The Gold Collection: Taming The Argentinian: A Taste of the Untamed / The Untamed Argentinian / Taming the Last Acosta
you still there?’ she called out.
‘Battling to keep up,’ he mocked, riding with the reins hanging loose. He had kicked his feet out of the stirrups some way back.
‘You’re very quiet,’ she said, marching on.
‘You’ll know when I’ve got something to say.’ He stared at her back—the upright stance, the pitch of her head, chin lifted. He couldn’t get over how confident she had become.
Because she’d had to.
‘Just let me know if I’m going too fast for you,’ she mocked.
She made it hard for him to remain angry for long. In fact she reminded him in some ways of his sister, Lucia. Lucia was always pushing the boundaries, always testing him, and he could see now why the two girls were such good friends.
‘I can see you have picked up some very bad habits from Lucia. And as you’re not my sister, and merely work for me—’
‘With you,’ she flashed.
‘As you’re not my sister,’ he repeated patiently, ‘your privileges do not extend to goading me while you’re here.’
‘So you have accepted that I am going to be here for a while?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t have to.’
This time when she turned her head in his direction he saw the smile hovering round her mouth. His gaze remained on her lips for quite some time.
‘Can I ask you something, Nacho?’ she said, turning back again.
‘Of course,’ he said, feeling the loss now he had to content himself with a view of the back of her head.
‘Will you give me a list of all the places that are out of bounds so I don’t make any more mistakes? In Braille, of course,’ she added, tongue in cheek.
A muscle worked in his jaw. He wasn’t used to this sort of insubordination. Most people obeyed him gladly. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ he said, realising that he was going to have to play Grace’s game for the short time she was here. ‘I’ll get a translator for you. Or you could learn my rules by rote, if you prefer.’
‘Are you smiling?’ she said. ‘I can’t tell.’
No. He was learning fast and had kept his voice carefully neutral.
‘If this visit is going to be a success,’ she said, bearing out his theory, ‘we’ll both have to make adjustments—won’t we, Nacho?’
‘Will we?’ he said.
The breeze was on Grace’s side. Catching hold of the hem of her flimsy summer dress, it flicked it, giving him a grandstand view of her smooth, tanned legs. Arousal fired inside him, but he instantly damped it down.
‘Do you remember when we first met in Cornwall?’ she said, pulling his attention back to her hips as she strode along. ‘You had just arrived for that polo match on the beach. You rolled down the window of that monster Jeep, and—’
‘And what, Grace?’ he pressed, seeing her cheeks had flushed bright red. A very masculine hunger filled him at the thought that she had wanted him back then.
‘I was just wondering if you remembered, that’s all,’ she said casually, closing the topic with a flick of her wrist.
He remembered.
When Grace fell silent it gave them both a chance to think back. She broke the silence first. ‘I could see you properly then.’
Very cleverly, she gave him no clue as to whether that had been good or bad. ‘You’ll be pleased to know I haven’t changed—’
‘Hard luck,’ she flashed.
How was it possible to ignore a woman like this? Or ignore the way she made him feel? No woman had made him laugh in what seemed like forever. He was glad the so-called appeal of the Acosta brothers was lost on Grace, and he would be happy if he never had to hear again in his life that he looked like his father. His gaze returned to Grace’s slender hips, swaying to a rhythm that was all her own. One thing was certain: if this banter between them was a ruse to keep his interest, she had succeeded where many had failed.
‘I was over-awed by you,’ she admitted.
‘Why?’
‘Because you were so famous and seemed so aloof. And even compared to the other polo players you were huge—and so confident.’
‘And at the wedding?’
‘You frightened me half to death,’ she admitted bluntly.
He laughed for the second time in who knew how many years. ‘So how do you feel about meeting me again, Grace?’
‘Well, at least I can’t see you this time,’ she said.
Laughter was becoming a habit he would have to break if he was to retain his title as the hard man of the Acostas. ‘And does that help?’
‘It certainly does,’ she said.
It was a good, brave answer, but he was suspicious and couldn’t resist asking, ‘So, are you here to pick up where we left off?’
‘As I recall,’ she countered, ‘when we met at the wedding I was the one to leave.’
Correct. ‘Touché, Señorita Lundström.’
A blast of white-hot lust ripped through him when she angled her head as if to cast him a flirtatious glance—though of course she could do no such thing. He liked this verbal jousting. He liked the way Grace stood up for herself. And he liked Grace. A lot.
‘Is something wrong?’ she called back to him. ‘You’ve gone very quiet …’
‘I’m enjoying the day,’ he said, thinking it wise to confine himself, as the British so often did, to talk of the weather.
‘It is beautiful,’ she agreed, stretching out her arms.
Her arms were beautiful—slender and lightly tanned. Grace was beautiful. He only wished she could see how beautiful the day was—but that was a ridiculous investment of concern on his part. As was his growing admiration for Grace. Far better he got this conversation back to business, where Grace was sure to fall short and disappoint him. Then he could send her packing, and that would be the end of a fantasy where he changed from a hard, unfeeling man into the sort of hero Grace might admire.
‘Buddy’s certainly enjoying the weather,’ she said.
‘Oh, good,’ he said without enthusiasm.
He stared at the dog. The dog stared back at him. He loved animals, and they normally gravitated towards him—but not this one. The big dog’s loyalty was firmly fixed in stone. Nacho’s attention switched back to Grace. From the back you wouldn’t know anything had changed about her. Life could be very cruel sometimes, but that didn’t change the facts. What the hell had Elias been thinking? What use was a blind sommelier?
‘So, tell me about your job, Grace,’ he said, starting to seethe as he thought about how he’d been duped by the wily old wine importer. ‘How does that work?’
‘What do you mean, how does it work?’ she said without breaking stride. ‘I might be blind, but I can still taste and smell.’
‘And what about the clarity of the wine?’ he pressed with increasing impatience. ‘What about the sediment—the colour, the viscosity?’
‘The colour I have to take on trust, when people describe it to me, but like most people I can detect sediment on my tongue. And I wouldn’t expect to be offered thin or cloudy wine by anyone who took their wine seriously.’
Was that a dig at him? ‘You seem