Modern Romance Collection July 2024 Books 1-4

CHAPTER SIX

ROSALINDAWOKETO a faint glow behind the curtains. She lay still beneath the comforter, luxuriating in the feel of actual silk against her skin.

When she’d walked into the room the night before, it had been like walking into a fairy tale. Hardwood floors with streaks of gray and tan had gleamed beneath the light of an actual chandelier hanging from the tall ceiling. Antique furniture in various shades of blue and trimmed in toffee-colored wood, from the navy chairs situated in front of a white stone fireplace to a periwinkle blue fainting couch arranged in front of the massive windows, had been polished to perfection. Paintings adorned the walls, all of them featuring various seascapes or the surrounding cliffs.

And the bed...the glorious bed had sat on a raised dais with actual curtains gathered with gold ropes at the corners. The number of pillows would have made her father and brothers roll their eyes.

But it had been perfect. Even with the ocean obscured by the rain and the gloominess of the man who had escorted her upstairs, it had eased the iron grip that tension had kept on her chest since she’d dropped the file on the table and left the chateau.

It had also been a much-needed balm for the chaos that had scraped her heart raw in just one hour. She’d lost control and insulted the highest profile client she’d ever worked for. Then, when she’d been so close to freedom, she’d almost been crushed by an ancient oak.

And rescued by the very man she’d offended moments before.

She pulled a pillow over her face and groaned into it. Yes, it had been terrifying to realize how close she’d come to getting hurt or even killed during the storm. But she’d lived through her fair share of nor’easters and even the occasional hurricane growing up on Maine’s rugged coast. She’d learned resilience at a young age.

What unsettled her more was her reaction to Griffith and his unexpected bravery. The man had gone from selfish bastard to selfless hero with one act. It had confused her, made some of the respect and curiosity she’d experienced when she’d first researched him resurface.

His anger, too, had intrigued her. Not that she was going to put up with being his emotional punching bag for whatever issues he was dealing with. But his reaction to her being in the chateau, to her appreciation for the room, had seemed rooted in something other than simple selfishness. As she’d told him before she had—yes, foolishly—walked out into the storm, he seemed like he was in pain. Not just grief, but something more, something deeper.

Frustrated with herself for ruminating on him, she sat up and tossed a pillow across the room. What was the point in thinking about him? Wasting time and energy theorizing about his hang-ups when he had made it clear he wanted her gone as soon as she was able to? Honestly, she thought as she threw back the covers, it was a good thing he’d left her alone last night. She’d been vulnerable, susceptible to her feelings of gratitude and attraction. Yes, the man was ridiculously handsome. But she had held out this long on having sex. Had rebuffed advances from men far kinder as she waited for the right one, the one she felt both an emotional and physical connection to. When she finally took a lover, it would be someone she could potentially see a future with.

No matter how intriguing or exciting Griffith Lykaois was, he was the exact opposite definition of a long-term boyfriend. He would tempt a woman to indulge, enjoy, lose herself in pleasure.

And then he’d be gone just as quickly as he’d arrived.

What she needed to do now was get up, gather her things and get out of here. Make a plan for how she would drop the news to Mr. Nettleton about the unsigned contract. Make a contingency plan in case he decided to fire her or in case Griffith had already called to demand the same thing.

She stopped her runaway thoughts. Breathed in deep.

You had a bath in an actual claw-foot tub last night. Focus on the positives.

Her stomach rumbled. She had eaten a late lunch in étretat before she’d set out for the Chateau du Bellerose. The chaos of the afternoon, including dealing with Griffith Lykaois and nearly getting squished by a centuries-old oak, had driven any thoughts of hunger from her head. After she’d gotten out of the tub, exhaustion had enticed her into bed.

She slipped out from under the sheets and the pleasant weight of the down comforter. Cool air kissed her bare skin. It had been odd sleeping nude, but her clothes had been soaked, from her favorite coat down to her underwear. She pulled a light, airy blanket off the corner of the bed and wrapped it around her body as she moved to the windows. She drew back the curtains.

And caught her breath.

Behind the house lay an incredible garden, one full of winding paths made of what looked like the same crushed seashells as the drive and encircled by a towering ivy hedge. There were occasional trees, including a willow with long strands of leaves that flirted with the surface of a pond. Benches had been added, too, and an occasional statue.

But the pièce de résistance was the roses. Hundreds and hundreds of roses in varying shades of red, pink and white. Crimson blooms climbed over a stone archway. Softer colored flowers that reminded her of ballet slippers spilled from a stone urn. Ivory roses adorned row after row of bushes.

Grief slid in, quiet at first. But it grew, slow and steady, until her body was heavy and her joy disappeared.

She moved to the windows and leaned her head against the cool glass. It had been two years since she’d gotten the first phone call from her father. Her mother had come down with a mild but persistent fever just a month after recovering from what had seemed to be a mild bout of pneumonia. She’d video-called home, seen Mom propped up in bed and rolling her eyes as Dad had fussed over her. Her mom had asked her about her classes, if she was dating anyone, the mother-daughter railroad trip they had planned for the summer that would take them from Italy to Monaco.

It had all seemed so ordinary. Just a simple fever.

Then the second phone call had come at two in the morning. The tension in her father’s voice, the hint of panic underlying his thick Maine accent, had set her nerves on edge before he’d even told her that her mother’s fever had spiked and she was in the hospital. It was the first time her mother had been to a hospital in over two decades, the last time for the birth of Rosalind’s youngest brother.

Rosalind had hung up and started packing as she purchased a ticket home. She’d been walking into the airport when her phone had rung again.

“Rose...”

Goose bumps had covered Rosalind’s arms as her mother’s raspy voice descended into a coughing fit.

“Mom?”

“Darling... I’m so proud of you.”

“I know, Mom.”

“Never stop living your life to the fullest. Reaching for...reaching for those goals.”

Another hacking cough came over the line, sending cold fingers of fear down Rosalind’s spine.

“You’ll be a senior lawyer at Nettleton Thompson one day. I know it. You won’t give up on that, will you?”

“I won’t.” Her fingers tightened around the phone as her heart hammered in her chest. “I’ll make you proud, Mom. And when we go to Italy this summer we’ll—”

“Italy...” Her mother’s voice turned dreamy, as if coming from some faraway place. “Such a fun trip.”

“Mom...”

“Yes, darling?”

She stood in the middle of Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, passengers streaming by, tears pouring down her face as she clung to her phone, like if she held tight enough she could keep her mother tethered to this earth through sheer will.

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, my baby girl. My pretty rose.”

Rosalind closed her eyes against the hot sting of tears. Time had softened the sharpest edges of her grief. Yet there were times like now, moments she knew her mother would have embraced with a delighted smile and a hearty laugh, that brought it rushing back as if it were yesterday.

She’d known when her father had taken the phone from her mother, had told her that things weren’t going well, that she wasn’t going to make it. That hadn’t stopped her from boarding the flight and paying the extra charge for Wi-Fi to stay in touch with her brothers as she’d flown north.

The plane had been just south of the Great Lakes when she’d gotten the message. Her mother, her biggest champion and her best friend, had passed. She’d spent the rest of the flight with her face turned to the window, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.

She opened her eyes and stared out at the sea. The weeks she’d spent at home had passed in a gray haze, with many hours spent on the dock that jutted out into the bay, sometimes crying, other times just staring at the horizon. Always awash in grief, an aching loss that haunted her every waking moment.

She’d always been able to see the good in everything, to focus on the positive, just like her mother. But this...it had shaken her foundation, introduced true sorrow into her life. Moving to London, to her internship at Nettleton Thompson, had been the lifeline she’d desperately needed to pull her out of her heartache. She’d thrown herself into her work. Knowing that she had made her parents proud, that she had achieved everything her mother had dreamed for her, had kept her going for the past two years.

And it had sustained her. At least to start with. It hadn’t stopped discontent from starting to creep in, to fester, especially in the last month or so. A feeling that in her quest to be a responsible, mature individual, to do everything her parents had expected of her, she’d missed out on something crucial.

She was liked well enough at work, occasionally shared lunch with her coworkers. But she didn’t go out with them for dinner, to clubs or on weekend trips to the Continent. She rarely dated. When she did, it was someone she had met through work. Conversations inevitably turned to the legal field and the dates ended up feeling more like a job interview than something romantic.

Even the one thing she did make time for, reading, had become a chore instead of a source of relaxation as she’d prepared herself for a potential promotion. Instead of romances and cozy mysteries, she’d read legal briefs, case studies and samples of wills until she could recite them in her sleep.

She was good at finding the happy things in life. But when was the last time she had enjoyed a long lunch? Said yes to a coworker’s invitation to go out or traveled outside the comforts of London?

A year. Maybe more.

Past the garden lay a meadow of tall grasses swaying in the breeze. Then a cliff, and beyond that the ocean, the same deep and mesmerizing blue as the pillows on her bed, the throw tossed over one of the chairs by the fireplace.

Her brows drew together. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to maintain this house, keep it in working order. Yet from what she could tell, Griffith Lykaois was the only person in residence. He hadn’t been here in the past month. Did he pay to have someone keep it like this? If so, why? Did he come here often? Why this place and not one of his other properties?

She shook her head. It didn’t matter. Griffith Lykaois’s intentions and preferences were his own. The only choice she cared about was whether or not he signed for his inheritance.

A thought came as she turned away from the window and the spectacular view, one that filled her with resolve and cautious hope. As much as she could have done without the almost getting flattened by a tree, she could see the storm had been a blessing. It had given her a second chance to catch her breath, refocus her attention and secure his signature before she left.

Concentrating on business had the added benefit of shifting her attention away from the memory of Griffith’s brooding stare and the decadent desire he could inspire with a single glance.

She padded into the bathroom. Another work of art, she thought with a small smile, and larger than her childhood living room. The claw-foot tub she’d soaked in last night had been installed before a bay of windows, which, by the light of day, she could now see also overlooked the rose garden and the sea. A shower made of black tile and a wall of glass with not one but two waterfall showerheads in the ceiling took up most of the back wall. Marble counters and gleaming silver fixtures shone under the glow of elegant wall sconces.

A distant knock pulled her out of her reverie. She walked out into the bedroom just as the door swung open.

“Wait!”

“Miss Sutton...”

Griffith’s voice trailed off as his eyes landed on her blanket-clad figure.

Shock froze her in place. His gaze moved from her face down to the thin material she clutched to her breasts.

The atmosphere shifted, heated as his eyes sharpened, traveled down over her legs and bare feet before moving back up to her face. Her nipples hardened into tight points and pressed against the fabric. Mortification and desire clashed, melded into a heat that spread throughout her body.

Their gazes met, locked. In the bright light of day, his scars were more vivid. Most were paler in color, but the one that cut through a thick brow and around his eye was still red.

The wounds didn’t detract from his sheer handsomeness. They added complexity, depth to the chiseled features. The cleft in his chin interrupted the nearly perfect line of a strong jaw covered by a well-trimmed beard.

And his eyes...right now they glimmered, a dark blue that somehow burned as he watched her.

A voice whispered in her ear, dared her to do something outrageous like let the blanket fall. To place the ball in his court and see what happened next. She’d been waiting her whole life for the right man, the perfect man, to share her body with. Each man she’d gone to dinner with, kissed, had fallen short somehow. Some had simply not been a good fit. Others had been cordial, kind, interesting.

But none had done this. Set her body aflame with a single look.

“I knocked.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

God, was that her voice? Breathless, husky?

“The tree fell onto the bridge.”

She blinked and just like that, the fire was gone from his eyes. The cold, controlled man from the night was back, his voice authoritative and sterile.

“What?”

“The tree,” he repeated, as if she was a child not paying attention. “It fell onto the bridge.”

Unease fluttered in her stomach.

“So...what does that mean?”

“It means until someone can come up here and remove the tree and test the bridge, make sure it’s safe, you’re to remain here.”

She stifled her alarm, took in a deep breath.

“Okay. I understand. When will someone be by?”

“Probably a week.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“A week?”

“Yes.”

“But...why so long?”

“Because that will be the first time Madame Beatrice and her husband will be back to restock the kitchen and any missing supplies.”

“Why don’t we just call someone?”

“No reception.” He arched a brow. The scar added a dangerous, almost thrilling edge to the gesture. “Surely you noticed last night?”

“When I was walking up, yes, but I assumed you’d have reception here.”

“No. Eventually I’ll have something installed out here for phone and internet.”

Unease morphed into dread.

“I can’t just stay here.”

“Unless you plan on climbing down into a one-hundred-foot gorge before scaling the other side, or swimming around the cliffs to the nearest beach, you’re not going anywhere.”

“What if there’s an emergency?”

He shrugged. “It was supposed to be just me.”

The part that went unsaid, that he appeared to care less whether or not something happened to him, stirred her sympathy. They’d both lost a parent, but he was now alone in the world. No brothers to call and tease him, no father to send small gifts from back home.

“I’m sorry.”

He blinked, as if surprised by her apology.

“Too late now.”

Her sympathy evaporated.

“Are you always this charming?”

“Always.”

Her eyes narrowed. Could that have been a hint of humor in his voice?

It doesn’t matter.

She had seven more days to get the contract signed and back to London. If the housekeeper and her husband made it up in six days, that left her one day. One day for the tree to be removed, the bridge deemed safe and for her to get back home.

Her mind scrambled, tried to find a solution that wasn’t foolish or unsafe but didn’t cut it so close to her deadline.

And came up with zilch.

“Okay.” She squared her shoulders. She’d faced down bickering relatives and bloodthirsty rivals in the legal world. She could handle one week at a remote chateau with a less than friendly host. “What do we do?”

He shrugged. “I don’t care what you do. You may use the common spaces and the grounds. Help yourself to what’s in the kitchen. But,” he said, his voice dropping into something dark and almost menacing, “stay off the third floor. My office and private quarters.”

“I’ll have no trouble with that,” she grumbled under her breath.

“And don’t expect me to entertain you.”

“I have no desire to be entertained by you,” she shot back with a sweet smile. “The only thing I desire is your signature on one contract or the other so that after this unfortunate week is over, we can never see each other again.”

A laugh escaped him, dry and rough, as if he hadn’t used his voice for such a purpose in a very long time.

“You’re trying to discuss business while you’re wearing nothing but a blanket?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “It certainly beats my only alternative at the moment.”

No sooner had the words left her mouth than his eyes slid down again to her breasts. The tension returned, so hot and heavy it was a wonder she didn’t start sweating. His hands clenched, unclenched by his sides. It wasn’t the only sign that he was affected by what she’d just said. Her own gaze wandered over the dark gray sweater that clung to his broad chest, the hint of hair curling at the base of his throat, then farther down still to the noticeable bulge beneath his black pants.

She swallowed hard. She wasn’t a stranger to what happened when men grew aroused. The last time she’d gone out and her date had pulled her close for a long kiss good-night, she’d felt how much he’d wanted her pressed against her lower belly. The weight of his desire had sparked nothing but a mild curiosity. She certainly hadn’t been curious enough to take things further.

Now, though, just the sight of Griffith’s hard length straining against his pants had her own thighs growing damp with arousal.

“Don’t you have something else to wear?” he snapped.

She lifted her chin up in the air. He was the one who had invaded her privacy.

“Once my dress is dry, yes.”

He turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him. She released a pent-up breath.

What was that?

A shudder moved through her body, delicious and slightly wild. Never had she been tempted to do something as audacious as seduce a man. Let him see all of her. Let him see how quickly and easily she had been turned on by his presence. That had been part of the problem—really the problem—with the men she’d dated. None of them had made her feel the way she wanted to feel with her first lover. They checked the boxes of kind, attentive, thoughtful. But the physical attraction, the desire, had never appeared.

Her roommate in college had told her on numerous occasions her expectations were too high. Her mother had told her to trust herself. That when she found the right man, she would know.

Not someone like him. Brooding, solitary and downright rude. Although, she thought with a twist of her lips, he had at least done her the favor of showing her what was possible.

A carnal image appeared in her mind, of Griffith yanking the blanket from her hands, scooping her up in his arms and lowering her to the bed, before standing back and peeling his sweater away from chiseled abs—

Three loud knocks sounded on her door. He was back.

She waited for Griffith to storm back in, to renew their argument, but he didn’t. Silence reigned.

Finally, she walked across the room and cracked the door. A trunk—an actual steamer trunk—sat in front of the door. It had been painted an olive green and trimmed in black leather with gold accents. But there was no sign of Griffith.

Keeping one hand firmly on the blanket, she grabbed hold of one black leather handle and pulled the trunk inside, casting one more glance up and down the hall before closing the door and locking it. She undid the latch and pushed the lid up.

A rainbow of material greeted her. She reached down, ran a finger over red silk, periwinkle linen and daisy-yellow cotton. One by one she pulled out dresses, skirts, shirts and a pair of pants, until nearly twenty garments lay across the bed. All of them still had tags attached, all sporting the same floral design and the name of a designer she knew only by reputation. The kind of designer with a storefront on Bond Street in London’s high-end Mayfair district.

Did Griffith keep clothes around for potential visiting lovers? She should be thankful he had anything for her to wear at all, but the thought made her surprisingly irritated. Pushing it aside, she settled on a forest green dress with matching buttons running from the sweetheart neckline over the cinched waist and down to the hem of the full skirt. Simple yet luxurious as she dropped the blanket and pulled the dress on, the linen caressing her skin.

She moved to the full-length mirror by the fireplace. Spun in a circle and grinned as the skirt flared out.

It was not how she had planned on spending her time in France. But with a trunk full of designer clothes she’d never get to wear again, a stunning bedroom overlooking the sea and nearly a week to convince Mr. Griffith Lykaois to sign, things were certainly looking up.

With that encouraging thought in mind, she turned and picked the blanket up off the floor. The feel of the fabric in her hands made her remember Griffith’s heated gaze fixed on her breasts, his jaw tight and his fingers curled into fists at his sides, as if he could barely hold himself back.

Her hands tightened on the blanket before she balled it up and threw it into a corner. She could have a good week, could make it into something positive, if she kept her erotic imagination under control.

A walk, she decided. She’d go for a walk first.

And hope the cool sea air would knock some sense into her, starting with the fact that she had a job to do and Griffith Lykaois was the last man on earth she should be fantasizing about.