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“Oh. Right.” She bit her lip. “About last night. Thank you for staying with me. I’m rather embarrassed by the whole thing …”
“Don’t,” he said sharply. “You had a bad dream. It happens to everyone at times.”
Turning away with an unintelligible mutter, Annabelle lifted her camera and snapped pictures of the wood-slatted ceiling, of the horse in the closest stall, of the dust motes floating in the air from the first light of sunrise flooding through the open door.
The camera was her protection, Stefano suddenly realized. It was her mask.
“Put the camera down,” he said.
“I’m almost done,” she replied, taking pictures of the well-swept wooden floor. “Then I’ll leave you alone.”
“I don’t want you to leave me alone.”
Reluctantly, she lowered her camera. “I did have
a question.”
“Sí?”
She pressed her lips together. “I wondered. if there was any reason you left my bedroom this morning,” she said finally. “If you … saw something … that made you leave.”
He stared at her. “I left because of you.”
She looked up at him, her lovely face stricken. “You did?”
“I wanted you so badly it almost killed me not to touch you.” He gave a low, self-mocking laugh. “It was a new skill for me to learn, sleeping next to a woman I desire without seducing you. By dawn, my self-control was almost entirely lost.”
“Oh.” The creamy complexion of her cheeks turned the color of roses. “That was very
… gentlemanly of you.”
He snorted. “I’m no gentleman. But I know you did not ask me to stay in your bed last night for sex. You needed comfort. So that is what I gave you.”
She lifted her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He broke eye contact deliberately. He looked at her clothes. “Another elegant suit.”
She looked down at her designer pantsuit in pale pink, then lifted her chin. “I always wear a suit. I’ve dressed like this in the Gobi Desert, Tahiti, everywhere. Why should I treat Santo Castillo any differently?”
“You might prefer jeans and a cotton shirt for the hard work we do here,” he said frankly. “I could send for some new clothes for you in Algares.”
She shook her head. “I’m fine as I am.” Stefano set down his pitchfork. He started to pull off his white T-shirt. “Work as you please, then.”
She stared at him with an intake of breath. “What—what are you doing?”
“Working as I please.” He dropped his sweaty T-shirt to the floor, leaving his chest bare. Annabelle’s eyes fixed on his chest, her eyes the color of hot embers as her gaze slowly followed the trail of dark hair down his bare chest until it disappeared beneath the waistline of his jeans.
“Annabelle.”
Her eyes looked up. “What?”
Her tone was belligerent, but beneath her defiance he could see the flush of her skin and the way she swayed forward—even as her feet inched away.
If he hadn’t been hard for her before, he would be now. Painfully. “Come here.”
“What do you want?”
He looked down at her.
