Greed (A Sinful Empire Trilogy Book 1) Page 4

  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.

  The sacrifice is enormous—especially for Isabel and Jorge. I’ll add it to all the other things they’ve done for me that I can never repay.

  You can’t have a meltdown now. Not in front of him.

  I cough to cover a sob that’s threatening to spill out into the room, but it only calls attention to my distress.

  Antonio lifts his head and opens his mouth as if to say something, but instead, he gives me a moment to collect myself.

  “I apologize,” I murmur. “It’s been a long few weeks.”

  “Don’t apologize. Raw emotion is honest. Being honest with me always pays off. Always.”

  I simply nod, because I don’t trust the words to come out without wobbling. I don’t care one iota about being honest with him. With any luck, our paths will never cross again.

  “Now I’m going to be honest with you. I need to make a call.”

  Thank God. I start to stand, thinking he’s leaving, but he shakes his head. “Don’t get up. I’ll only be a minute.”

  So much for God’s mercy. At least I’ll have a small break from him and his intensity.

  10

  Daniela

  Antonio walks over to the window on the far end of the room and looks out so that I can’t catch more than cryptic bits and pieces of the conversation. Although it doesn’t matter. I’m not interested in his call.

  I’m focused on his back. Wide at the top, tapering gently into a perfect vee.

  His suit jacket fits like a glove. The luxurious fabric stretches across his broad shoulders in a way that makes my mouth water.

  It’s true. I wish it wasn’t, but I won’t kid myself.

  He holds the phone to his ear with his left hand, while the right is high on the window jamb. The set of his arm, with his long fingers against the wood, evokes a memory. My eyes glaze over, and I feel the fluttering between my legs again.

  I’m mesmerized by those strong hands.

  Just like that day.

  When we were tweeners, my friends and I stalked Antonio and his buddies, Cristiano and Lucas, like they were celebrities. Although my crush was one-sided, it didn’t stop me from scribbling “Daniela + Antonio” inside hand-drawn hearts in my notebooks.

  It was a harmless crush—until the day we caught him kissing Margarida Pires, in an alley on the edge of the square. Margarida was my friend Susana’s older sister. She was beautiful, with hair the color of spun gold, and round, full breasts that men of all ages stared at for too long.

  Susana, Elisabete, and I were on the balcony outside my family’s apartment in the city, spying on Antonio and Margarida. Susana and Elisabete couldn’t stop giggling at them kissing, but I was hypnotized by the way he touched her, and how she responded.

  Margarida’s back was flush against the stone building, and his right hand was braced above her head. They were pressed against each other, like lavender stems between the pages of a book.

  Antonio brushed his lips and clever fingers over her skin, whispering so only she could hear. When he buried his mouth in her neck, Margarida’s eyelids fluttered closed, and her head fell back, her bruised lips forming a perfect O.

  I could almost hear her gasps—almost feel her pleasure, like it was mine.

  “Hey,” one of my guards called to them, when he caught us spying. “Get a room if you don’t want an audience.”

  They looked up at where we were crouched on the balcony, behind the iron rails. Margarida turned away, but Antonio jerked his chin in our direction with a shameless grin on his gorgeous face.

  Another guard shooed us off the balcony, so I didn’t see any more. But that didn’t stop my eleven-year-old imagination from conjuring all sorts of scenarios involving passionate kisses and declarations of undying love.

  That night, I replayed their kisses over and over, and as the pressure grew, I rolled on my tummy and squirmed against a decorative pillow, humping the firm bolster until my whole body shook.

  Every time I saw him after that, every time his name was mentioned, I imagined his lips on mine. I dreamed that all his kisses belonged to me.

  Then my mother was murdered.

  After that, I never imagined kissing anyone. Not that there was much opportunity for meeting boys. My father holed me away for my safety, and the little girl with dreams of passionate embraces and romantic love became just a short chapter in my saga.

  But then a few months ago, Antonio visited my father here. I watched him arrive through my bedroom window. He wore a tailored suit that hugged his body like the one he’s wearing today. He was older than the boy I remembered, and more serious, but still breathtaking.

  As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t pull myself away from the window—away from him, with his full lips and dark, wavy hair combed off his face, the ends gently grazing the back of his collar. His gait was tall and proud, like it had always been. But from a distance, there was a roughness about him that hadn’t been there before. It added some mystery that made him even more enticing.

  And even though I shouldn’t have, even though it desecrated my mother’s memory, I sat in my room while he was downstairs with my dying father, and fantasized about kissing him again.

  That night, after the lights were out and the house was quiet, my fingers teased the
wet, swollen flesh between my thighs, whispering his name in the dark as I writhed on the mattress.

  “Aside from having good people in place, do you have a plan for the harvest?”

  His deep voice startles me. Plan? It’s all I hear, sending a wave of terror through me.

  11

  Daniela

  “For managing the harvest,” he explains, eying me carefully.

  For managing the harvest. Relax.

  “Yes,” I reply, a little too breathy. “It’s in place.” I was so wrapped up in my little fantasy, I didn’t notice him end the call, and the word plan—

  You need to pull yourself together, Daniela.

  “There’s nothing extraordinary about this year that should make the grapes more or less valuable than last year,” I add, still reeling.

  Antonio shrugs and lowers himself into the chair. “Such a pragmatist. I like to think every year has the potential to be a vintage year, right up until the end. But you’re probably right.”

  He seems less agitated, now, and since he’s going to find out anyway, maybe I should plant some disinformation. I’ve already done this with a few people who work here so they won’t be alarmed when the time comes.

  If I lay the groundwork with Antonio, he won’t be surprised when he learns I’m not in Porto, and he can shut down the inevitable gossip right away. The less gossip, the quicker I’ll fade from everyone’s mind.

  My heartrate ticks up as I prepare to lie, but not enough for him to notice. “Actually, we’re so organized for the harvest, that I’m going to visit my father’s elderly aunt in Canada. She’s my only living relative. They were close, but he didn’t tell her he was dying because she was too frail to travel. I’ll tell her in person. It was my father’s final request.”

  He eyes me warily. Maybe that was too much information in one fell swoop. Like a staged story. I make a concerted effort not to squirm—it’s not easy.

  “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.

  His large hands cup my ass, securing my body firmly against his, until the throb between my legs consumes every thought—every action I take.

  I need relief. It’s all I can think about.

  When I wiggle against his cock to soothe the ache, he groans. It’s the raw, guttural sound of a man wrestling temptation. It’s arousing. And heady.

  A bold sense of power surges through me, and I do it again. And again. And again.

  The intensity sizzles dangerously between us. I’m too caught up in him—too tangled in the curls of pleasure—to think about where this is going, or how it’ll end. All I know is his skillful mouth and practiced hands. His hard muscle and masculine scent.