. She looked down at the camera bag in her arms. Taking pictures—whether of raucous revelers after a football match in London or of hunters pursuing deer in Africa—was the only time Annabelle felt alive. Working brought her peace. And more than peace: contentment. Even joy.

She didn’t want to give that up. She wouldn’t. Not for all the harassing men in the world.

“You want this by the fireplace?”

Annabelle looked up with an intake of breath to see Stefano striding into her room, barely visible beneath all the photography equipment covering his shoulders and arms.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, rising unsteadily to her feet.

He set down the cameras, the umbrellas and scrims, the battery packs and studio lights, her laptop and sleek portable printer, stacking them in a well-organized arrangement into the sitting area of her bedroom. It completely filled the corner between the white fireplace and the old sofa.

Turning back to her, Stefano lifted a dark eyebrow.

“Care to see if I’ve broken anything?”

“Um,” she said incoherently, biting her lip. Staring at the equipment, she looked up at him in amazement. “You carried all of it? In a single trip?”

“It’s more efficient that way, don’t you think?”

“How on earth did you manage it?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps I’m not as clumsy as you thought.”

“I never thought you were—”

His dark gaze went through her, and her throat closed. She forgot what she’d been saying.

Stefano’s sensual lips curved into a smile. “I’ll go put your truck away now. Dinner’s at eight in the dining hall. By the way, meals are casual here.” His dark eyes seemed to twinkle as he looked over her designer suit. “If you think you can manage that.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on the worn heel of his black leather boot. It took several seconds for her to come to her senses.

“I can do casual!” she yelled after him indignantly, but he was already gone.

She exhaled, staring at the closed door. Stefano Cortez was like no other man she’d met. Beyond his masculine beauty and devil-tongued charm, he had a physical strength and power that amazed her.

He’d carried all her gear. In one trip.

Usually, it took Annabelle—even with Marie’s help—four or five trips. And yet he’d carried it all on his back with ease, and then stacked it all efficiently. Looking through the equipment, she saw it was all perfectly in order. She opened the extra cases with her cameras inside, pristine and safe. She took a deep breath, trying to make her heart grow calm and her warm cheeks return to their usual cool state.

She was attracted to him, yes. But it was worse than that. She almost … liked him. And that frightened her most of all.

Annabelle exhaled.

Work. That thought calmed her as nothing else could. She glanced at her watch. She had most of the afternoon, and would make good use of it.

Not bothering to change out of her gray skirt suit, she grabbed an extra camera and put it into her bag. Going downstairs, she went out the front door.

Past the house, on the other side of the courtyard, she saw a whitewashed stable. She peeked inside. There were only twenty stalls, all filled with tall, powerful horses. The stable looked like the remnant of another era, as if she had gone back in history two hundred years to the time of carriages. Closing her eyes, she appreciatively breathed in the smell of fresh hay, horse sweat and leather.

She took a few pictures, then went on to explore the ranch farther. The fields around the sprawling, whitewashed house were wide and beautiful. She saw horses galloping beneath the sun, heard the lazy buzzing of bees in the soft air. The warmth of Santo Castillo was lush and lovely as a childhood summer.

Walking past a grove of trees, Annabelle saw a huge, modern, well-lit building behind the courtyard. A second stable? Annabelle shook her head, laughing at herself. Of course there was another stable. The Cortez horses were famous, after all, and twenty antiquated stalls were hardly enough for all the animals they raised here. Of course the ranch would be modern where it counted.

Opening the door, she walked inside the second stable.

It was enormous, with endless stalls and more horses than she could count. Then she heard laughter. She peeked around the corner and saw five young stablehands, perhaps eighteen or nineteen years old, dark-haired and skinny in T-shirts and jeans. They were working hard, two shoveling hay and three brushing down the horses, but even while so industriously employed the boys were still joking and scuffling. They reminded her of what Stefano must have been like at that age.

One of the teenagers saw her, and he cleared his throat. They all straightened, greeting her respectfully in Spanish.

“Buenas tardes, señorita.”

“Necesita ayuda?”

She shook her head. “I’m going to take some pictures, all right?” she replied in the same language.

They nodded, then went back to work. They seemed self-conscious under her scrutiny, but were too disciplined to do more than give her a shy glance or two beneath their dark lashes.