“Did you?” he said coolly.
“All the other ranch owners couldn’t wait to tell me how when you were nineteen, you stopped your horse before a jump in the middle of the London International Equestrian Show. You would have won the show-jumping prize. Instead, you dropped out of the event and never competed professionally again. No one could tell me why. Care to share?”
“Maybe some other time,” he said, never intending to do so. He turned toward the coat of arms in faded paint on the wall. “When I remodeled the house, I left that painting on the wall because it amused my mother.”
“That’s sweet. Are you close to your parents?”
“I was. They died. My mother only lived here a year.”
She looked up at him. Her gray eyes were sympathetic and even seemed to gleam with tears. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “My own mother died when I was just two.”
“I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. “But your father? Is he alive still?”
She averted her face. Her voice was strangely muffled as she asked, “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
She’d deliberately changed the subject. He wondered about it but just said, “I’m an only child.”
“I have seven brothers,” she said. “But I rarely see them.”
He looked at her, trying to see her face.
“Your house is lovely,” she said softly, refusing to meet his gaze. “But I’ve seen enough. Please take me to my room now.”
Without waiting for his reply, she turned on her heel and left the dining hall.
Stefano followed her, watching Annabelle as she walked. She was graceful, like a dancer. She was quiet, he thought, but not hard or cold as people called her—at least, not when she wasn’t actively trying to push back his advances. She was gentle. Wistful. Even sad.
Why did no one know this? Why had no one ever seen it in her?
Annabelle’s steps floundered as she paused at the base of the stairs. He saw the pink color in her pale cheeks. “I don’t know where we’re going. You need to lead.”
“Yes,” he said soothingly. Leading was what he did best. Going up on the sweeping staircase—noting the way she shrank back when he passed her—he led her to the second floor.
He’d remodeled the house when he bought it, but he’d changed very little of the look. He liked the solid old furniture, the traditional architecture. He’d added modern wiring and wireless internet, replacing the windows and appliances to make them more environmentally sound. But he preferred the house as it was. It was not just home—it was a symbol of what mattered and what did not.
His father had been a lowly stable keeper, and now the stables belonged to Stefano. His mother had once been a maid here, and now he possessed every stick of furniture.
His parents had been proud of their son’s success. They’d loved him. For one year, before his mother had died, they’d been happy here. If only Stefano had known sooner about her illness …
He froze the thought cold, and stopped abruptly in front of a door. “This is your room, Miss Wolfe.”
Annabelle stared at him with eyes the swirling gray of storm clouds. For a moment, she frowned up at him, as if bewildered by his sudden change in mood. Then she walked past him.
It was the best guest bedroom in the hacienda, the largest except for his own. He entered the doorway and relaxed at the comfort all around him. The room was bathed in beams of warm sunlight from the windows. The large bed had a lathed wooden frame, and a handwoven rug covered the clay tile floor. In a separate sitting area, an old desk held framed vintage photos of flowers, and an overstuffed sofa overlooked a small fireplace.
He set down her suitcase and duffel. “Will this do?”
She blinked, setting down her camera bag as she looked slowly around her. “It’s lovely.” She glanced at the corner by the fireplace. “I can store the rest of my photography equipment there.”
“Bien.” He watched her face, waiting for the moment when she would see the magnificent view out the windows. He wasn’t disappointed.
Annabelle’s eyes widened. Her full pink lips parted in astonishment as she walked across the bedroom and pushed open the French doors.
Smiling, he followed her onto the veranda. Like her, he saw horses crossing the golden fields beneath the verdant sharp mountains and blue sky. As always, his heart rose in his throat at the vision of his land.
“It’s so beautiful,” Annabelle whispered, leaning on the railing and staring out at the vast view. “I’ve never seen anything so lovely.”
Stefano exhaled. He hadn’t realized until then how much her earlier words about the ranch had wounded him. But of course she hadn’t meant them, not truly. How could anyone not see the miraculous beauty of his home?
He leaned on the railing beside her. “Every morning I wake,” he said softly, “it’s like waking up in heaven. I can hardly believe Santo Castillo is mine.”
“No wonder you rarely leave here.” She threw him a sideways glance. “Your women must love it.”
“Women?”
“Your queue of lovers.”
“I don’t bring any women here. If I wish to, as you say, take a lover, I go to the village tavern and rent a room for the night.” Leaning his elbows against the railing, he looked up at the wide blue sky. “I do not allow strangers here.”
“Except for this Saturday.”
He stared at her blankly.
“Your polo match. The charity gala,” she said with exaggerated patience. “The most exclusive event of the horse-racing world.” She shook her head with a laugh. “Did you already forget?”
He inhaled.
“Yes,” he said flatly. “I did.”
For a few happy moments, he’d forgotten his land would soon be overrun by service trucks and hired staff and white tents, by flashy cars and the sharp stiletto heels of skinny women in slinky dresses, by the flashy horse trailers of rich men who wouldn’t know a good horse from an old ass.
Annabelle blinked, staring at him. “You don’t like hosting the charity event?”
“No,” he said, looking down. “I dread it every year.”
“So why do it?”
He leaned back from her. “Perhaps I do it for publicity. Perhaps that is why my ranch is so exclusive,” he said coldly. “To get good press, to charge higher prices for my horses.”
“If you wanted more press, you would do the celebrity circuit in New York and London, you would do the horse-racing circuit in Kentucky and Dubai,” she observed. “But you stay here. You rarely even give interviews. That’s hardly the way to get press coverage.”
He looked at her. “Then perhaps I do it because I’m just a brilliant huckster who understands how to trick rich fools out of their money.”
An awkward pause fell between them. They were side by side, inches apart, leaning over the railing on the veranda.
“Maybe,” she said doubtfully. He heard her hesitate, then she added quietly, “Although I heard that you donated your fee for participating in this cover story to your charitable foundation. Most men would brag about something like that. You almost go out of your way to avoid credit.”
He stiffened. “So?”
“So,” she said quietly, “are you some kind of saint, Mr. Cortez?” Snorting