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Griffith stepped out onto the balcony, moved to the edge and gazed out over London, the blend of old and new. A cool wind whipped across the rooftops. A few miles away lay the London office of Lykaois Shipping. What had once energized him, given him a reason to get up in the morning, now felt hollow.
An icy-cold raindrop fell on his face. Before he could turn away, the clouds unleashed a downpour that soaked him before he could make it to the door.
Perfect.
He stepped inside, shaking raindrops off like a dog, just in time to hear the quiet buzz of his private line.
“Yes.”
“Sir.” Lazlo’s voice, deep and proper, rolled through the line. “There’s a young lady to see you.”
If anger could manifest into something physical, steam would rise from his clothes.
“You can tell Miss Dupree that she can ride her broomstick back to wherever she came from or go straight to hell. I don’t care which.”
“As enjoyable as that would be, sir, it’s not Miss Dupree.”
Griffith frowned.
“Who is it?”
“Rosalind Sutton of Nettleton & Thompson.”
The firm that had handled all of his father’s estate planning. A firm that dated back over two hundred years and managed the assets, wills and trusts of CEOs, politicians, even the occasional royal. They wanted him to sign the papers that would officially transfer his father’s fortune to him. This woman, Rosalind Sutton, had certainly been tenacious, from calling his private number to showing up at his various offices and even his home in Kent. Thankfully, he’d been gone that weekend. Otherwise, she might have found herself a guest of the local constabulary for the night.
He knew at some point he would have to cave. Would have to sign the damned papers and acknowledge that his father was gone.
But not today. He wasn’t ready.
You’ll never be ready.
Ignoring that nasty little voice inside his head, his next words were terse. “Tell her I’ll contact her later.”
“Of course, sir.”
A rustling sound eclipsed Lazlo’s voice.
“Miss Sutton—”
A feminine voice, strong yet muffled, replied, “Give me the phone. I need to—”
Griffith paused. He knew the voice, had heard it on the one voice mail he’d listened to before deleting it and blocking the number. Cool and professional. Yet this version of the voice was vibrant, feminine with a brash confidence that awoke something inside him.
Lazlo’s exasperated voice cut through once more. “Miss Sutton—”
The line went dead.
CHAPTER TWO
GRIFFITH STARED AT the phone. His previous irritation with Miss Sutton’s inability to take no for an answer morphed, shifted into admiration for the woman who had somehow managed to get into one of the world’s most exclusive clubs. The American accent hadn’t even registered when he’d listened to the voice mail. Now it intrigued him, made him want to know more about the tenacious woman who worked for one of the most exclusive law firms in London.
It had been a long time since anything had interested him.
His lips quirked. Imagining Lazlo fending off a woman trying to wrestle the phone away brought him as close to a laugh as he’d gotten in nearly a year.
He returned the phone to its cradle and started for the stairs, which led to the second floor of his suite where a massive king bed waited for him. Then he stopped as curiosity warred with encroaching exhaustion.
Curiosity won.
