She choked down annoyance. It was easier to loathe the man before she realised they shared the same tastes.
But this wasn’t his home. Donato lived in Melbourne. Maybe he was a guest here. He probably lived in a soulless box of a house and had a chauffeur drive him in a stretch limo.
The thought soothed her. She didn’t like the notion they had anything in common. Anything other than that disconcerting stir of attraction. And the suspicion she’d got last night that he wasn’t a fan of her father. Clearly that was pure imagination, since he proposed to link himself with Reg Sanderson’s family.
Ella stopped her little car, telling herself it was the house that quickened her pulse. Not the man.
With huge streamlined windows and a curved end like the prow of a ship, the old house was stunning. The glimpse of dark blue ocean glittering beyond it enhanced its beauty, as did the lush garden that hid it from the security gates. Gates that opened as soon as she’d nosed her car off the street.
Had Donato been watching for her, or his security staff? She’d seen no one on the long drive from the street to the clifftop house.
Now there he was under the huge circular portico, his expression unreadable. Against the bright beaten copper of the doors he looked severe. She told herself it was because he wore black trousers and shirt, the sleeves rolled casually up his arms. Yet the contrast between the man and the bright metal behind him reminded her again of that fallen-angel image.
There was nothing casual about his wide stance. Or the way he watched her. Through the windscreen Ella felt the sizzle of his dark eyes. Her skin tingled, her blood a rush of adrenalin as she stared back.
The scary thing about Donato Salazar was the way he saw beyond the surface to the woman she was inside. To the woman she’d never dared let herself be.
Ella had never felt so naked as with him. It was as if he saw through a lifetime’s defences. He challenged her in a way no man ever had. Donato called to a reckless side she’d never let loose.
For a moment fear pinned her to her seat. Then she thrust open her door and got out, to be instantly enveloped by the summer heat.
Over the car roof their gazes collided and meshed. Ella’s pulse racketed and her insides clenched in a way that wasn’t about fear but anticipation.
How could she want a man who’d calmly decreed she had to marry him or watch her father ruined?
Setting her shoulders, Ella slammed the door and stalked across the terrace.
He didn’t move towards her, just stood: tall, brooding and enigmatic. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, making him look nonchalant. That only spiked her annoyance.
Even worse, he looked every bit as stunning as he had last night. The muted lighting at the party hadn’t exaggerated the wide set of his shoulders or the lean strength of his body. Her gaze skittered over corded forearms, dusted with dark hair, and heavy thigh muscles. For a shaky moment she wondered how it would feel to be held against that hard masculine frame.
Fear skidded down her spine. She didn’t do lust. Not like this. And not with a man like Donato Salazar.
He smiled as she approached and the pale scar on one side of his face disappeared into the groove running up his cheek. Just like that white heat shimmered through her feminine core. She blinked, stumbling a little on an uneven flagstone, and reminded herself she was too furious to feel attraction.
Nevertheless, she wished she’d taken time to hunt out a pair of heels so she didn’t have to tilt her chin to look at him.
‘Ella, you’re looking particularly vibrant today.’
‘Vibrant?’ She shook her head. ‘The word is angry.’
‘It suits you.’ His smile didn’t falter. If anything he looked satisfied. But despite the smile there was something guarded about his expression. His eyes held secrets.
Not surprising, given the games he played. She’d give an awful lot to know what they were.
What made him tick? What was he after? For the life of her she couldn’t believe a man like Donato Salazar really wanted to marry one of Reg Sanderson’s daughters. Especially her, the prosaic, sensible, not-a-glamorous-bone-in-her-body one.
She stiffened. This wasn’t about her. It was about saving Fuzz and Rob.
‘We need to talk.’
‘Of course. Come through.’ He stepped back and gestured for her to enter.
She strode past him into a wide circular foyer. Her staccato steps petered out as her gaze caught on the perfect curving lines of the staircase to the upper floor. Delicate wrought iron formed a balustrade featuring wood nymphs and fauns dancing up the steps. Pure art deco whimsy.