All the warnings hadn’t saved her. He’d still penetrated her defenses. If she stayed at Santo Castillo, he’d have her flat on her back in a week!
A week? She shuddered. She wouldn’t last the night.
“I’ll tell the magazine to send another photographer,” she choked out. Clutching her camera, she whirled around, her eyes blinded with tears. Her foot stumbled over the uneven ground on the edge of the stream, causing her to trip forward into the shallow water.
She fell hard against the rocks. A wrenching pain in her leg made her gasp, clutching her ankle.
“Annabelle!” Stefano was instantly at her side in the cold stream. “Don’t move.”
His touch was gentle as he lifted her out of the water and set her gently down on the banks of the stream. Her calves were wet and cold as he pushed up her pink linen pant leg. As he ran his hands along her ankle, she was mesmerized by the feel of his fingers against her bare skin. Then he brushed her ankle and she winced.
He looked up at her. “That hurts.”
It was a statement, not a question. Reluctantly, she nodded.
“I’ll carry you back to the house,” he said grimly.
She blinked. “Carry me? In your arms?” He looked down at her with his ruthless dark eyes. “Si.”
Ohmygodohmygod. She shook her head vigorously. “No, I’m fine. Really! I can walk!
See?”
Rising, she tried to show him how well she could walk, only to wince and stumble when she put too much weight on her right foot.
Stefano’s black eyes blazed as he growled a
Spanish curse. Without asking for permission, he swept her up in his arms. She felt the warmth of his bare skin, the fire of his touch as he held her against his chest.
He looked down at her, his eyes as hot as fire.
“No more arguments,” he growled. “Now … you are mine.”
CHAPTER FIVE
ANNABELLE FELT DAZED, in a dream, as Stefano carried her out of the forest. A soft wind blew through the trees, moving the dark branches high above as beams of golden sunlight moved in patterns against Stefano’s face.
When they reached the field, she felt the warm Spanish sun against her skin. She felt the shifting muscles of his arms and bare chest as he held her, heard the rustle of jean-clad thighs as he walked through the swishy grass.
Annabelle looked at Stefano’s tanned forearms encircling her. She closed her eyes, shivering as she pressed her cheek against his rough, hair-dusted chest. Over the sigh of the wind through the grass, she could almost hear his heartbeat.
She hadn’t been this close to anyone. Not for twenty years. Even before that. She hadn’t been held like this by anyone, not since her mother had died when she was a baby. She’d had no embraces by lovers, not even a long hug from a friend. She hadn’t allowed it. She wouldn’t have allowed it now if he’d asked her, but Stefano had simply taken it as his right.
She was overwhelmed with feelings. Of safety. Of longing. Of need.
As they grew closer to the hacienda, some of the young stablehands saw them. Three came running with a shout.
“Get a doctor,” Stefano ordered in Spanish. “Miss Wolfe has been injured.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” Annabelle said in English. “You’re making too much of a fuss!”
Ignoring her protests, he took her inside the house and up the stairs. Carrying her as if she weighed nothing, he brought her to her bedroom and set her down carefully on the bed. Then he glowered at her.
“Wait here.”
A moment later, he returned with an ice pack. Sitting beside her on the bed, he grabbed a pillow and put it in his lap. Pulling off her shoe, he put her bare foot on the pillow and pressed an ice pack gently against her ankle.
Annabelle’s cheeks burned as she submitted to his care. Looking up at his face, all she could think about was the way he’d kissed her in the forest. The way his body had felt against hers as he carried her back to the hacienda beneath the warm morning sun. And the way he looked now, still shirtless, sitting on her bed. Annabelle’s eyes unwillingly traced the muscles of his tanned chest. They were so close, alone in her bedroom. It would be so easy to.