Modern Romance Collection July 2024 Books 1-4

CHAPTER FIVE

GRIFFITHSTAREDAT the open door. He couldn’t recall the last time someone had walked away from him. That she had done so with an attitude, acting as if he’d wronged her when she’d been the one to stalk him across the Channel and trespass on his land, had him stride across the hall to shut the door on Miss Rosalind Sutton once and for all.

He reached the door, then glanced back at the contract on the table. A seemingly innocuous stack of papers that he wanted nothing to do with. Signing them would bring an end to this mess. Stop Miss Sutton’s relentless campaign.

Although if her parting words were any indication, she had no intention of seeing him ever again. Which should make him relieved.

But it didn’t. Instead, the emptiness of the house pressed in on him, as did the roar of the storm growing outside. The thought of never seeing Rosalind again, a woman who had made such an incredible impact in a matter of minutes, sent an unexpected pang through the hollowness of his chest.

Damn it.

Lightning pierced the sky, followed seconds later by thunder that rattled the windows. Griffith stopped in the doorway. In the few minutes since he had come downstairs to confront Rosalind, the encroaching storm had darkened the summery landscape. Wind howled around the corner of the chateau and tore at the tops of nearby trees.

He might be a selfish bastard. But he couldn’t send the lawyer away in this, could he. It was a long way back to the village and an image of her battling the wind and the rain, fighting to stay upright, came to mind. Going after her was the right thing to do, he didn’t need to like it.

Griffith started down the steps, his eyes sweeping over the freshly mowed lawn, the neatly trimmed hedges bordering the front yard, the dry yet still elegant fountain, for any signs of a caramel-colored trench coat or mahogany brown curls.

Nothing. Aside from the whimsical fairy that perched on top of the fountain, he was alone.

Had she double backed and found another way into the house? Or discovered the covered patio on the north side of the house?

Movement caught his eye. His lips parted in surprise as he saw a distant figure moving toward the avenue of trees.

“Miss Sutton!” he bellowed. “Rosalind!”

The wind snatched away his words as Rosalind disappeared into the trees. Cursing, he hurried down the steps. As soon as his feet hit the drive, he ran.

He’d been a runner before the accident, had hopped back on the treadmill as soon as the doctor had cleared him. But the machine, useful as it was for letting him run while avoiding prying eyes or paparazzi, was nothing compared to the freedom of being outside, of feeling the cool whip of the wind across his face as blood pumped hot in his veins.

Alive.

He’d taken so much for granted. Lost so much.

Not this. Not yet.

He should let her go. Let her walk away.

Not yet.

Cold raindrops fell on the back of his neck. Light, but the pace picked up as he entered the avenue. Up ahead, Rosalind continued moving at a brisk pace toward the bridge.

“Miss Sutton!”

She turned, a frown appearing between her brows. She stopped and faced him, the hem of her trench coat flapping about her knees. For one wild moment, he saw her as something more, something magical and mysterious. With the wind grabbing her curls and whipping them about her beautiful face, the stubborn tilt to her pointed chin, the sparkle of life in her dark green eyes, she reminded him of an enchantress or a mischievous fairy.

“Making sure I actually leave?”

“Come back until the storm’s over.”

She stared at him, her lips slightly parting.

“Excuse me?”

He could barely hear her over the wind, the thunder that clashed far too close for comfort.

“It’s too dangerous for you to walk. The nearest petrol station is over three kilometers away.”

“You told me to go. I wouldn’t want to stay where I wasn’t welcome.”

“That was before I realized how bad the storm was.”

She shook her head even as she squinted against the shrieking wind whipping down the avenue. “I have no interest in being around you, Mr. Lykaois. I can make it to the road, call my ride and be gone before the storm gets worse.”

“The storm is coming too fast. Don’t be foolish.”

Her eyes turned molten with anger. Before she could utter a retort, lightning flashed above their heads, spearing down through the canopy and striking the trunk of one of the trees. Thunder followed, deep and fierce. It nearly covered the sharp crack as bark splintered and the tree shifted.

He lunged, wrapped his arms around Rosalind’s waist and tackled her to the ground as the towering oak shuddered and fell. They landed on the crushed shells of the drive and rolled. He kept her body pinned to his, planted his feet and stopped so that he lay on top of her.

The ground shook beneath them. He raised his head. The oak lay just a few feet away.

He turned his attention back to Rosalind. She lay beneath him, face white, eyes wide as she stared at the tree.

“Are you all right?”

Slowly, she nodded. She looked at him, then down at their bodies pressed together. A blush stole over her cheeks. The sight summoned the desire that had invaded earlier as she’d stood in the hall, beautiful in her kindness, frightening in her perceptiveness, stunning in her defiance.

He quickly shifted, rolling off her before she felt the evidence of his arousal. Standing, he held out his hand and pulled her to her feet.

His eyes followed hers to the fallen tree. Before they’d even set eyes on the house, his mother had fallen in love with the towering oaks. His father had joked they didn’t even need the house, just the trees.

Centuries. The tree had stood for centuries, withstood war and changing seasons, birth and death in the manor just beyond.

Now it lay on the ground, chunks of bark scattered across the seashells like dark wounds.

A vise clamped around his heart, squeezed. His gaze moved over the leaves still clinging to the branches, then down to the jagged edges of where the tree had split from the trunk, portions of it blackened by the lightning’s fury.

Foolish to get sentimental over a damned tree.

He turned his back on it, focused his attention on the woman who had drawn him out into the storm.

“Miss Sutton—”

The clouds unleashed their fury, the rain turning from a spatter to a downpour. It was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. He grabbed her hand and yanked her forward. When she resisted, tried to pull away, he tightened his grip and tugged her close until her body pressed against his.

“We need to get back to the chateau.” His lips nearly brushed her ear.

“I’m not five,” she retorted. “I can make my own—”

“And get separated in this rain? Tumble into a ravine? Catch pneumonia?”

“Are those possibilities or personal fantasies?”

“My fantasy is to be warm, dry and not worrying about whether you’re wandering my property or lying under a tree.”

He pulled her forward again. She followed, keeping pace with his long strides as he kept his eyes on the seashells. He followed the path, catching glimpses here and there of familiar shapes beyond the rain.

Then, at last, light pierced the darkness. The lanterns on the front wall of the house glowed gold in the deluge. They stumbled up the stairs and into the grand hall. Griffith slammed the door behind them.

And immediately realized he was trapped in a hell of his own making.

Rosalind stood in the center of the hall, water dripping from her trench coat onto the tiled floor. A leaf clung to one wet curl. Mud coated her knees and streaked her calves. She stared at him with intense dislike, her lips pursed as if she was trying to hold back one of her pithy insults.

And he had never wanted a woman more than he did in that moment. A woman who had ensnared him with just the sound of her voice and her fierce tenacity in the face of adversity. Adversity he had created to keep her and everything she represented at arm’s length.

Instead of faltering, she’d hit back stronger and harder. Then, when he’d resorted to petty threats, she’d stood up to him and told him exactly where to stick it.

He didn’t want to like her. Didn’t want to admire her. Didn’t want to imagine stripping off that coat, leading her upstairs and into his palatial shower, leaving a trail of wet clothes as he pulled her beneath a steaming hot spray and—

Stop!

Indulging in those kinds of thoughts would only make this more difficult.

Although, he realized as he glanced around the hall, the situation was about as difficult as it could be. From what he’d been able to see, the tree had landed on the bridge. He would go down after the storm had passed to confirm his suspicions. But if that were true, they were stranded at the chateau until next week when the housekeeper, Beatrice, and her husband journeyed up from their village to bring food and clean.

A hard knot formed at the base of his spine as a headache began to pound away at his temples. When he’d contacted Beatrice and told her he was coming for an extended stay, she’d reminded him the chateau didn’t have internet and had very unreliable cell phone reception. He’d told her those conditions would work perfectly for the isolation he sought.

Except now it had left him alone with a woman as tempting as she was infuriating...

“I’ll show you to a room so you can change.”

“If you just tell me—”

“No!” The thought of a stranger wandering through the house—his mother’s house—filled him with anger.

Rosalind watched him from her place by the door. She didn’t tremble, didn’t look away. The longer she watched him, stared at him, the angrier he became. Angry at her being in his house, the one place that was supposed to be safe. Angry at himself for displaying such raw emotion. Angry at the world for constantly taking, punishing, driving him closer and closer to the edge.

“Follow me,” he growled.

He knew he was overreacting, despised himself as much as he despised her seemingly calm demeanor. She’d walked into a fierce storm, nearly been crushed by a tree and now followed a scarred, hollowed husk of a man up a staircase into a strange house. A man who had threatened to have her fired and, by her account, made her life miserable. Not once had she cried or complained. Up until twenty minutes ago, her name had been synonymous with irritation. The uptight, overzealous lawyer with a ridiculous umbrella who couldn’t leave well enough alone.

But now...now he saw more of what he’d glimpsed that day in the Diamond Club. Confidence, strength, resilience.

No.He had survived the past year without sex, without extravagance, without anything from his old life. Too little, too late, but at least he was doing something to honor Belen. To be the man he should have been instead of the indulgent bastard who had kept his father at arm’s length.

His lust for Rosalind threatened his self-imposed punishment. A whim that he would not allow himself to satisfy.

He stalked down the hallway and stopped in front of a white door trimmed in gold filigree.

“Here.” He twisted the knob and opened the door. “Power should stay on with the generator—”

“Oh!”

Her breathless exclamation cut him off midsentence. She moved past him into the room, spun around in a circle with wide eyes and parted lips. Her wet hair framed her face, delicate in its shape but countered by the narrow, strong point of her chin. Rain dripped from the hem of her trench coat onto the plush wool and silk Persian carpet. She looked nothing like the sophisticated, discerning women he had dated over the years.

He shouldn’t want her. Couldn’t want her. Didn’t deserve to want her. He could hardly stand to look at himself in the mirror, share his bed with a woman. Indulging his own whims, his own desire, was out of the question.

Rosalind shot him a huge smile, one that made her eyes crinkle at the corners and a tiny dimple appear on one side of her mouth.

“This room is incredible.” Her eyes softened. “Thank you, Mr. Lykaois. For saving—”

“Don’t.”

The smile faded from her face. A part of him mourned the loss, wanted to do something to bring back the radiance.

But that would only prolong the torture.

“You’re staying here so you don’t get killed on my property and someone sues.”

The words tasted sharp, bitter. The brief flicker of surprise and pity in her eyes drove it home.

“Of course.” She turned her back to him then, dismissing him. “I’ll be gone as soon as the storm clears.”

She didn’t even look at him as she turned and moved to the window, pulled aside the filmy curtain to gaze out into the wall of rain.

Griffith strode out, managing to refrain from slamming the door behind him as he headed for the stairs. Miss Sutton had already stirred up his emotions, piqued his curiosity. She hadn’t flinched at the sight of his face, true. But what would she do if she saw the worst of the wounds that cut over his ribs, snaked along his thigh and down his leg?

It didn’t matter. She would never see them. He wouldn’t allow himself to surrender to the inferno raging through him. Not with the woman who wanted him to acknowledge that his father was gone, her actions rubbing salt in the wound of his culpability.

If I would have been paying attention...if I wouldn’t have been angry...

It didn’t change anything. Never would. His father wasn’t coming back.

He entered the library and set about making a fire. The rough scrape of the wood on his palms, the scent of smoke, grounded him, gave him something to focus on beside thoughts of Miss Sutton moving about on the floor above.

He hurled the last log onto the fire. Sparks shot up, glittering red and orange and crackling up into the air before falling back down. Some littered the edge of the hearth, pulsing with a hypnotic glow.

Rosalind was the kind of woman he had always stayed away from. The kind of woman who wanted compassion, affection, love. Things he was incapable of giving. Her enthrallment with her room, her gratitude and, most telling of all, her perception of his pain before she’d walked out into the storm, told him all he needed to know. Fierce but kind. Determined but empathetic.

She deserved someone who could fulfill her needs, not just physical but emotional. When he’d withdrawn into himself following his mother’s death, latched on to the solidity of his vices, the immediate distraction and pleasure they brought, he knew he’d been turning his back on the traditional things: a wedding, marriage, children. Now, even if he wanted to change that, he’d lived a life of isolation for so long he couldn’t feel much of anything except the rawness of grief and intensity of self-loathing.

He stopped in front of the window, stared out at the wind-tossed sea. Then saw his reflection in the glass. His hand came up, touched the ugly ridges of the largest scar that snaked down his face. Scars that had disgusted Kacey, caused more than one person in his life to look away, unable to meet his eyes without staring.

Rosalind hadn’t. She’d faced him without flinching. He hadn’t missed the answering flicker of desire in her own eyes. What would she do if she knew the extent of his own lust? The almost animalistic need to claim her body, which had seethed beneath the surface ever since he’d seen her in London?

Miss Sutton had nothing to fear from his visible scars. It was the cold, dark bastard who lurked inside him who should frighten her most of all.