CHAPTER 10 Kimberly #2
I drove back to the estate at dusk, a plastic container of leftovers riding shotgun.
The transition from Beacon Hill to the estate always felt like changing channels from a noisy local sitcom to a high-budget historical drama with the sound turned off.
I changed into leggings and an old, oversized gray T-shirt that had a paint stain near the hem, determined to find Maple.
The fourteen-pound orange tabby had established a routine of sleeping at the foot of my bed, a heavy, vibrating crescent that served as my only social support on the property, but I hadn’t seen her since this morning.
I checked the library. The conservatory. The butler’s pantry where she liked to sit near the copper sink and judge Hollis’s silver polishing. Nothing.
I was passing the basement stairs near the ground-floor corridor when I heard the thud-thud-thud of a treadmill coming from the home gym.
I pushed the heavy oak door open without thinking—mostly because I was operating under the assumption that the house belonged to my late employer, not her eldest son.
The words died in my throat.
Jackson Whitlock was standing near the free-weight rack, a gray towel slung over his shoulder, and he didn’t have a shirt on.
My brain performed an immediate, illegal software shutdown.
One second I was a functional twenty-seven-year-old looking for a pregnant cat, and the next I was processing the fact that the man who spent his days looking like a severe, high-ranking magistrate was built like a classical marble sculpture that had taken up boxing.
His shoulders were broad, his chest damp with sweat, and his stomach cut into ridges that made you want to file a formal complaint. He looked like he treated his body the same way he treated the company—nothing got to exist that wasn't performing.
He turned his head slowly. His gray eyes swept over my paint-stained shirt, my bare ankles, and my unbrushed hair, taking their sweet time. He didn’t reach for his shirt. He didn’t even look surprised.
"Do you habitually enter rooms without an invitation, Ms. Bishop?" he asked, his voice rougher from the workout, the sarcasm still perfectly intact despite the lack of oxygen. "Or is this a tactical demonstration of your complete disregard for residential boundaries?"
"The door was unlatched," I said, my voice about an octave higher than I intended. I kept my eyes resolutely fixed on his nose, which was a very difficult nose to look at when everything below it was so aggressively present. "I’m looking for Maple. She hasn’t been seen since noon."
Jackson took two steps toward me. The distance closed so fast the air seemed to shift. He smelled like sweat and mint. He leaned one hand against the doorframe right above my head, effectively pinning me against the cedar molding without touching an inch of my skin.
I was five-foot-four, and Jackson ensured I was aware of it, looking down at me from six-foot-three of naked, sculpted hostility.
"A cat," he said, his eyes dark and unreadable. "You’ve invaded my personal training facility during my one hour of designated privacy because you’ve lost a domestic animal."
"She’s not just an animal, she’s Greta’s cat, and she’s due any day," I shot back, my chin lifting because if I looked down I was going to see his collarbone. "But please, continue standing there looking like an advertisement for an expensive watch while she’s missing."
The corner of his mouth twitched—the outer limit of his emotional range. "If your performance as an executive track trainee is any indication of your tracking abilities, the animal is likely currently inside your vehicle."
"She’s not in my car, Jack."
"Mr. Whitlock, or Jackson," he corrected, his voice dropping into that smooth, dangerous register that usually preceded a layoff announcement.
"We are not on a nickname basis, Ms. Bishop.
Not in the office, and certainly not while you are wearing a garment that appears to have survived a chemical spill. "
"I don't have time for this." I dropped low, slid under his braced arm like a shortstop stealing second, and hit the marble hallway before my dignity could lodge a complaint.
"Try the conservatory!" he barked after me, his voice echoing off the tile. "She prefers the floor vents when her core temperature fluctuates!"
By ten o’clock, the humor had completely evaporated from the evening.
The rain had started around nine—a heavy, cold October downpour that lashed against the leaded glass windows of the estate. Maple wasn’t in the conservatory. She wasn’t behind the kitchen radiator. She wasn’t under the grand piano.
She was gone.
My stomach felt like it had been filled with cold grease. This wasn’t just a missing pet; this was the last living thing Greta had held before her hands went cold.
I was on my hands and knees in the mud by the pantry entrance, peering into the crawlspace with a plastic flashlight, when a pair of heavy leather boots appeared in the beam of light.
"You left the garden gate unlatched when you returned from your excursion," Jackson said from above me. He was wearing a black waterproof jacket, the hood pulled low, a heavy maglite held in his gloved hand. "I checked the security feed. The latch didn’t engage."
"I had my hands full with groceries," I muttered, scrambling to my feet, my leggings soaked through at the knees. "I thought it clicked."
"In this house, thought is an insufficient substitute for execution," he said, his voice cutting through the rain like a scalpel.
"If that animal freezes because you required an artisan pastry from Beacon Hill, I will have your corporate shares frozen before the probate judge finishes his coffee on Monday morning. "
"You are a truly horrible human being," I said, wiping a streak of wet mud across my forehead with the back of my hand. "She’s out there somewhere, and you’re standing here drafting a legal brief."
"I am establishing liability," he replied coldly. "Move to the east terrace. I’ll take the orchard perimeter. Keep your light low so you don’t spook her if she’s gone into the brush."