Obsession (Smoke & Glass #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

D on’t lose your cool .

I took a deep breath and opened the immense door. Carson Covenant Inc. was etched into the milky opaque glass. I glanced back at the street and paused. Huh. A crystal-clear view. I stepped back onto the busy Boston sidewalk. A domed vestibule in the opaque glass was a very effective privacy shield.

Was he showing off?

Or was he hiding?

Atlantic Avenue, right near the Boston Harbor, was alive with pedestrians and tourists, as well as a backlog of cab drivers picking up and dropping off at the Intercontinental Hotel next door. It was madness, but as the door closed behind me, there was no sound.

It was a silent box.

I had an immediate urge to back up and get out. There was no reason to feel claustrophobic, and yet I couldn’t deny the kneejerk reaction.

Not a streak, heck, not even a fingerprint seemed to stick to the glossy surface.

Interesting.

Was the glass always this milky tone? Or could it be colored? My fingers itched to get some of the fascinating glass into a copper casing. I shook my head. No, Grace Copeland, you do not want the enemy’s glass on your worktable.

I didn’t.

Mostly.

And okay, enemy might be a little bit of a stretch. Actually, no. Not a stretch at all for Blake Carson of Carson Covenant Inc.—did he even know what the word covenant meant? I didn’t think so. Or he wouldn’t have snatched up my grandmother’s house at auction before I could even talk to a bank.

Exactly the reason I was walking into the huge glass box that he called an office building. He was a businessman. I was a businesswoman. Surely, we could come to some understanding about my house. I just needed a little time to figure out how to make things work.

My heels clicked on the slate floor, and the breadth and scope of the lobby’s design stole my breath enough for me to stop in the middle and do a 360-degree turn. Glass was my life. The absolute clarity of it was eerily cold here. Instantly, I wanted to add color everywhere, but there was no denying the statement.

Money. Power. Cool disregard for family and happiness.

Resolute once more, I stalked to the bank of elevators.

“Miss!”

I slapped the up button and scanned the walls for a directory of the building, but no such luck. I’d just go to the penthouse. Surely, this man would only want the upper floors for his offices.

Superior jerk.

“Miss!”

I turned at the voice. A harried guard crossed the lobby, his white hair tufting out the sides of his uniform cap. “Yes?”

“You need to sign in.”

“Oh.” Of course, he’d have a guard keeping the little people out of his space. “I’m very sorry.”

His forehead smoothed. “So many people coming in and out today. Do you have an appointment?”

No, of course, I didn’t have an appointment. My drive in from Marblehead to Boston had been an impulse. I smoothed my hand over my white jacket. I’d left the lawyer’s office and immediately gotten into my car with one thing in mind.

Getting my house back.

Well, technically my grandmother’s house, but it was mine now. At least that was what the will had said. Until probate and the lawyers informed me that selling the house was the only option. Before I could wrap my mind around selling the house I’d grown up in, the bank had put it into foreclosure.

So, no, I didn’t have an appointment. I’d been running on adrenaline and tears for days now. But this was not the place for tears, so adrenaline would have to do.

“Are you here for the interviews?”

I opened my mouth to say no and hesitated. That would get me upstairs. All I needed was five minutes. If I got a face to face with him, then I could swallow my pride enough to beg him to reconsider the sale. It rankled, and I’d never begged for anything in my life, but for that house, I would.

It was the single thing in my life that had only good memories attached to it. From the days on the cove with my grandmother, to the workshop I’d created out of the maid’s quarters all those years ago—there was not a single bad memory associated with that house or with Grandmother Stuart. She’d been my rock. Honestly, she was the reason I’d fallen in love with art and actually stuck with it. She’d been my confidante in all things.

So, no—I couldn’t lose the house too.

Definitely not.

“Yes.”

The man tapped the screen of his iPad. “Your name?”

“Grace Copeland.”

He tapped again, swiped, and then tapped some more. “I can’t…” He tapped a bit more forcefully.

I peered over the top and pressed my lips together. He couldn’t even get past the log-in screen. Piece of cake. I turned up the wattage on my smile. “I’m really nervous, and if I don’t get upstairs, I’m going to be late for my interview. From what I’ve heard, being late wouldn’t be a good first impression.”

“No. Punctuality is key for Mr. Carson. And security, which is why I need you to come back to the desk with me so I can log you in.”

I stepped close to him and laid my hand on his shoulder. “How many other people are here for the interview?”

He blinked at me. “Eleven people have come in.”

“Did anyone else have problems?”

He pushed up his glasses on his nose and wouldn’t meet my eyes. “It’s been very busy.”

Bingo. I glanced at his tag and boosted the wattage of my smile. “Tell you what, George. I won’t tell if you won’t. Then neither of us will get into trouble.”

The elevator opened and the guard sighed. “The last applicant came down in tears. Are you sure you’re looking for a job like that, miss?”

“I’m a tough cookie.”

The frazzled older man finally smiled. “You seem like it.” He held his hand over the elevator’s sensor. “If you last twenty minutes, I’ll call it a good decision. Top floor.”

I knew it. I stepped over the threshold and turned to face him and pushed the button. “Good deal.” When the doors closed, I turned and slapped my palm against the side wall. Even the elevator was pure glass. Was it more of that strange opaque glass or was it simply see-through?

Why did I care?

And yet knowing people might see me fidget made me stop. I tugged down the hem of my white jacket. I wasn’t exactly rocking a business suit. It was perfectly suitable attire for the gallery, but this place was definitely not business casual with a side of funky chic.

Nope, people in this place probably had pinstripes on their underwear.

Blake Carson was the kind of rich that was out of my stratosphere. I understood the wealthy vacationing set, the old money from Marblehead, and men who wore four-hundred-dollar Polo shirts on their boat. Even the patrons at the gallery were an understandable rich.

This was an entirely different world.

The doors opened to a sea of gray. The wall facing the water was a pure sheet of glass. Even the frame for the panes was clear, giving it a faint grid pattern that drew me to the view of Boston Harbor.

My salvation, my first love, even above glass. A turbulent childhood of jet-setting from Milan to London, Greece to Japan, Monaco to Paris—places that should have been incredible and enlightening were only vague memories to me. My parents couldn’t be bothered to slow down for a child. I had a nanny and a tutor to keep me out of the way until finally my grandmother had said enough.

And then Marblehead had become my home.

My parents had lived too fast one too many times, and they’d been lost to the same sea that saved me. That had been minor compared to losing my grandmother. No more disruptive than learning a distant cousin had passed away.

The day I’d found my grandmother on the floor of her sitting room had been incomprehensible.

“Can I help you?”

I turned to the deep voice. Sandy-haired, with friendly blue eyes, he was the poster child for a nice guy. Not what I was expecting at all. I held out my hand. “Mr. Carson?”

“Afraid not. Jack Hollister. I’m just the guy bringing you to the firing range.”

My eyebrows shot up. “That bad? George told me there were many tears today.”

“Nah, just an exaggeration.” He smiled and crinkles played at the corners of his eyes. Not from age, but from being outside and squinting into the sun. I knew that look. I’d fended off many a guy with an invitation for a midnight boat ride.

“So, I don’t need to gird my loins?”

He snickered. “Actually, I think you’ll be just fine.”

Unprofessional and a snicker. What kind of business was I walking into? If this was the personality type, then maybe…just maybe I wouldn’t be totally out of my depth.

Jack opened his arm toward another wall of glass. So, it could be colored. It was the same gray as the gunmetal sky outside. It took me a minute to make out the handle to the door. It was nearly indistinguishable from the glass. The only thing on the door was B. T. Carson in an understated font. Not a corporate font created for charts and progress reports.

However, it shouted wealth with the hairline fine lines echoing the curves and bars of the letters. A hint of art deco grandeur hidden under corporate gloss.

I straightened my shoulders and crossed the room. I knew how to read people.

It was my gift.

Blake T. Carson was going down.