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Annabelle’s heart pounded in her throat. “I can take care of myself.”
“It’s all right to rely on others for help,” he
bit out.
“No, it’s not.” She looked away. “I’m better off on my own.”
“Do you really believe that?” Against her will, Annabelle looked back at him. She could smell his woodsy masculine scent, like saddle leather and scorching sun. Like heat and hardness and fire. And she yearned.
With a softly muttered curse, Stefano pushed away from her. He stood beside the bed, glaring down at her. “Stay here until the doctor comes. Don’t make me lock the door.”
“Fine,” she said, still shaking from her desire.
“You give me your word?”
“Yes,” Annabelle said. “I’ll see your doctor. Then I’m gone.”
He moved slowly around her bedroom and sitting room, closing all the blinds until it was quiet and dark. A soft breeze blew from the ceiling fan high above, moving the air against her skin.
A moment later, there was a knock at the door. The elderly Spanish doctor inside gave her a kindly smile. As the man checked over her ankle, she submitted to the examination stoically, aware at every moment of Stefano watching her.
The gray-haired man finally turned and spoke in the Galician dialect of Spanish to Stefano, who suddenly smiled down at her as he translated.
“It’s fine. A mild sprain. He says to keep ice on it and stay off it for the rest of the night.”
“I told you,” Annabelle said, exasperated.
The doctor patted her hand and left. As she started to rise, Stefano came to the bed.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Like I said, back to London.”
He sat down on the bed beside her. “Because I kissed you?”
“Yes.”
His dark eyes glittered in the shadowy light from the shuttered windows. “Are you saying I kissed you against your will?”
Annabelle remembered the way her knees had trembled as he’d kissed her, how she’d wrapped her arms around his shoulders as waves of pleasure had exploded down her body.
She remembered how she’d gasped, how she thought she’d die with need.
Swallowing, she looked away. “I can’t work with a man who clearly thinks all women are his own personal toys.”
“I don’t think that,” he said in a low voice, his body inches away from hers on the bed.
“I respect you, Annabelle.”
Sure, she thought bitterly, he respected her. And he would keep on respecting her, right until the moment she surrendered in his bed.
When he’d comforted her last night after her nightmare, she’d felt cherished, protected, even safe.
Safe? She mocked the thought. Stefano Cortez, safe? He was the opposite of safe. He was a heartless, selfish playboy. If she allowed him to seduce her, if she gave him her virginity, he might give her pleasure, yes. But he’d be gone by dawn. And she’d have sold her soul for that brief illusion of being cherished and protected.
“You don’t respect me.” Annabelle shook her head stonily. “I’ll have the magazine send another photographer.”
“You’re the only one I want.”
