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“Si. Breeding stock for me.”
She was looking at him as if he’d lost his mind. For once, he could hardly blame her.
“For my stallions,” he amended. “My Andalusians. Pura Raza Espanola.” Lucas’s gaze hardened. “But there is no mare here. No PRE stock at all—not even that ugly thing you call a stallion. Or would you like to pretend I am wrong about that, too?”
The woman wet her lips with a quick sweep of her tongue. He found himself following the simple action with hungry concentration, though why he would was beyond him.
She had spirit and fire but she was not the kind of woman who would ever interest him.
He’d seen females like her all his life. They hung around ranches. Around horse shows. Their passion was horses. They dressed like men, rode like men. As far as Lucas was concerned, they might as well have been men.
He knew exactly how he liked his women.
Sweet-smelling, with perfume in their hair, not hay. Smiling and soft-spoken, not glowering and acid-tongued. He liked to see them use feminine wiles, not pseudomasculine bravado.
He supposed some might think this woman had a pretty face, if you overlooked the smudges and smears. And, yes, her hair was an extraordinary shade of black, the color of a raven’s wing. He suspected it would be heavy as raw silk, if she ever let it out of that unflattering braid and brushed it into smooth, shiny waves.
He could even admit that the rest of her had promise, too. The high, full breasts. The slender waist and curved hips. The long, long legs that could draw a man deep inside her heat…
“Who are you?”
Her voice pulled him back to reality. “What?”
“I said, what’s your name?”
The tone of command was back. It made him angry enough to draw himself up to his full six foot two and respond with the icy hauteur of a man who was never questioned.
“I am Lucas Reyes.”
To his surprise, her face turned white. She had heard of him, then. He found himself taking some satisfaction in that.
“No! You can’t be!”
“I assure you, señorita, I am.”
“Lucas Reyes? Prince Lucas Reyes? Of the Reyes Ranch in Spain?”
Was his hot-tempered hoyden going to throw herself at his feet? Women sometimes did, if not literally.
For some insane reason, the possibility that she would turn out to be such a woman made him even angrier, angry enough to respond with disdain.
“Not of the Reyes Ranch,” he said, lifting his hand from her wrist. “To all intents and purposes, I am the Reyes Ranch.”
The woman shook her head. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Really?” he purred, folding his arms.
“I sent a letter—”
“You sent a letter?”
“I mean—I mailed a letter. To Prince Felix Reyes. Your father.”
“My grandfather. And what did this letter say?”
“It—it told you not to come.”
“If there was a letter,” Lucas said sharply, “neither my grandfather nor I ever saw it.” He flashed a cold smile. “So, I am here, as planned. Perhaps we can agree that it is even possible I might—what was your charming phrase? I might know one end of a horse from the other.”
