Guests. Ugh. It’s been a week since the funeral, and I’m long past tired of opening the house to visitors paying condolence calls, but I won’t shame my family by shirking tradition. Besides, my father deserves the honor.
I glance at my schedule and sigh heavily. I really can’t afford to play—but I’m already dressed for it. I woke up determined to spend some time with my horses today and threw on riding clothes first thing. There won’t be many more opportunities with Zeus and Atlas. The horses are one of the many reasons leaving Porto is so painful.
The doorbell rings, startling me. I glance at Isabel. “Are we expecting someone?”
“Not at this hour,” she says cautiously. “But people keep sending flowers and food. So much food.” She waves her hands in the air. “I’ve been giving it to the staff to take home to their families, but we still have more than we can eat.”
“Send it to Santa Ana’s. They must know some families who will appreciate the food. We shouldn’t let it go to waste.”
We really shouldn’t. But roasted meat and vegetables or a rum-soaked cake showing up on the doorstep is the least of my concerns. Abel and Tomas, on the other hand—that’s something to worry about. I’m sure when the doorbell rang, it crossed Isabel’s mind too.
We stare at each other silently as a single pair of footsteps approaches. If it were food or flowers, Jose, my father’s butler, would take it directly to the kitchen without bothering us.
Not waiting for the inevitable knock, Isabel gets up and pulls the heavy French door open.
“Pardon me,” Jose says in an apprehensive tone. “Antonio Huntsman is here to see Daniela.”
6
Daniela
My stomach roils, and I shut my eyes for a few seconds. Antonio Huntsman. As though I don’t have enough problems.
I’ll never understand why my father liked him so much. Not just liked him, but supported his rise to power. Papai could have squashed the entire Huntsman clan like a bug, but he didn’t.
“I don’t have the luxury of destroying our world, to exact that kind of revenge—even in your mother’s name.”
That was his final word on the subject.
My father never invited Antonio to our home, until the end—at least not when I was here. But his trust in him was an affront to my mother—and to me—and painful. Excruciatingly painful. Like picking the scab off a fresh wound. My scab. My wound.
Although he had a soft heart when it came to us, nothing was more important to my father than preserving our world. I understand the imperative too, but a small part of me will never forgive him for not destroying everything the Huntsmans hold dear.
No, Antonio wasn’t involved in what happened that day, but as far as I’m concerned, the men in that family are monsters. It’s in their genes. And if the gossip is true, this one’s no different than the rest. Maybe crueler. But if I have to choose, I’d rather take my chances with him—just not right now.
I glance at Jose, who’s still waiting patiently for some direction from me. “Please tell him I’m indisposed. Thank you.”
He hesitates before nodding. Not many people want to tell Antonio Huntsman to get lost, but the staff who work inside the house are loyal—sometimes to a fault.
Isabel turns to him. “I’ll go,” she says. She must have seen the same wariness in Jose’s eyes that I saw.
“Maybe I should see him and get it over with,” I grumble, although it’s the last thing I want to do.
When I start to stand, Isabel motions for me to stay seated. “You’re not dressed for visitors. I’m going to tell him you’re not seeing guests right now. I’ll invite him to come back. He won’t make a problem in your father’s house.”
Maybe not. But it’s not my father’s house anymore. It’s mine.
“Thank you.”
“Who shows up unannounced at nine thirty in the morning?” she mutters, breezing into the hall.
Antonio Huntsman, the arrogant bastard who does whatever he wants. That’s who.
To a large extent, he’s always been this way. Good-looking, rich, with a powerful father—a trifecta that never required him to learn humility.
It doesn’t have to be that way. Money and power don’t have to suck every drop of humanity from your soul—but they often do.
As much as it pains me to admit now, when I was younger, I had a huge crush on Antonio, and although he barely knew I existed, he was always nice to me.
When I was nine, he intervened when some boys were being mean to me and my friends at the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. He put an end to it pretty quick. Those boys never bothered us again. Neither did their friends.
There were a few other small things too, but he was so much older that our paths seldom crossed—unless he came to visit with his mother, which was rare, but always a special treat. I thought so, anyway.
But from the rumors I’ve heard in the last few years, there’s nothing kind about Antonio now. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. That old saying isn’t for nothing.
When curiosity gets the best of me, I creep into the hall where I can hear the conversation in the foyer, but still remain out of sight.
As I inch closer, the voices become less garbled.
“I’m sorry, senhor, but as I said a moment ago, Senhora Daniela is not seeing anyone until the customary calling hour.”
Isabel’s voice has an edge. She’s a stickler for protocol, and he must be giving her a hard time. Good luck, Antonio.
“The customary calling hour?” he hisses.
He won’t make a problem in your father’s house. File it under famous last words.
“Yes, senhor. Visitors are free to drop by to pay their condolences, but not until the appointed time, as has always been the custom.”
Oh Isabel, teaching a lesson in manners is not the way to deal with the likes of him.
“I’m a busy man. I don’t have the time or the patience for arbitrary customs. Tell Daniela I need to speak to her. I won’t ask politely a second time.”
A second time? You didn’t ask politely the first time. Good Lord, he’s even more full of himself than I remember.
I’ve heard enough. I might not fare any better, but it’s not right to leave her to deal with him.
I take a deep breath and force myself from the safety of the shadows.
7
Daniela
“Good morning, Senhor Huntsman,” I greet him as I enter the sunny foyer. Even though my stomach is somersaulting, my voice is steady and clear.
Antonio gazes over Isabel’s shoulder, but doesn’t say a word as I approach. Probably because he’s too busy raking over my form-fitting riding clothes like he can see right through them. It’s openly lewd and entirely unrushed, as though he doesn’t give a damn if anyone catches him looking.
“Bom dia,” he drawls in a buttery timbre, when I stop beside Isabel.
Although I feel my cheeks warming, I lift my chin and force a smile. There is no way I’m going to let this jerk see that he’s embarrassed me in my own house.