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Yet every property he owned outside of England was the opposite of peaceful. A penthouse in New York City, a beach house in California, and an apartment in Tokyo he’d acquired weeks before the accident. Luxurious, expensive and surrounded by people.
He paused at the top of the stairs, glanced down at the sumptuous furniture laid out on the floor below him. Thinking of the beach house made him think of another beach, one he hadn’t been to in over thirteen years. His heart twisted in his chest, sharp and vicious, then released as he forced the emotions away and focused on the practicality. It was certainly remote, unlikely to attract the attention of anyone who would care.
Relief eased the edges of the tension straining his body. He’d always sworn he’d never go back to the far-flung coast of Normandy, to the chateau his mother had poured her heart and soul into right before her death. But not only would it serve as the perfect hiding place, it would also be just punishment.
He walked into the bedroom, ignoring the bottle of pain pills on the nightstand as he stripped off his clothes with harsh movements that made his right arm and leg burn. Then he sank down onto the bed, closed his eyes and slept fitfully, his nightmares plagued by breaking glass, squealing tires and a yellow umbrella darting to and fro amidst the chaos.
CHAPTER THREE
One week later
WHITE OAK TREES towered on both sides of the lane, their thick branches creating a canopy so thick only the smallest slivers of sunlight pierced the ground. But in those little pockets of sunshine, the crushed seashells covering the drive glowed white.
Rosalind Sutton stood and stared, one hand clutched around her briefcase, the other around her umbrella. Beyond the trees there would be a gate, and beyond the gate lay the castle.
Not castle, she mentally corrected herself, chateau.
She’d learned that from Bonar, the kind, elderly man who’d given her a ride from the village and shared his extensive knowledge of the Chateau du Bellerose as his clunky truck had sputtered along a dirt road flanked by rolling hills.
The stone bridge that separated her from the trees linked the chateau to the rest of the world. A river cut through the gorge that separated the plateau the manor had been built on, providing the only way in or out. Key, Bonar had said, to defending the manor house when it had first been built.
And now providing sanctuary for one very stubborn, very rude billionaire who had a contract to sign.
The memory of that moment in the hall of the Diamond Club crept into Rosalind’s mind. She’d felt someone watching her, had taken a guess as to who spied on her just beyond the light from the diamond chandelier. She had only seen his legs, hands hanging at his side. The rest of his body had been masked by darkness.
When she’d said his name, something had arisen between them, pulsed. A jolt of energy, a shock of sensual awareness.
Awareness that had evaporated as soon as she’d said the word inheritance. She had felt the anger, seen his hands tighten into fists.
And known that whatever battles she had fought so far, from sitting outside of his office in the pouring rain to calling in a number of favors just to determine the address of the elusive Diamond Club, were nothing compared to the war she would have to wage to secure that signature.
Instinct, along with extensive research, had prompted her to keep tabs on the Lykaois private jet at Heathrow Airport. A flight plan had been filed the morning after she’d been escorted out of the Diamond Club. A short trip from London to Le Havre on the Normandy coast. A quick review of the Lykaois family properties in France had netted several results, including a penthouse in Paris and a villa on the shores of the French Riviera.
But there had been only one in the Normandy region: a centuries-old manor just outside of the small village of Étretat.
One train and two taxis later, she was finally here. No henchmen in Savile Row suits to toss her out. No stone-faced secretaries telling her to stop coming by unless she wanted to be arrested.
Yet still she hesitated. Part of her wanted to turn around and follow the dirt road down to Étretat. To walk through the streets lined with homes constructed of timber and brick, to relax with a glass of wine at a beachside restaurant and gaze at the white chalk cliffs. To seize a moment’s peace.
Later. She made herself that promise as she forced herself to walk across the bridge toward the shadowy tunnel created by the trees. After securing Mr. Lykaois’s signature, she would enjoy the remaining days of her cottage rental. Maybe she would even take an actual vacation, spend a week in Paris or Rome.
Yeah, right.
Once she secured this promotion, her already demanding schedule would become even more so. Late nights, long weekends, holidays. The price to pay for working her way up at a prestigious law firm.
She’d been working toward this promotion ever since she graduated law school and accepted a position as a junior associate at Nettleton & Thompson. Her ascension from a small town in Maine to being offered a job in London had made her parents so proud. It had been her mother’s dying wish to see Rosalind reach even further, achieve even more, than anyone in her family had ever dared to dream.
Sometimes, Rosalind wondered if she should have told her parents how much she would have preferred a smaller firm, an organization dedicated to helping people who needed her services versus the ones who could pay a small fortune.
But then she remembered her last conversation with her mother, the pride that had rang in Jane Sutton’s weakening voice.
It wasn’t just her version of the dream that mattered.
The next step of that dream was within reach, so close it nearly drove her mad that one man held the power over her career with Nettleton & Thompson.
Unbidden, the one glimpse she’d gotten of that man rose in her mind. Cloaked in shadow, there had been no reason for her body to respond to the glance they’d shared.
Tension tightened her muscles, her breath quickening as she remembered the sudden burst of heat deep within her belly, a heat that had spread and made her body languid even as sparks had skipped through her veins.
