The Untamed Argentinian. Susan StephensЧитать онлайн книгу.
her thanks as a royal footman opened the outer doors for them.
‘And where will you go now?’ Nero asked her as a driver brought his ink-black four-wheel-drive up to the foot of the steps for him.
‘Back to the stables for one last check on the horses.’
‘As I’m going there myself, why don’t I give you a lift?’
‘I prefer to walk, thank you.’
‘In an evening dress?’
‘It’s a pleasant evening, and I need the fresh air.’
‘Well, if you’re sure?’
‘I am.’ Her mind was still whirling with the fact that she had agreed of her own free will to walk into the lion’s den—and not here on familiar turf, but Argentina, and the wild, untamed pampas, where she would be staying on Nero’s estancia. She needed some fresh air to come to terms with that alone—lots of it.
‘Then good night,’ Nero murmured, his eyes glittering with triumph. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow when we will firm up your travel arrangements.’
Life had suddenly become very interesting, Nero reflected as he gunned the engine and drove away from the castle. Word had it that Isabella Wheeler lived in an ivory tower whose walls had never been breached, but he’d caught flashes of internal fires raging out of control. She reminded him of one of his spirited mares. They took their time to trust and were always looking for trouble, but that was because they had lost the freedom of the pampas, something they would never forget. What had Bella Wheeler lost that caused her such torment? Rumour said there was some mystery surrounding her. He could confirm that. Bella said one thing and her eyes, the mirror of Bella’s soul, said something different. She was lying by omission. She was hiding something big. Bella’s outwardly contained manner intrigued him almost as much as her unnaturally well-groomed appearance irritated him. It wasn’t often he met a woman who had her own life, her own successful career and wasn’t looking for anything material from him. Far from it, Nero reflected wryly. If he had to categorise Bella after getting to know her a little better, it would still be under the heading: Ice Maiden. He had never met a woman who went all out to make herself as unobtainable and as aloof as she could and, the irony was, Bella didn’t realise what a desirable prize that made her. He’d seen the way men looked at her as they dreamed of loosening her tight-fitting breeches. He knew how he felt about her. And, judging by the way Bella responded to him, she wasn’t exactly immune to him either.
He wanted her. She wanted him. There should have been a very easy solution, but there wasn’t, and he was going to find out why.
When she had satisfied herself that everything at the stables was as it should be, Bella’s thoughts turned to her grooms. Some of them were very young and she felt responsible for them. Hearing that a couple of the girls hadn’t returned to the small bed and breakfast where Bella had rented them rooms, she set out to look for them. She knew exactly where they would be. After the match a large, luxurious nightclub had set up camp in a marquee in the grounds. It was the place to be, the girls had assured her. Bella had seen pictures on the news and could understand their excitement. The huge white tent was decorated like something out of Arabian Nights with exotic silken drapes in a variety of jewel colours and dramatic water features shooting plumes of glittering spray into the air. A dance floor had been erected in the middle of the tent and one of the top DJs had been booked to keep the excitement of the polo match alive until dawn.
She was only halfway across the field when the bass beat started pounding through her. She was really out of her comfort zone. Even before the prince’s invitation, she had refused the young grooms’ invitation to join them. She had made all sorts of excuses—she was too old, too boring—and had laughed when they had protested she was neither. It was never easy to mix business with pleasure, even had she wanted to, but like an old mother hen, she was determined to make sure her girls were safe tonight.
She was off to a good start, having the right credentials, apparently. A member of the security staff recognised her and showed her straight in through the VIP entrance. The noise was amazing and there was such a crowd it was a while before she spotted the girls, by which time she had been sucked deep into the throng and men were speaking to her, offering her drinks and wanting to dance with her. She was here for business purposes, she told them frostily, tilting her chin at a determined angle as she headed for the girls.
The heat was overwhelming inside the tent after the chill night air. What with the press of people, the noise, the screams of laughter, the relentless beat, the flash of chandeliers and the glittering, garish splendour of it all, it was no wonder she was disorientated to begin with. Shaking off the faint sense of danger approaching, she pressed on, determined not to leave until she knew the girls had arranged to get home safely.
‘Bella!’ they exclaimed the moment they caught sight of her.
Before she knew it, she was on the dance floor.
‘Meet…’
She didn’t hear the rest—there were too many names and far too many new faces. She smiled and jigged around a bit, trying to string a few steps together on a heavily overpopulated dance floor on which there was hardly room to move, let alone dance. And she felt silly in her strait-laced dinner gown amongst so many cool young girls.
‘Are you sure you’re all okay?’ she asked, drawing one of them aside. ‘Have you made plans for later, or shall I call a taxi for you?’
‘My brother’s here,’ the girl explained, angling her chin towards a tall, good-looking youth. ‘No worries, Bella. Woo-hoo! Enjoy yourself!’ And, grabbing hold of Bella’s wrist, the girl dragged her back onto the dance floor.
And why not? Bella reasoned, glancing round. Everyone was here for a good time, and one dance wouldn’t hurt. She didn’t want to be a killjoy, and there was such an air of celebration it felt great to be part of it. There was certainly nothing to be concerned about—even if that persistent prickle down her spine refused to go away.
‘Come on—you can’t go now. You’ve only just arrived,’ the girls insisted, gathering round Bella, who was still glancing anxiously over her shoulder, hardly knowing what she was looking for. They formed a circle round her so she couldn’t escape, which made her laugh, and soon she was dancing again and everyone was shooting their arms in the air. After some persuasion, Bella did too. It was fun. It felt good to let go. Her hair tumbled down and swung around her shoulders. She tossed it back, making no attempt to tidy herself for once. She was just happy to lose her inhibitions—happy to lose herself in the music, and the moment.
Until it all came crashing down.
So this was where Miss Bluestocking hung out when she wasn’t preaching death to desire and all-natural female responses. Those responses were only curbed when he was around, it seemed. Her glorious hair was flying free, and was as spectacular as he had always imagined it would be, and she was dancing with all the abandon he had suspected she might possess—a fact that wasn’t lost on the men around her, though Bella appeared to be oblivious to the interest she was arousing.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea as he strode up to her. He stopped in the centre of the dance floor in front of the one person oblivious to his approach. Currently gyrating with her eyes closed and her hands reaching for the sky, the so-called Ice Maiden was mouthing lyrics to the raunchy track and grinding her hips in time to the beat with extremely un-maidenly relish. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he rapped for the sheer pleasure of seeing the shock in her eyes.
‘Nero!’
‘Yes, Nero,’ he confirmed. ‘So this is why you refused my offer of a lift.’
She pretended not to understand him, and was pleasingly flushed and unsettled as she smoothed back her hair. He showed her no mercy. Instead, he tugged her into his arms.
‘What are you doing?’ she demanded, struggling to find her severe face as their bodies brushed and finally connected.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he