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Hadn’t Stefano said everyone at the ranch ate together at the long table in the dining hall? She would just sit far away from him, talk to the laughing teenagers and pretend Stefano wasn’t there.
A childish action, to be sure. But it seemed her only hope. Because as much as she tried to tell herself that her body’s strange reaction to Stefano had been a one-off, and all the warnings she’d heard must have just thrown her, she didn’t quite believe it. She would just have to be icily polite to him from now on—a layer of ice on top of a glacier, she told herself.
But she didn’t believe that, either.
Even just thinking of him caused a shiver of heat down her spine. Why did her body react this way? Why?
Annabelle hurried toward the house. As she passed the large modern stable, she saw the boys were long gone. She was going to be late.
Rushing upstairs to her bedroom, she raced down the empty hallway and jumped into the shower of her en suite bathroom. She was toweling off her hair in two minutes flat. She pulled her wet hair back into a tight ponytail. Far from optimal for scar coverage, but it was all she had time to do.
Her hands trembled as she tried to hurry with her makeup, putting on thick foundation and cover-up over the long red scar that crossed her cheek and forehead. She’d repeated this routine every day, often multiple times, for almost twenty years. She could have done it blindfolded. Drawing back to survey her face in the mirror, she exhaled. At least her scar was invisible.
But she was going to be late, and she was never late for anything. Her cheeks went hot as she imagined Stefano’s darkly amused drawl: Did it take you an hour to find something casual to wear, Miss Wolfe?
And it might. Annabelle zipped open her carefully packed suitcase. I can do casual, she’d told Stefano defiantly, but as she dug through her suitcase she had a sinking feeling in her heart.
Her former assistant had always packed something casual for her on every trip just in case. Unfortunately, now Annabelle was packing for herself, and she hadn’t thought casual clothes were necessary. She double-checked, but the results were the same. Her only “casual” choices were an old silken robe she’d bought in Hong Kong, or a single pair of flimsy flipflops. Great.
Exhaling, she sat back on her haunches. She missed Marie.
Marie had been the most capable assistant she’d ever had, but she’d put her photography career on indefinite hold to raise her family. My camera will always be there, she’d told Annabelle, but time with my babies will be short and precious.
Just thinking of her assistant’s happy, exhausted face when Annabelle had visited her in the hospital, remembering the way Marie had cooed to her newborn baby as her accountant husband beamed at them both with an adoring, protective smile, Annabelle felt a pain in her throat as sharp as a razor blade.
With an intake of breath, she squared her shoulders. She told herself that self-pity was ugly and ridiculous and she must stop it, she must stop it at once.
Fine, she thought grimly as she reached for a clean pantsuit and pulled it over her sensible white cotton underwear. Let Stefano and his young ranch hands laugh at her in her dressy clothes. She didn’t care. In fact, it would make it easier.
She stared at her expressionless face one last time in the mirror and pulled her blond bangs forward over her now-invisible scar in an automatic gesture. She glanced at her watch: 7:59.
Closing her door behind her, she walked through the darkened hallway and down the sweeping stairs. Though the hacienda had only two floors, it was deceptively large, perhaps even the size of Wolfe Manor. When she finally approached the dining hall, she knew she was late. She came almost at a run.
But when she reached the doorway, she slid to a halt. Her mouth fell open.
She’d expected the dining hall to be brightly lit and filled with the noise of hungry teenaged boys fighting over the bread basket across the long wooden table.
Instead, the upper corners of the soaring ceiling were dark. A cluster of white candles flickered against the whitewashed walls.
Stefano was alone at the table.
When he saw her, he rose slowly to his feet. He looked dark, powerful, like a conquistador from a savage, brutal age. Emotion pulsed through her, a longing that tore at her heart.
He looked at her with eyes glimmering and black as night. Pulling out a high-backed wooden chair from the table, he said in a low voice, “You’re late.”
Annabelle froze, unable to move.
The flickering candlelight cast shadows on his chiseled cheekbones and shadowed, sharp jawline. His dark eyes were illuminated, as if lit by a deep fire.
He walked toward her. Stopping directly in front of her, he looked her up and down.
His gaze skimmed over her tight ponytail, her designer pantsuit and low sensible heels.
“You have a funny idea of the word casual,” he murmured.
It broke the spell. She exhaled.
Folding her arms, Annabelle glared up at him. “It was either this or my pajamas.”
