The Gold Collection: Taming The Argentinian. Susan Stephens

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СКАЧАТЬ inviting her? Yes, it was a good research opportunity for Grace, but it would be a lot more than she’d bargained for. The annual wine-fest was hardly a sedate affair. Treading the grapes dated from antiquity—pagan times, before civilisation came along to spoil the fun and dictate restraint. It wasn’t unusual for the next working day to start at noon, if at all—and those who arrived alone invariably left in pairs.

      And now his big horse had bolted and it was his turn to swear. Sensing his abstraction, the mighty stallion had lost no time heading towards the hills and freedom. Wrestling him back under control was a welcome outlet for his energy, but it did nothing to soothe his thoughts. Grace liked teasing him, but then she drew back. She craved independence. Well, she could have it—with his blessing. She would just have to take her chances with the men at the grape-treading.

       Are you seriously advocating open season where Grace is concerned?

      He wouldn’t let her out of his sight tonight.

      It was safe to say that the outfit which had arrived at the cottage didn’t conform to Grace’s usual take on a party outfit. That would be more likely to consist of a knee-length shift in silk or wool, depending on the weather, and safe, low-heeled shoes. But this wasn’t a usual party, Grace reflected as she sorted out the clothes by touch. Though ‘grape-treading’ was probably an old term, used loosely these days to describe what happened to the fruit at the start of wine production, she decided.

      She tried on the skirt first. Masses of fabric brushed her calves, making her feel like a country girl in an oil painting. The blouse was flimsy, and it had lace around the generous neckline—which would slip straight off her sloping shoulders. She held it to her face and inhaled the scent of soap and sunshine. As to colour? White was her best guess. The blouse was also cut low across the bust, and fastened with laces rather than buttons.

      What would Nacho think of the transformation? Grace wondered as she slipped on her sandals. She should pin her hair up—though that would leave her shoulders bare …

      And now it was too late to change. The clock had just struck six. Time for business. With no way of knowing what she looked like, she smoothed the full skirt anxiously. Should she have worn a bra? It was a bit late to be worrying about that now, she concluded, brushing her nipples lightly with the palm of her hands to see if the cotton fabric was thick enough to conceal them. Probably not …

      She jumped as Buddy barked. It was too late to change her clothes or her mind. She would just have to brace herself and go through with it. She opened the door.

      ‘Grace—’

      Why the sudden silence? Did she look ridiculous? Was she wearing everything the right way round? Had she forgotten to tie the laces on her blouse? She checked discreetly as she invited Nacho to come in. The air swirled as he walked past, and her body responded to the pure zap of Nacho’s energy like a teenager on her first date. She drank greedily on the aroma of citrus soap, mint toothpaste and hot, hard man. There was a lot of heat—and quite a bit of it on her cheeks.

      ‘You’d better tell me if I look okay,’ she said, closing the door behind him.

      There was a long pause, and then he said, ‘You look great.’

      Great was a major understatement. Grace looked amazing in the revealing top and traditional skirt. Her breasts were magnificent. He would definitely have to watch the other men tonight. He might be duty bound to maintain cordial relations with his sister and keep Elias onside, but tonight Grace belonged to him.

      ‘Will I fit in at the wine-treading?’ she asked him.

      No, you’ll stand out because you look so beautiful, he thought. ‘You’ll do,’ he said casually. Her skin was luminous, and flushed from riding in the sun, and her hair was gleaming with good health. If he could find fault it was that she’d put her hair up. But as there was only one pin holding it …

      ‘Describe your outfit,’ she said, distracting him. ‘I want to make sure I’m not the only one dressed up like a marionette.’

      Some puppet show, he thought. And then, while he was thinking how beautiful she looked, she hit him with a zinger.

      ‘I need to feel you,’ she said.

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘I need to feel you so I know what you’re wearing,’ she said. ‘It’s how I see now.’

      ‘Don’t you trust me to tell you?’

      ‘What do you think?’ she said.

      She advanced hands outstretched.

      ‘All right, go ahead,’ he said with a shrug, lifting his arms.

      She started with his face. ‘You haven’t shaved.’

      ‘I wasn’t planning on kissing anyone tonight.’

      Her cheeks flushed red. ‘I should think not. I’ve no intention of being a gooseberry.’

      He thought she might have had enough of the game by now, but no.

      ‘You’re wearing jeans,’ she said, brushing his thighs with the lightest of touches. And then she exclaimed with fright as her hands touched naked skin.

CHAPTER EIGHT

      ‘I CHOPPED my jeans off above the knee,’ he explained. ‘It’s easier than rolling them up.’

      ‘You might have warned me.’ Her hands moved deftly on, sadly missing any interesting parts of his anatomy. ‘You needn’t hold your breath,’ she said.

      ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he defended wryly.

      ‘I think I just got scorched by your affront,’ she remarked. ‘I’m sure you’ve got a six-pack at the very least.’

      ‘At the very least,’ he agreed.

      She mapped the width of his chest and seemed satisfied as she stood back. ‘You’re wearing a casual shirt,’ she said. ‘Describe it.’

      ‘Dark blue—a little frayed, a little faded.’

      ‘And you still have tattoos?’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘The Band of Brothers—I remember,’ she said, returning to her investigations. Her little hand didn’t make it halfway round his upper arm. ‘And I seem to remember something inked in black on this big muscle here …’

      ‘You saw my tattoos during that polo match on the beach?’ Should he be quite so pleased she had remembered? ‘How much can you see now, Grace?’ he enquired, as curiosity got the better of him.

      She laughed. ‘Enough to know that you block out the light.’

      She must be mad. What was she doing, feeling her way around Nacho? She would never have dreamed of doing anything so intimate when she could see—so why now, when she was blind?

      There had to be some advantages СКАЧАТЬ