Antonio scratches his temple and smiles. It’s not a genuine smile, but more like the way lips might contort when someone is struggling for self-control.
While waiting for him to take a seat, I lace my fingers together tightly, so my hands don’t shake. As the seconds pass, I become more and more convinced that he doesn’t plan on sitting.
While I adjust my bottom on the seat, looking for some of the courage that was here just yesterday, Antonio splays both hands on the desk and leans over, his mouth an inch from the top of my head.
“I don’t give a damn where you’d be more comfortable. We’ll sit by the fireplace.” His edict is issued in a stern whisper, which makes it seem even more menacing. “Don’t make me say it again.”
8
Daniela
I grew up in a world where there is plenty of tough talk and no shortage of tough actions to back it up, but no one speaks to me like that—not in this house. At least they didn’t when my father was alive.
I swallow hard and try to calm my pounding heart. But I don’t move. I’m not sure I can move.
He steps back, still towering over me. “I’m a guest,” he says in a voice as tightly restrained as his movements. “In your home. And as ridiculous as it is, it appears that you’re in charge of the estate now. My comfort, not yours, is something that should concern you.”
I’m normally quite patient, and good manners have been drilled into me since the moment I took my first breath. But I’ve had my fill of his insults. More than my fill.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, holding my tongue, before I say something I’ll regret. If I don’t want this to escalate, I need to keep myself in check, because clearly no one checks him.
This is your house, Daniela. Act like it.
I can’t grind the heel of my riding boot into his balls like he deserves, and I’m not foolish enough to think I can toss Antonio Huntsman out on the street. But I do need to show some kind of authority, otherwise he’ll continue to humiliate me.
If he wants the property, he’s certainly going about it in a strange way. Maybe he thinks he’ll wear me down until I agree to sell it, just so he’ll leave.
That’s not happening. I’ll burn everything to the ground before I let anyone named Huntsman have my mother’s vineyards.
From the corner of my eye, I see him glowering at me. I can almost feel the burn on my scalp.
The one thing I’m sure about is that he’s not going anywhere without a fight.
Let him make an offer for the property, and you can politely refuse him. It might get a little testy, but then he’ll leave—just like the others.
He’s not like the others, a little voice in my head warns. But I can’t come up with a better idea.
I raise my chin. “Well, I certainly don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
It’s not my intention, but the words tumble out like an exaggerated eyeroll that I doubt he appreciates. Antonio doesn’t say anything, but there’s a growing intensity vibrating off him, and I wouldn’t be shocked if he grabbed a fistful of my hair and dragged me over to the sitting area near the fireplace.
Before he makes a move, I stand and step away from the safety of the antique desk that embodies my father and everything he valued. The safety is merely an illusion I’ve been clinging to since he died. Nothing is safe around Huntsman. Certainly not me. Even my father’s sturdy desk can’t change that fact.
“The door,” he says, pointedly, with his brow raised.
Something inside me snaps.
Fuck you! I want to scream in his face. Fuck you!
Don’t stoop to his level, good sense chides. I won’t, but I’m done being a doormat.
“This is still my father’s house,” I huff, indignantly. “He’s been dead just over a week. You might not feel as though you need to show any respect now that he’s gone, but I still do.”
Antonio tilts his head ever-so-slightly to the side, and stills. His face is unreadable.
My little tirade surprised him. To be honest, it surprised me.
He doesn’t say another word about the door. Not a single one. It feels like a victory, and defying him is strangely intoxicating.
Once we’re seated a safe distance apart, I clutch the win tight and find my voice.
“We really don’t know each other—not as adults, anyway.” I look directly into his dark eyes, without flinching. “You paid your condolences at the funeral home. If this isn’t a business meeting, what is it?”
Antonio sits back, with his broad shoulders filling the chair. He crosses one leg over the other, an ankle resting casually on a knee, like he has all the damn time in the world to toy with me.
Sitting there, he looks like any other handsome businessman in a conservative striped tie and shoes polished to a high sheen. Aside from the scruffy jaw, there’s not a single sign of wear on him—not an errant thread or even a small scuff. His brightly colored socks are unexpected, though. They’re all the rage with dark suits, but they seem too whimsical for such a dangerous man.
There’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes when he catches me checking him out. Suddenly my earlier victory seems inconsequential.
“Let’s get something out of the way—since we’re both adults,” he says, mimicking me. “I’m not interested in the grapes or the vineyards. This is exactly what I say it is: a social call. If it were something else, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell you.”
I don’t believe a word out of his mouth, but I nod.
“Now that your father’s gone, who’s in charge of the day-to-day operations?”
Social call my ass. “I am.” I keep my head high and ignore the smirk he’s not trying very hard to conceal.
“As you know, my father didn’t die suddenly. When he was diagnosed with colon cancer at the end of last year, he knew it was only a matter of time. He put in safeguards, and shored up the workforce so that there are only trusted people in high positions. The vineyards are well-established, with a manager who has been with us for two decades. He knows every vine as well as he knows his children. And with Isabel’s help, I’ve been running the house since shortly after my mother died.”
And I don’t have to justify anything to you. But I did. Rattling off a laundry list to bolster my credibility, as though he might take everything away if I can’t convince him I’m competent.
“It’s a lot for someone who only recently turned eighteen.”
Since my father’s illness became known, there’s been a lot of public speculation about how an eighteen-year-old girl would be able to carry on a family legacy. The mayor of Porto, suggested during a television interview, that I might need to find a suitable husband to help me. No one raised an eyebrow when he said it, although I suspect my mother rolled over in her grave.
“I’ve heard the gossip too. But no one needs to worry about me. I’m quite capable.”
Antonio doesn’t say anything as he adjusts the lower portion of his tie so that it doesn’t crease as it drapes over his belt buckle, but when he glances up, I see the incredulity in his eyes. It’s probably the most ridiculous thing he’s heard all day—or ever.