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But now...now she just felt exhausted.
The one positive in the struggle of reaching Mr. Lykaois was that she’d been able to put off confronting her dissatisfaction with her job just a while longer. To figure out if she wanted to work for the firm she had once thought she would retire from, or if she had the nerve to finally stop burying herself in work and make her own decision about what she wanted to do with her life. Live a little outside the walls of her office.
She shoved the questions away. Not the time to be having a personal crisis.
Now was the time to do her job.
She stopped in front of two massive wood doors.
Here goes nothing.
She raised the heavy knocker, a round loop of metal topped off with a sculpture of what looked like a rose, and let it fall.
No one answered.
Wind howled over the top of the manor, followed a moment later by scattered rain. Hunching her shoulders against the storm, she tried peering into one of the windows, but the curtains had been drawn tight. She went back to the door and knocked with her fist. One of the doors quivered, then slowly swung in.
She stood on the threshold, her hand tight around the handle of her briefcase. Technically no one had invited her in. But the door was open. And she’d come all this way after over a month of chasing the dratted man down.
Besides, it was starting to storm. Surely Mr. Lykaois would allow her to at least take shelter until the rain passed.
With a deep breath, she pushed the door wider and walked inside.
CHAPTER FOUR
ROSALIND’S MOUTH DROPPED OPEN.
Mosaic tiles swirled into a stunning pattern of deep blues, vivid greens and elegant reds beneath her feet, contained by white stone edging the room. A matching stone staircase, wide enough to fit four people across, hugged the wall and spiraled up. The chandelier had been fashioned in black like the railing outside and hung from the ceiling a good fifteen feet above her head. Thankfully it was lit and kept the encroaching gloom from the storm at bay. The walls, painted a creamy ivory, caught the light and made the room glow. A long, thin table hugged one wall. The dark wood gleamed as if it had been freshly polished. Beautiful but bare, as if it were waiting for a bowl of fresh flowers or an antique vase.
The overall emptiness of the room struck her, made her sad. A stunning house with much to offer but left empty and alone.
She started to move about, too jittery to stay in one place. A painting caught her eye, one of the few adorning the walls of the hall. Well over four feet tall, it depicted white-capped waves surging onto a beach. The strokes that had captured the dark blue of an ocean at twilight had been fierce, the slashes depicting water churned up by the hint of dark clouds on the horizon. A cliff jutted out into the sea, proud and immovable against the water’s wrath. The wildness spoke to her, sent a frisson of energy through her that rejuvenated her flagging spirits. It reminded her of the autumns of her childhood, with her nose pressed against the glass as she watched storms lash the Maine coast just steps away from her home. Fury and power, nature reminding man what it was capable of.
One lone figure had been painted on the small beach, a simple black shadow made strong with a tilted-up chin and shoulders thrown back, as though the person was confronting the ocean itself. It was tempting to reach out, to touch the character and encourage them to keep fighting.
A small smile flitted about her lips as she breathed in deeply. Whether she was projecting or not, the thought gave her a much-needed boost of determination to see her mission through.
A twinge settled between her shoulder blades. Awareness made her skin pebble as her breath caught in her chest. The same sensation she’d experienced in the Diamond Club right before she’d caught a glimpse of Griffith Lykaois lurking in the shadows. She hadn’t seen his face, not clearly. That hadn’t stopped the shock that had stolen her breath, the heat that had appeared out of nowhere and burned her skin.
The same heat now creeping over her, a fever that could only be assuaged by one decadent act she’d never experienced before.
She whirled around.
There was no one there.
“Miss Sutton.”
The voice—deep, harsh, yet surprisingly melodic—rang out through the hall. It washed over her, slid under her skin and reverberated through her body like a deep roll of thunder.
Startled, she looked up. A man stood on the first landing of the grand staircase. A very tall man, his torso and face covered in shadow.
“Mr. Lykaois?”
“How did you gain entrance to this house?”
She tilted her head but couldn’t make out any features. She had heard the rumors of his scars. One of the law clerks had even shown her the blurred photo published in last’s week gossip magazine. But whether it had been out of focus intentionally or by accident, it had been hard to see much detail.
Curiosity nipped at her, but she quelled it. His scars, or lack thereof, were none of her business.
