While he’s not entirely wrong, his self-righteousness makes me want to scream.
When the others came looking to buy the vineyards, they at least pretended to show me a modicum of respect. They spoke politely, and brought fancy pastries, flowers, and silk scarves to woo me. Huntsman brought his condescending attitude.
“Have there been many inquiries about the property?”
I flash him a small, impertinent smile. “I thought this was a social call?”
He glares at me, the way a parent might warn a naughty child before she’s sent to time-out. But at this point, I’m too irritated to fall in line for him, even though I have no doubt he’d be happy to punish me if I continue.
“It is,” he replies tersely, nostrils flaring. “I’m just making conversation. And trying to gauge how much pressure you’re under.”
So you can step in like some hero, and offer to buy the vineyards for a song.
“Why is that?” I demand more forcefully than is polite.
His jaw tics, and the silence is uneasy. Antonio doesn’t seem so amused by me anymore. Given his stony eyes, I should probably be more nervous, but getting under his skin feels like another victory. It’s almost as tasty as the last.
“I’m getting the sense you don’t trust me, Daniela.” He says it so quietly, the silence is virtually undisturbed.
Trust. Such a weighty word. I sit with it for a minute, maybe two, mulling it over. “Should I trust you?” I ask finally.
The words wobble out with a soft, but uncertain landing. They sound sincere, without a hint of sarcasm—like maybe I want to trust him.
Deep down, I long for someone with his kind of power and knowledge to guide me. I’m in over my head. But it doesn’t matter what he says, or how desperately I need someone like him on my side. I’d never trust him. Not in a million years.
Antonio presses his lips together until they all but disappear.
Should I trust you? My ridiculous question flails in the silence, as I search frantically for a way to snatch it back.
“I’m not here for the grapes or the vineyards.” His tenor is unyielding, but the edge is mostly honed. “I don’t like to have my motivations questioned, or to repeat myself.”
His stormy eyes drill into mine, boring deep, until I’m certain he’s seeing more than he should—more than I want to reveal. I’m so flustered, I look away. It’s not a tactful move, or discreet. There’s no doubt that Antonio is fully aware of how uncomfortable I am. How uncomfortable he makes me.
“I came to check on you,” he continues, in a sober tone that’s abandoned all of its sharpness. “But no. You shouldn’t trust me. I’m everything you believe me to be. Probably worse.”
9
Daniela
I shiver as a chill blows through the room, rubbing my arms to warm myself.
“You shouldn’t trust me. I’m everything you believe me to be. Probably worse.”
What kind of man says that about himself—without shame or apology? No one.
His expression is virtually unreadable, like a skilled poker player biding his time. Although, I don’t feel as though he’s playing me. Not about this. I think he meant exactly what he said.
I draw a quiet breath. The no-holds-barred admission is startling, but in an odd way, the frank honesty is disarming. Like everything else about him, it rattles my bones, leaving me off-balance.
And because I must be the most foolish woman in the entire valley, it also draws me to him in ways that I don’t want to be drawn to him. I can’t explain it. But it’s true.
Antonio Huntsman is danger wrapped in a handsome package, with masculine ridges and angles along a powerful frame. Underneath, barely concealed by the refined wrapping, is the worst kind of danger. I know it. I know it in my marrow. I know it in every cell of my being. Yet some element of that danger is attractive.
God forgive me.
I raise my eyes in his direction. He’s watching me. Studying me like a novelty. I suppose I am. The girl who can’t make up her mind about the elusive Antonio Huntsman—the country’s most eligible bachelor. Like the devil he is, I’m sure he senses every conflicting emotion warring inside me.
“Have there been many inquiries about the property?” he asks, again.
Inquiries about the property. Yes, that’s where we were before I started thinking about kissing the bad boy until he weakened my resolve, and I gave him everything.
He’s not a boy, Daniela. Don’t make that mistake.
I glance at his face, unsure how much to divulge about the property. Although I’m certain he knows all about the men who came calling this week. I doubt anything of consequence happens in Porto that he doesn’t know.
“The vultures began circling before the body was cold,” I confess, painting a more visceral picture than my stomach can take.
Antonio smiles gently—as gentle as danger smiles. “I’m sure they did. It must be tiresome. What have you told them?”
“The same thing I’ve told you. The property is not for sale, and neither am I.”
He looks down at his trousers, smoothing the lightweight wool over his thigh. My pussy flutters as his fingers skim the thick muscle. It’s unexpected. And unwelcome. And entirely human.
“Marriage proposals?” He gauges my reaction with an eagle eye.
From men of all ages. More than I care to count.
I shrug.
“Did you order a tiered chocolate cake or a white one?” He says it with such a dry wit that I smile. A real smile. It’s been so long, I’m surprised the muscles still act voluntarily.
This side of him is charming, although I’m not foolish enough to let my guard down completely. But I’ll play.
“A white cake, of course.”
“Ahh. Of course. I should have known. A traditionalist. A cake as pure as the bride.” His eyes twinkle at my expense. It’s another subtle dig at how young I am—how inexperienced.
Hopefully my face isn’t as red as it feels.
Fortunately, he pulls a phone from his jacket pocket and glances at the screen, sparing me some embarrassment.
“I’m happy to hear that nothing’s for sale,” he murmurs, still preoccupied with the screen. “When the time comes, I’m sure you’ll hold out for a high price. That’s what girls like you are taught from the womb.”
He scowls at the phone, ignoring me as though I’m not even here.
Girls like me. He didn’t say it in a nasty way—and he’s not entirely wrong either. Although girls like me don’t set their price, because they don’t have complete freedom to choose who they marry. Some have no freedom.
But I do. And I’m definitely not for sale, and with any luck, I won’t have to sell the property either. Eventually, I want to come back to Porto. Someday, when it’s safe again, I want to come home.
My chest tightens, welling with emotion I’m having trouble controlling. It’s almost as though the reality of leaving Porto, of leaving home, hits me now, for the first time. I’ve been so wrapped up with my father’s deteriorating health, then the funeral, and the vineyards, and the preparations to leave, that I haven’t stopped to think about, to really think about what leaving will mean not only for me, but for all of us.