10. Summer
Two monthsafter my mother died, I was shipped off to a year-round boarding school, coming home only on long stretches of holidays. Callie didn’t arrive at the school until two years afterwards.
So not only had Mom been ripped from me young, dying in a car crash, but everything familiar in my life vanished in an instant.
Why so soon after her death? And why only me?
I thought I”d get answers once I was an adult. Now, they died with dad.
I hadn’t even known he was sick. What did that say about us?
The blank ceiling stared back, offering no answers.
Three days after the reading of the will, the shock was finally starting to wear off, leaving only my heart heavy in my chest.
I’d put in several job applications and was waiting for call backs—determined to be the adult and care for Callie.
In front of her, I pretended that everything would be fine.
But now, alone in my room, I felt like a kid again. Lying in my childhood bed reminded me of mom reading me to sleep.
Closing my eyes, I tried to remember the sound of her voice but the memory of it was gone. Disappointment swelled in my chest, and along with the pain of dad”s death, made tears threaten to spill over again.
I clutched my comforter up to my neck, allowing them to fall as I listened to the sounds of the thunderstorm raging outside.
A pounding noise suddenly echoed through the house, and my eyes shot open, my heart racing, and a trickle of fear edged under my skin.
I’d never been here before without dad, and Benson was far off in his cottage this late.
Callie’s head peeked from her doorway, meeting my gaze in the hallway. ”Is that the door?”
”Could it be Benson?” I asked, uneasily, slipping from my bed.
”Doesn”t he have a key?” She rubbed her red and puffy eyes; she’d been crying again.
”True.” I stepped out of my room, and as the pounding continued, we both turned to stare over the second floor landing.
We couldn’t actually see the front entrance, there was an antique bronze chandelier and a large archway in the way.
”Isn”t he supposed to lock the front gate?” she asked me.
”He always does.” The iron gate, opened by remote or key code, kept any random visitors from entering the long driveway.
We both stood there, staring, waiting for the person to leave. Whatever they wanted, they could come back another day. Nothing good happened this late at night—at least, not with strangers… unless it was Garrett, who’d mysteriously disappeared.
If so, he’d better have one hell of an excuse. He’d relentlessly hounded me to meet up… and now, he hadn’t even responded to my text that dad had died.
”They”re not leaving.” Callie met my gaze, a spark of alarm in her eyes.
”I”ll answer it.”
”I”ll go with you.”
”Get a robe on first.”
”You too,” she scrambled towards her room, and I moved quickly and quietly down the stairs, making my way easily in the darkness. Pulling the rifle out of the front closet, Callie met me, her fear now replaced with resolve. I was glad we were in this together.
She waited as I checked to make sure there were actual bullets in the chamber. When I gave her a curt nod, she yanked the door open, then scurried backwards and out of sight.
A dark shadow stood in the doorway, large and imposing.
Panic made me grip the stock too tight and my heart pounded. I pointed the gun upwards. ”You”d better have a damn good reason for banging on my door this time of night.”
He didn’t move or speak.
Rain fell into the front foyer, and Callie’s presence appeared behind my shoulder. She peeked over it, pulling her robe around her protectively.
Lightning shot across the sky, lighting up the face at the entranceway. ”You.” I gasped, surprise filling me, though it was quickly replaced by indignation.
It was the man from the funeral—and the—the garden.
The man didn”t wait to be invited in, or seem to care about the rifle pointed at him. He strode into the front foyer, soaked from head to toe. Stopping right in front of the gun, he crooked an eyebrow at me. “You’ve got dirt on your face.”
I sputtered at his lack of concern over the gun, but his voice was a low rumble that seemed to move straight through the barrel of the rifle and into my chest. It was so distracting, it took a second to realize his meaning—or the irony of the fact that he was much more dirty than I was.
He reached forward and brushed it from my cheek—I’d been pulling weeds from mom’s garden and had somehow missed a spot in the shower.
His touch sent a sizzle of heat through my thighs.
But then the echo from our last encounter rippled through me. I’m your worst nightmare, little girl. It had been a horrible day, and the one man I thought would comfort me—after he’d done so willingly to Callie—instead, had dared command me to leave my own house.
The spark of my anger turned into a flame, and I dug the gun deeper into his chest. “You here to try and scare me away?” I seethed. “Coming in the middle of the night and banging on my doorway, like the boogeyman. You think it makes you scarier?”
“I don’t need the dark to frighten people.”
I inhaled a breath, suddenly knowing it was true.
I felt with every bone inside me that he was the kind of man who got anything he wanted.
I grit my teeth, not answering because I didn’t want him to hear the certain wavering of my voice.
We stared each other down, the largeness of his presence making my chest clench.
After a long, tense moment, his dark gaze penetrating mine, he finally spoke. ”It would be polite to offer me something warm to drink.”
”And it would be polite to knock on someone”s door during daylight hours,” Callie sassed from over my shoulder.
Her voice broke the tension between us, reminding me how he”d jumped into my father”s grave after her with zero hesitation, while I”d just stood there, staring dumbly after her. He”d comforted her, and me, helping her gently upwards, then stared down the crowd, daring them to make a big deal about it.
”You know this guy, Summer?” she scoffed.
Trying to let go of my anger, for the moment, I put away the gun. “I recognize him, yes.” She probably didn”t remember, she”d been so distraught.
I sighed. “Follow me.” I made my way towards the kitchen with the silent, broody, imposing presence following behind me. “Callie, close the front door will you?”
“Milk?” The man stated drolly, staring into my fridge like he owned the place and wasn”t an unknown stranger.
“Hot chocolate,” I explained, ignoring the fact that he was still staring into my fridge. I lit the stove, catching his look of disapproval as he finally closed the fridge door. “You said you wanted something warm.”
”You don”t have something stronger?”
I did, but it was in Dad”s office—I wasn”t about to offer this stranger the last of dad’s alcohol.
”Sorry.” I forced a smile, ”do you still want something to drink?”
“Chocolate milk isn”t healthy.” He began to go through my cupboards.
Sighing again, I turned off the stove and leaned against the counter, watching him barrage his way through my kitchen. ”Did you come here for any particular reason? Or do you just like wandering around at night, looking for doors to knock on?”
”Who are you anyway?” Callie stood in the doorway, leaning against the door jam with her arms folded across her chest. She studied him cautiously, eyes narrowed.
”My name is Mr. Craven.”
“Do you have a first name?” she asked.
“Rook.” He paused, his voice turning lower, softer. ”I met you at your father”s funeral?”
“Oh.” Her face twisted in confusion, though her cheeks reddened. She was probably remembering what exactly had happened — and her role in it. ”I”m sorry, I...”
”I”m here to speak to your sister,” his dark gaze swept towards me. ”Alone.”
”I don”t think that”s a good idea.” She came to stand beside me, embarrassment gone, replaced by indignation from his rudeness. Maybe that had been his intent.
”Whatever you need to say to me, you can say it with her present.” We faced him down, united.
Dark eyes met mine, and for some reason, I blushed. What was it about this guy that made me feel so intimidated?
He cleared his throat. “It”s about the estate.”
“The will?” My voice squeaked. How did he know?
He stared at me blankly, but his shoulders tensed. ”What do you mean?”
”Oh.” Thank God. He didn”t know. “Nothing.” I quickly responded, turning to stir the milk, trying not to reveal my mortification. It only grew as I remembered the heat was off.
”Tell me.” He walked towards me, his strides predatory, like a wolf stalking his prey, strong and confident.
”No, nothing.”
“What do you mean you’re here for the estate,” Callie interjected. “Shouldn’t we have our lawyer here for that?”
“You won’t need him. Not now, at least.”
“Says you.”
A chill swept through the air.
I turned on the stove again, suddenly wanting my own hot chocolate. ”Callie. You can go back to bed. It”s okay.” I didn’t want her to worry about this. She had her whole life ahead of her to be an adult; I wanted her to stay young as long as possible.
”But I--”
”Really,” I bopped her hips with mine, scooting her towards the door. She giggled, grabbing the island, trying to hang on for her dear life, but I was stronger. “Besides, I’m the boss now, remember?
“You said we were going to be a team!” She was slowly loosing her grip.
“I changed my mind.”
She groaned. “It’s not fair.”
“The fair always made you throw up.”
She made a face, and I slapped her on the booty, shoving her playfully out the door. “Get moving. Yikes!” The milk was bubbling over the pan. I rushed towards it but he made it before me, a washrag already in his hand. How did he do that? He turned off the heat, then methodically wiped up the milk.
“Go to bed, Callie!”
“Ugh,” she stomped a foot, huffing lightheartedly as she walked off. “Fine. But I won’t go to sleep until I know you’re okay.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll scream if he gets any bad ideas.”
He turned away from me but not before I caught the amused look on his face.
The kitchen grew silent as I prepared the chocolate milk. Now that Callie was gone, he suddenly seemed larger, suffocating all the air from the large kitchen. He was taller than I remembered, and a shiver worked its way up my spine at his presence at my back.
Watching me. A soft breath moving over my shoulder.
The hair on the back of my neck prickled and I exhaled a small, tense breath.
Why was I so nervous all of the sudden? And why was he standing so close?
I peeked in his direction, trying not to be too obvious.
God, he was handsome. Almost beautiful, in that silent, broody kind of way. The kind that made me self-conscious because I felt his eyes on me. Watching my every move.
Even though he was still wet from the rain, his suit didn”t cling to him but sat comfortably, perfectly on his body. His tie was straight, his hair only tousled just enough, even though it was drenched. I wanted to slip my fingers through the dark strands to see if it was as silky as it looked.
He was clearly a serious man; I wondered when the last time was he”d laughed.
And seriously, why was he standing so close to me?
I clanked the spoon loudly on the edge of the mug, just to irritate him.
If he”d come to make me feel like an idiot about the estate, or to try and tell me what to do, he’d come to the wrong place.
My father was gone, and I hadn”t put out a want ad for a new one.
Because I was the daddy now.
”How did you get through the gate?” I pushed the mug towards his chest and his fingers curled around it, brushing against mine, heat coiling through my belly at the touch. With him so close, I could smell his musky cologne. It was so…gruff and manly.
His distasteful look at the mug cooled the desire looping around my silly heart.
He was a man. An older man. And I had no room in my life for someone tryin’ to be a bossy-boss. My father hadn’t been in the grave longer than five hours when several men had approached me, at the wake for heaven’s sake, to offer their financial services.
Shaking my head at my own childishness, I walked off, calling out in case Callie was hovering on the upstairs landing. “I’m serious. Go to sleep, Callie!”
There was a pause, then a soft huff. “Brat!”
“I’m not getting a lamp thrown at me again!” I grinned, biting down on my lower lip. Callie was… grumpy if woken by something other than her phone alarm.
A pause, then, “fair.” Her footsteps padded towards her room, the door clicking shut.
And then, it was just him, and me.
* * *
This sideof the house was always a little chilly, especially with the spring rain. It didn’t help that there was a leak in the roof, dripping into a large bucket in the corner of the room. The too-large presence following, once again, too closely behind me. “Please have a seat,” I instructed while I lit the gas fireplace.
When I was done, I turned around; he hadn’t moved from my side, instead surveying me with that serious look he’d mastered.
“Or not…” I mumbled, then curled up on the sofa, sitting crisscross apple-sauce with my mug in my lap. I stared at him expectantly. “Well? The gate?”
”It”s not hard,” he dismissed me, pulling the blanket from the back of the sofa to drape over me, “if you know what you”re doing.”
I frowned. That didn”t help me feel more safe.
”I never thanked you for helping us the other day, at the funeral.” I took a small sip of my drink and curled up in the blanket, the warmth making me feel better. “I don”t know what I would”ve done without your help.”
He didn”t look at me, but stared at the fire, the orange flames lighting up his handsome face. ”Grief can make us do strange things.” He was referring to Callie jumping into the grave.
”You understand it, then?”
He finally turned towards me, placing the mug on the top of the fireplace without taking a sip. ”I”m here to inquire about the purchase of your home.” He paused. ”And the Bugatti you have in the garage.”
“How did you know about the Bugatti?” The Bugatti Royale Coupe was dad’s 1927 antique car, and a sensitive topic. Currently in charred remains in the detached garage. Why the hell would he want to buy that?
Striding away from the fireplace, he opened the black, Ludlow trunk where my father kept his secret liquor stash. I could only stare at him in astonishment as he poured himself a generous glass of whiskey. “I know many things.” He replaced the lid with a smug smile, tipping his glass at me.
“Clearly.” I scowled at him and his arrogance. “But how?”
“Does it matter?”
“To me, it does.”
He didn’t answer, and I stared at the shadow of stubble across his throat as he drank the strong whiskey without wincing. The sound of his swallow was subtle yet somehow deafening in the room, only amplifying his large and powerful stature. I felt small and inconsequential compared to him.
“How much? Give me a number.”
“Just a number.” I scoffed. He said it like it would be so easy to part with these things, so special to Callie and me.
“I’m sorry? What did you say?”
“I said, that”s mighty presumptuous of you. What makes you think I’m selling the home?”
He looked around the room, taking in the old and outdated damask curtains, the black, worn velvet sofa. The red and gold rug that was tattered at the ends. The grey bucket in the corner, collecting rain water.
The leaky roof had damaged hardwood where water had pooled, unseen. Lights shorted when switched on—likely needing an electrician. More issues probably lurked, undiscovered.
His meaning was clear.
The house was old and in need of updating. Taking care of it would also be a lot of work.
And yet, all these things didn”t bother me. This place was home. I didn’t even see those things anymore. Instead, I saw the couch where my dad used to sit and smoke a cigar while staring out the window, musing and watching the rain. He would sling his arm around my mom while she read a book by the light of the dusty, blue, Tiffany lamp. Callie and I used to make s’mores from this fireplace.
And the tattered rug, we’d purchased from a street vendor from Marrakesh, Morocco, on a family vacation.
This man might have a new and fancy apartment in town, but I loved my home. I grew up in this place. It held the only memories of my mom, and now my dad.
I pulled my legs up to my chest, settling further back into the sofa, trying to put as much distance between us as possible. The mug clutched in my fingers was a shield between him and me.
I didn’t want to think about this.
He clearly didn”t read my cues, or didn”t want to. He sat on the wooden coffee table, scooting forward so that he was inches from me, his sharp gaze on my face. “Tell me, what’s your hesitation?”
I couldn”t look him in the eyes, and instead took another sip, then shifted my legs again just to have something to do. My reasons were too personal to share with a stranger. Finally, I answered. “Does it matter?” I echoed his words from before.
My mug suddenly disappeared and, with a solid clink, was on the coffee table. Legs slightly spread to exude big-dick-energy, his hands loosely placed between them, he commanded, ”Tell me. Why not? What would it take? Something other than money?”
Despite the rain, his shirt was still crisp, his narrow black tie similar to the one he”d worn at the funeral. I suddenly imagined him having twenty of the same black ties lined up in his closet—it wasn”t time-efficient to have to pick between colors.
”How many ties do you own?” I was genuinely curious. ”And are they all black?”
He gaped at me, the only sign of any kind of imperfection, but it was quickly wiped from his face. ”Too many to count. Stop trying to change the subject.”
”But are they all black?”
”I have some silver ones.”
Frowning, I shook my head, allowing my messy hair to fall into my eyes. ”Too bad.”
“And why is that?” Was that a twinge of humor to his lips?
”Because I like colorful ties. It shows personality.”
He stared at me for a long moment, and for the first time tonight, his eyes lowered. Just now I realized that, with my constant shifting, the blanket had fallen down my legs and to the floor.
I was wearing my cotton nightgown, with thin, butterfly sleeves and a soft lace bodice. It went down mid-thigh, showing a lot of leg. It was old enough that it had thinned out in spots.
Just like this home, it was well used.
I wanted to reach down and pull the blanket back up over me—suddenly feeling vulnerable in a way I hadn’t before, as if the man could see straight through my posturing. He somehow knew that I was only pretending to be brave. Pretending I knew what I was doing.
Pretending I hadn’t been wondering what kind of women he dated, only seconds ago.
He didn”t take his eyes away from my neck, where he seemed to be fixated. He suddenly reached forward, pressing a knuckle to my pulse, pursing his lips. Could he feel it hammering in my throat? Hear it?
See how my breath hitched when he’d touched me?
He didn’t speak for a long moment, and I was frozen in place, overwhelmed by the potency of his proximity. I could only stare up at him like he was a blinding god.
Finally, he leaned back, withdrawing his hand. “What makes you think I”m concerned about your tastes, Miss Duvall?”
Anger quickly burned through my fascination. “And what makes you think I would ever sell Darkmoor Manor to such an arrogant ass, Mr. Craven? Why would I sell it to someone who won’t love it as I do?” Something flashed in his gaze, so quickly I couldn’t catch the meaning. “You’ll just fix it up and resell it to the highest bidder, probably someone as soulless as you are.”
He laughed, the sound belting from him. I stared at him, wide-eyed and stunned, my thoughts scattering, not realizing he could even make that kind of noise. It filled the room with warmth, seeming to permeate the empty crooks and crannies, washing away the sadness that had filled it, only hours earlier.
And then, I realized, he was laughing at me.
“Really?” I hissed. “Doesn’t seem smart to laugh at the person who can give you what you want.”
“You might not want to sell to an ass like me, but I can promise you, I’m the best one you’ll find around here.”
“Speak for yourself,” Crooking an eyebrow, I glanced downward, indicating the rear end that was currently sitting on my coffee table.
“I don’t need to.” His smirk only grew bigger. “There are plenty of women who will do it for me.”
“So arrogant,” I grumbled, looking away, my cheeks lightly pinking. “And yet, arrogance only goes so far. A little grace would help.” My throat thickened. He’d jumped in after my sister, then held her, right there in a red, muddy hole.
The whole world was waiting and yet, he didn’t seem to care.
He gave her, and me, what we needed in that moment. That was something I could never repay.
But he’d laughed at and intimidated me, and I hated that. It made me feel small and insignificant, when I was already feeling so inept.
“I must warn you,” he began. “This world is for grown ups?—”
“This again? Oh, please teach me, Daddy,—”
“If I were your daddy,” he growled, his eyes flashing, “I’d be tempted to spank your ass.”
“For—” My lips parted, speechless and—and—and my insides prickled with heat. Being bent over his knee. His hand on my ass. Touching me so—so intimately. “For what?!” I finally managed to croak out.
“You don’t want to know.”
What the hell did that mean? “Feel free to educate me.”
“I would teach you exactly how you should behave.” He leaned forward, his eyes boring into me, his fingers sliding up my thighs, pulling my nightgown up with it. Liquid heat shot through me and I…I didn’t… I swallowed the knot in my throat. His voice was a low rumble that vibrated under my skin. “I would show you the dark things of this world, Miss Duvall. Teach you exactly how depraved people can be.”
“Show me, then,” I retorted, leaning towards him. Fire licking my skin from his touch, a slow burning heat in my belly…traveling lower…in between my thighs.
He stared at me for a long moment, his fingers fingering the edges of my nightgown. Then he looked away, his throat bobbing, and withdrew his hands. “I don’t think so, Miss Duvall.”
“Coward.”
His eyes flashed and suddenly, he was yanking me forward until I was practically falling into his lap. “You have no idea what you’re playing with.”
“Oh please, instruct me on your grown up ways.”
His dark gaze burned through me. Assessing my face. His thumbs digging into my hips. His eyes were on my lips and I leaned in, close enough that I could feel his breath pour over me. It smelled like whiskey and mint. Like a man who knew what he wanted in life. A man who took what he wanted. And I… “Please.” Begging him. Begging him for…what exactly?
He looked away, placing me firmly back on my ass. “No.”
God, I was tired of moralizing from older men who thought they knew better, “I fucking thought so.”
Growling out, he stood, “You may not want to sell to an arrogant prick like me but there are things at stake that you’re unaware of.”
“That’s what you keep saying,” I, too, stood, staring him down. “But you’ve yet to show me exactly what you’re talking about.”
“There are men whom your father sacrificed to keep you protected from.”
“Oh yeah? Then how come he never told me about these guys?”
“It was his way of protecting you. The less you knew, the better. Secrets are the currency of survival.” He huffed, shaking his head and leaned closer. So close, we were practically chest to chest. The fabric of his shirt brushed against my bare skin, goosebumps blossoming in its wake. “And yet, you have no idea, do you?”
“How about you tell me, if you’re so well-informed?” I was sick and tired of his hinting without giving me any actual useful information.
He pinched his lips, his dark gaze searching mine. Once again, this close, I could smell his cologne, a deep musky scent that reminded me of when I used to play with the lilies out back by the pond. It was earthy and toned, full of life.
And yet, it was the smell of a man.
Not the teenage boys I snuck out with at Crestmont Prep…and I…
I liked it. A lot.
It’d been something I longed for—a man who knew exactly what he wanted, and wasn’t afraid to seize it.
It was intimidating and admirable at the same time.
“Miss Duvall,” his tone had cooled and hardened, even though there was a fire in his gaze. Like an outer shell, holding back a lava center. “Your father always worked to keep you protected, including the knowledge of the things he was protecting you from. But I’m not like him. I’m not a sacrificial lamb, but a wolf, determined to have my way.”
I knew men like him, had grown up around them.
Money was a tool—and I was tired of being a shovel.
Tired of standing by while other people had their way.
I folded my arms across my chest and frowned. “No.”
“You have no idea what you’re doing.”
Reaching forward, he gripped my chin, exactly how he’d done in the garden. And, just like then, every inch of my skin was alive with desire and anticipation.
His gaze darkened, landing on my lips and there was a pause. A lingering, the sound of the fire crackling increasing the tension in the room. “I’m here offering you an out. I will give you any asking price you have for the house. And the car.”
“An out for what, exactly?” I demanded, my voice laced with determination.
He faltered, his breath moving in and out, but remained silent. The intensity of his gaze shifted, as if battling an internal struggle.
“You said you didn”t know anything about the will,” I pressed, my heart pounding in my chest.
His eyes darted away, fixating on the distant view outside the window. When he turned his gaze back to me, he slowly released his hold, severing our connection. With a resigned tone, he uttered, ”Fine.”
A shuddering breath escaped me, relief washing over me as he appeared to concede. I thought the tension would dissipate, allowing me to relax.
”If you don”t want my help,” he said, his voice laced with a touch of coldness, ”I”m happy to return to my life without any care for your welfare.” With those words, he turned and walked off—once again, leaving me standing alone.
After a moment, the crisp sound could be heard of the front door closing.
I stared at the empty space where he had stood, a sudden chill permeating the air. A sinking feeling settled in the pit of my stomach and I couldn’t help but wonder…
What if?
What if he was right?