“You feel it’s wise to leave the country so soon after your father’s death?”
“It’s what he wanted.” Well, it’s what he would have wanted, if he’d been close to his aunt.
“Who’s traveling with you?”
“I’m traveling alone,” I say confidently, having practiced this response in my head many times. Someone, even if it was only David the vineyard manager, was sure to ask.
“Alone?” He sits taller in the chair, white-knuckling the narrow, upholstered arms. “Have you ever traveled anywhere alone? Have you even been to the market without a shadow?”
No, I haven’t. Still, he’s insufferable.
“I would ordinarily travel with Isabel. But she’s moving to be closer to her husband’s family. They have a young daughter and feel it would be best to raise her farther outside the city.”
“I don’t give a damn about Isabel,” he snaps. “She doesn’t look like she could protect herself, let alone you. I’m talking about trained men. Guards.”
I’m not sure how to respond.
You should have kept your mouth shut and let him find out when everyone else did—after you were safely out of the country.
I don’t know what made me think I could manipulate him like I’m a covert spy for the Portuguese Security Intelligence Service. This was a huge mistake.
“I’m taking a direct flight, and my aunt’s friend is meeting me at the airport,” I tell him carefully. “I wasn’t planning on taking any guards. No one will know me there, so I thought it would be safe. But you make a good point. I’ll reconsider my plans.”
Hopefully that’s enough to placate him.
“I’m surprised you’re not concerned with what people will say about a woman traveling alone, considering you were too afraid to close the damn door in your own house.”
He’s testing. Stay strong.
I look directly into his eyes. “I understand that the Canadians aren’t as concerned with unchaperoned women as we are in Porto.”
His nostrils flare, and he snarls like an angry dog as he stands. “You seem to be coping fine.”
I stand too, still wondering why he came, but thrilled to be almost rid of him.
As we cross the room, he stops and lifts the photo of my mother and me off my father’s desk.
While he gazes at it, I bristle. It takes great effort not to yank it out of his hand so he doesn’t dirty my mother with any more Huntsman DNA.
“How old were you when this was taken?”
His voice is whisper quiet, almost reverent, and I relax a bit.
“Five.”
“Were you a dancer?”
I shake my head, lulled by something in his voice. “No. The white leotard and purple tutu was my favorite outfit. It had tiny beads that sparkled. I wore it as often as my mother allowed.”
Why did I share that special memory with him? Why?
He squeezes my wrist in a gesture that feels intimate and overwhelming—strangely comforting and completely out of character. It’s quick, and there’s no time to wrest my arm away before it’s over.
Antonio places the photograph back in its spot behind the little heart and turns toward the door without sparing me another glance.
The silence is thick and chewy, and there’s a noticeable shift in his demeanor before we reach the door. It’s like the sudden wind change that occurs before a storm, sending animals scurrying for shelter. Not an innocent cloudburst, but a brutal storm with vicious winds and grapefruit-size hail that destroys everything in its wake.
It’s coming. I feel it. But it’s too late to hide.
12
Daniela
Just before the doorway, he stops abruptly, and hands me a card. “You can reach me at this number day or night, if you need anything.” He leans in as he speaks, his smooth, full lips grazing my ear.
I leap back, but he reaches for my arm, yanking me toward him, and swivels, until I’m pinned between his body and the wall. For a split second, I feel like Margarida, and to my horror, my body reacts just as I’ve always imagined hers did.
“I don’t want to be overheard,” he says gruffly. “You were the one who insisted on keeping the door open.” He slips the card into my waistband, and his fingers linger too long on my bare skin. “Call if you need anything. That includes protection from my uncle and my cousin Tomas.”
Protection from my uncle and my cousin Tomas.
My vision blurs, as the blood rushes from my head. If he says anything else, I don’t hear it above the fear clawing into my chest.
Why would he say that about his uncle and Tomas? What does he know? Nothing. Don’t be foolish, Daniela. Keep your mouth shut.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My voice is shaky. There’s no way he missed it.
His eyes are glued to me—soaking up all my discomfort.
I’m worried that he’ll see something in my face and press me for information, so I lower my gaze and study the pattern on his shirt to calm myself.
“I have two pieces of advice that I would take to heart if I were you. Don’t attempt to sell the property right now. It’s never a good idea to make decisions of that magnitude while you’re grieving.”
He pauses, but I don’t dare look up. Before he’s done giving me advice, I’ll have counted every white-on-white swirl dotting his shirt front.
“Don’t ever lie to me. I can spot a liar anywhere, even a good one, and you are not good,” he taunts. “It never ends well for those who lie to me. Never.”
With that warning, he lowers his head, using his solid body to back me flush against the plaster, where he crushes his mouth to mine, coaxing my lips open with his tongue.
In seconds, my knees buckle and I’m clinging to his shoulders just to stay upright.
“Have you ever been kissed, Princesa?”
His voice is husky, and although I feel the ferocity throbbing inside him, he uses a gentle thumb to sweep a loose strand of hair off my cheek.
The combination—tender and fierce—is dazzling, stealing my breath as it sends shivers skittering everywhere.
Suddenly I’m too hot, panting like an animal. No, I’ve never been kissed before. Not like this. Somehow, I manage to shake my head, as his fingers glide through my braid, loosening the thick plait.
“We better make it memorable, then,” he murmurs against my throat, before his lips are on mine again, and all I know is his warm, velvety mouth and the strong hand that cradles my head.
He’s dangerous, common sense whispers. He’s dangerous.
But I’m paralyzed. Helpless to save myself. I don’t even try.
I don’t want to be saved.
He inches closer, and my back arches off the wall to meet him.
Our bodies are fused, and my hips sway against him without any sense of self-preservation. It’s as if I don’t understand exactly where this is going. But I do.
He’s dangerous, common sense whispers, louder this time.
My head spins and spins, incoherent thoughts chasing each other until I’m dizzy.
I might be naïve, but even I recognize the hard shaft wedged between us as arousal. But instead of being intimidated or frightened by something I know so little about, I’m a hot, tingly bundle of nerve endings, lost in the scent of his spicy cologne. Danger be damned.