Modern Romance Collection July 2024 Books 1-4

CHAPTER FOUR

ROSALIND’SMOUTHDROPPEDOPEN.

Mosaic tiles swirled into a stunning pattern of deep blues, vivid greens and elegant reds beneath her feet, contained by white stone edging the room. A matching stone staircase, wide enough to fit four people across, hugged the wall and spiraled up. The chandelier had been fashioned in black like the railing outside and hung from the ceiling a good fifteen feet above her head. Thankfully it was lit and kept the encroaching gloom from the storm at bay. The walls, painted a creamy ivory, caught the light and made the room glow. A long, thin table hugged one wall. The dark wood gleamed as if it had been freshly polished. Beautiful but bare, as if it were waiting for a bowl of fresh flowers or an antique vase.

The overall emptiness of the room struck her, made her sad. A stunning house with much to offer but left empty and alone.

She started to move about, too jittery to stay in one place. A painting caught her eye, one of the few adorning the walls of the hall. Well over four feet tall, it depicted white-capped waves surging onto a beach. The strokes that had captured the dark blue of an ocean at twilight had been fierce, the slashes depicting water churned up by the hint of dark clouds on the horizon. A cliff jutted out into the sea, proud and immovable against the water’s wrath. The wildness spoke to her, sent a frisson of energy through her that rejuvenated her flagging spirits. It reminded her of the autumns of her childhood, with her nose pressed against the glass as she watched storms lash the Maine coast just steps away from her home. Fury and power, nature reminding man what it was capable of.

One lone figure had been painted on the small beach, a simple black shadow made strong with a tilted-up chin and shoulders thrown back, as though the person was confronting the ocean itself. It was tempting to reach out, to touch the character and encourage them to keep fighting.

A small smile flitted about her lips as she breathed in deeply. Whether she was projecting or not, the thought gave her a much-needed boost of determination to see her mission through.

A twinge settled between her shoulder blades. Awareness made her skin pebble as her breath caught in her chest. The same sensation she’d experienced in the Diamond Club right before she’d caught a glimpse of Griffith Lykaois lurking in the shadows. She hadn’t seen his face, not clearly. That hadn’t stopped the shock that had stolen her breath, the heat that had appeared out of nowhere and burned her skin.

The same heat now creeping over her, a fever that could only be assuaged by one decadent act she’d never experienced before.

She whirled around.

There was no one there.

“Miss Sutton.”

The voice—deep, harsh, yet surprisingly melodic—rang out through the hall. It washed over her, slid under her skin and reverberated through her body like a deep roll of thunder.

Startled, she looked up. A man stood on the first landing of the grand staircase. A very tall man, his torso and face covered in shadow.

“Mr. Lykaois?”

“How did you gain entrance to this house?”

She tilted her head but couldn’t make out any features. She had heard the rumors of his scars. One of the law clerks had even shown her the blurred photo published in last’s week gossip magazine. But whether it had been out of focus intentionally or by accident, it had been hard to see much detail.

Curiosity nipped at her, but she quelled it. His scars, or lack thereof, were none of her business.

“The door was open.”

One hand tightened on the railing. “So you trespassed.”

Frustration reared its head. “Sir, I need to—”

“No.” He stepped down onto the top stair, the shadows shifting up but still shielding his chest and head. “What you need to do, Miss Sutton, is leave before I call Nettleton Thompson and tell them to fire you.”

“For what?” she snapped.

Knowing he could do exactly as he’d threatened and that Mr. Nettleton would probably acquiesce in a heartbeat made her angry. She had worked hard, very hard, to get here. Regardless of her own doubts, that was the truth. She had tried to be nice, to be patient. But this man, who had the world at his fingertips, had thrown obstacles in her way at every juncture.

Determination lent strength to her voice. Irritation added an edge. “For doing my job? Going above and beyond by tracking you down across two countries?”

“If going against your client’s wishes and stalking them is considered your job, then I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

Helplessness was an uncomfortable feeling. Helplessness coupled with anger was even more unpleasant. She could feel the words bubbling up in her throat, tried to stop them.

And then decided she didn’t care anymore. If this was truly going to be the end of her career with Nettleton Thompson, which at this point seemed inevitable no matter what she did, then she might as well go out in a blaze of glory and leave this spoiled playboy with a hint of the damage he’d caused.

“Until you sign this contract, my client is your father, or rather his estate.” She reached into her bag and yanked out the thick sheaf of papers. “Since you haven’t signed it, I don’t care where you take your business. In fact,” she added as she stepped forward and flung her head back, “I’d sincerely prefer you not do business with Nettleton Thompson because you have been nothing but a pain in my butt.”

Silence fell, save for the furious thudding of her heart in her chest.

Then, in a firm voice tinged with reluctant amusement, he said, “Really?”

“Really.”

“And if you get fired?”

“If you don’t sign, I’m fired. If you call Nettleton Thompson, I’m fired.” She threw up her hands in the air, barely keeping a grip on the contract. “So congratulations, you have me over a barrel.”

“Over a barrel?”

She rolled her eyes. “Helpless. At your mercy.”

“You don’t sound helpless, Miss Sutton.”

The heat trickled back in at the hint of admiration in his tone. Heat that only upped her irritation. How could she possibly be attracted to such an infuriating, self-absorbed man?

“I’m not helpless. I’m not a damsel in distress. I’ve continued forward through five canceled appointments, numerous hang-ups by your oh so efficient secretaries, and traveling over five hundred miles trying to track you down with my boss breathing down my neck and putting the future of my career in your hands. If I can survive that, I can survive anything.”

Her chest rose and fell as she stared up at his shadowed face. She’d probably already signed her future away with her outburst. But God, it had felt good to finally vent her anger at his arrogance, at her career being reduced to her ability to get one simple signature.

She ran a hand through her curls and looked longingly at the partially open door before she turned back to him.

One last time. Try to explain just one last time.

“Do you not understand? If you don’t sign, you’ll lose everything—”

“I’ve already lost plenty, Miss Sutton.” Cold suffused his words, all traces of amusement and admiration gone. He started walking down the stairs with slow, measured steps that made her chest tighten with dreaded anticipation. “My father. My girlfriend. My looks. My ability to walk in a crowd without scaring small children.” The shadows crept up, revealed broad shoulders and a strong neck, the skin marred by one thick scar tinged pink. “What makes you think I give a damn about money anymore?”

And then he stepped into the light.

Rosalind pressed her lips together to stem her gasp. The scars on the right side of his face were made all the more distinct by the lack of damage to the left side. One scar started at his hairline and stabbed downward through his eyebrow. Miraculously, whatever had caused the wound had missed his eye, but just barely, judging by the way it slashed to his temple before traveling down over one carved cheekbone. Still another scar, a larger patch of red, was visible beneath his trimmed beard, snaking from mouth to jaw and then farther down.

Jarring, yes. But the way the tabloid had played it up, including a lurid description from his former girlfriend, had made him sound like a beast or Frankenstein’s monster.

To her, he looked like a man who had suffered, yet survived, a horrific car accident.

“If you don’t want the money, then I need your signature on a different document relinquishing any claims on the inheritance.”

Surprise flitted across his face. Had he expected her to run away screaming?

“Did you not hear me, Miss Sutton?” He raised his chin even as he managed to look down his still-aristocratic nose at her. “I’m not signing it. Any of it.”

Fine.If the man wanted to refuse billions of dollars, money that people like her parents and her neighbors back in Maine could have used to do so much with, then that was his choice. That he would prefer to throw it away rather than put it to good use angered her further and added acid to her next words.

“Then use it for something else. Drawing. Writing poetry. Perhaps making paper airplanes. My nephews get a kick out of that sort of thing.”

“Do I look like the kind of man who writes poetry?” he growled.

“No.”

She took a risk as she moved to the bottom of the staircase and looked up at him. He stood a few stairs above her. The light from the chandelier highlighted the left side of his face from the unblemished warm ivory of his skin to the sharp line of his jaw. Dark golden hair, thick and slightly tousled, fell over his broad forehead.

Her anger bled away. It almost seemed crueler to leave him with half of his former face. A constant reminder of who he had been.

Their gazes collided. Her heart stuttered in her chest. The heat returned, spread throughout her body and made her limbs heavy, drugged her with desire.

She blinked and stepped back, trying to get her bearings, to summon something akin to professionalism after her eruption. The scar by Griffith’s mouth twisted as his lips curled back into a sneer.

“Then what kind of man do I look like, Miss Sutton?” He came down until he was just one step above her, only inches between them. “A spoiled bastard who got what was coming to him? Or maybe something simpler? A monster, perhaps?”

The last words, raw and guttural, stopped her anger in its tracks. Her gaze moved over him, registered the taut cords of muscle in his neck, the tension in his jaw twisting his scars. And behind the patrician gleam of disdain in his eyes...pain. Deep, horrible pain.

The remnants of her anger dissipated, slipped away, left her wanting to reach out and offer something, anything, to lessen the burden of such profound agony.

“No. You look like someone who’s hurting.”

His face twisted into an expression of disgust that made her feel small and insignificant. He stared at her, chest rising and falling, a pulse pounding in his throat. She could almost feel his heartbeat, feel the anguish that kept him in an iron grip.

Her eyes traveled from his throat up to the scarred, handsome face, her breath catching as his glittering gaze ensnared her.

“I said no. I’m not signing.”

For a moment she just stared at him. Dimly she heard a howl of wind, the deeper rumble of thunder warning that the storm was getting closer.

Finally, the cold words registered and snapped her out of her reverie. Her fury returned, eclipsing her surroundings as she let go of any hope of keeping her job.

“I would be curious to see how a man who’s had everything handed to him on a diamond-encrusted platter would handle throwing out a mere mortal like myself. But no matter,” she continued as his lips parted on a retort. “I’ve literally traipsed hundreds of miles, stood out in the pouring rain and argued with your employees the world over to just get one signature. And I’m done.”

She held up the contract. Common sense whispered for her to stop, to hold back, but no. She was done playing nice with such a selfish man.

She let go, savored the thump when the file hit the table as much as she enjoyed the widening of his eyes, the thinning of his mouth.

“Have a good day, Mr. Lykaois.”

She shot him a megawatt smile, inclined her head to him and then walked out of the chateau.