His anger sharpened. He’d avoided meeting her most of all and now she made him sound like a peeping Tom. No matter that in part he felt like one.
‘It is past closing hours,’ he said stiffly.
‘You’re policing me?’ As she stared down at him that haughty barrier locked fully into place, leaching the last of the vitality in her eyes. ‘The club is closed.’
Her English accent was muddied. He figured it was from the years she’d spent abroad and the mix of people in her life.
‘I’m merely ventilating the rooms,’ she explained.
‘Getting rid of suspicious smells?’ He’d heard the rumours and he wasn’t going to ignore them.
A small smile emerged, nothing like the earlier one. ‘This is a non-smoking venue, not some den of iniquity.’
‘There are other vices,’ he replied with calm consideration. ‘Salvatore Accardi warned me this operation was going to bring San Felipe nothing but trouble.’
‘He would know all about trouble.’
She didn’t so much as blink as she snapped back her answer.
He’d wanted to see her reaction to his reference to Accardi—but he’d got almost none.
Salvatore Accardi, former Italian politician, had taken up permanent residence in his San Felipe holiday home. And Salvatore Accardi was reputedly Bella Sanchez’s father.
Twenty-odd years ago she’d been born of scandal, supposedly the love child of the married Salvatore and his sex-symbol mistress. Their affair had been splashed across all the newspapers of the day. But Salvatore had never acknowledged Bella as his baby. He’d refused to undergo paternity testing. He’d stayed with his long-suffering wife, pregnant at the time, and raised their daughter, who’d been born a mere three months before Bella.
Bella had been raised in the public eye, eventually dancing professionally before becoming chatelaine of this party house in the heart of Antonio’s principality. And according to Salvatore Accardi now, her presence would attract nothing but sleaze to San Felipe.
‘Is it so terrible to provide a place for people to have fun?’ Bella asked, shrugging one of her delicate shoulders. She looked slender, but strong.
Antonio frowned at the direction—distraction—of his thoughts.
‘This isn’t about that,’ he said coldly. ‘This is revenge. This is setting up so you’re right in Accardi’s face.’
‘Is that what he told you?’ Her poise cracked briefly as anger flashed. ‘Do you honestly think you can believe everything—or anything—he says?’
At a gut level Antonio had never much liked Salvatore Accardi, but nothing had ever been proven. All those rumours of corporate and political corruption had remained only rumours. And if the man had the personal morals of an alley cat, that was his own business. He’d owned property in San Felipe for too long for Antonio to find reason to require him to leave.
Just as there’d been no reason to refuse a work permit and residency to Bella Sanchez.
And didn’t everyone have the right to be believed innocent until proven guilty?
In her white short pyjamas Bella looked both innocent and unbearably sensual, because that white cotton was thin and she wore nothing beneath it. And when she moved? He could see the outline of her slim waist and generous curves.
‘I’m not sure a venue like this suits San Felipe,’ he said tightly.
‘As if there aren’t other clubs?’ she questioned softly but her gaze was sharp. She almost leaned out of the window frame, making him acutely aware of her unfettered breasts. ‘This isn’t a sex club. There are no pole dancers or strippers.’ She lingered over her quiet words, but then her eyes glinted. ‘Definitely no drugs in dodgy back-room deals.’
Her voice shook with fierceness. He knew her mother, Madeline Sanchez, one of the world’s greatest ‘mistresses’ in a time when such things had been scandalous, had overdosed more than a year ago in a Parisian apartment. Everybody knew all there was to know about Bella Sanchez.
‘This is a legitimate bar and dance floor,’ she added more calmly. ‘And I’m a responsible club owner.’
‘You’re young and inexperienced.’ He paused pointedly. ‘In managing a commercial enterprise, that is.’