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“The door was open.”
One hand tightened on the railing. “So you trespassed.”
Frustration reared its head. “Sir, I need to—”
“No.” He stepped down onto the top stair, the shadows shifting up but still shielding his chest and head. “What you need to do, Miss Sutton, is leave before I call Nettleton & Thompson and tell them to fire you.”
“For what?” she snapped.
Knowing he could do exactly as he’d threatened and that Mr. Nettleton would probably acquiesce in a heartbeat made her angry. She had worked hard, very hard, to get here. Regardless of her own doubts, that was the truth. She had tried to be nice, to be patient. But this man, who had the world at his fingertips, had thrown obstacles in her way at every juncture.
Determination lent strength to her voice. Irritation added an edge. “For doing my job? Going above and beyond by tracking you down across two countries?”
“If going against your client’s wishes and stalking them is considered your job, then I’ll take my business elsewhere.”
Helplessness was an uncomfortable feeling. Helplessness coupled with anger was even more unpleasant. She could feel the words bubbling up in her throat, tried to stop them.
And then decided she didn’t care anymore. If this was truly going to be the end of her career with Nettleton & Thompson, which at this point seemed inevitable no matter what she did, then she might as well go out in a blaze of glory and leave this spoiled playboy with a hint of the damage he’d caused.
“Until you sign this contract, my client is your father, or rather his estate.” She reached into her bag and yanked out the thick sheaf of papers. “Since you haven’t signed it, I don’t care where you take your business. In fact,” she added as she stepped forward and flung her head back, “I’d sincerely prefer you not do business with Nettleton & Thompson because you have been nothing but a pain in my butt.”
Silence fell, save for the furious thudding of her heart in her chest.
Then, in a firm voice tinged with reluctant amusement, he said, “Really?”
“Really.”
“And if you get fired?”
“If you don’t sign, I’m fired. If you call Nettleton & Thompson, I’m fired.” She threw up her hands in the air, barely keeping a grip on the contract. “So congratulations, you have me over a barrel.”
“Over a barrel?”
She rolled her eyes. “Helpless. At your mercy.”
“You don’t sound helpless, Miss Sutton.”
The heat trickled back in at the hint of admiration in his tone. Heat that only upped her irritation. How could she possibly be attracted to such an infuriating, self-absorbed man?
“I’m not helpless. I’m not a damsel in distress. I’ve continued forward through five canceled appointments, numerous hang-ups by your oh so efficient secretaries, and traveling over five hundred miles trying to track you down with my boss breathing down my neck and putting the future of my career in your hands. If I can survive that, I can survive anything.”
Her chest rose and fell as she stared up at his shadowed face. She’d probably already signed her future away with her outburst. But God, it had felt good to finally vent her anger at his arrogance, at her career being reduced to her ability to get one simple signature.
She ran a hand through her curls and looked longingly at the partially open door before she turned back to him.
One last time. Try to explain just one last time.
“Do you not understand? If you don’t sign, you’ll lose everything—”
“I’ve already lost plenty, Miss Sutton.” Cold suffused his words, all traces of amusement and admiration gone. He started walking down the stairs with slow, measured steps that made her chest tighten with dreaded anticipation. “My father. My girlfriend. My looks. My ability to walk in a crowd without scaring small children.” The shadows crept up, revealed broad shoulders and a strong neck, the skin marred by one thick scar tinged pink. “What makes you think I give a damn about money anymore?”
And then he stepped into the light.
Rosalind pressed her lips together to stem her gasp. The scars on the right side of his face were made all the more distinct by the lack of damage to the left side. One scar started at his hairline and stabbed downward through his eyebrow. Miraculously, whatever had caused the wound had missed his eye, but just barely, judging by the way it slashed to his temple before traveling down over one carved cheekbone. Still another scar, a larger patch of red, was visible beneath his trimmed beard, snaking from mouth to jaw and then farther down.
Jarring, yes. But the way the tabloid had played it up, including a lurid description from his former girlfriend, had made him sound like a beast or Frankenstein’s monster.
To her, he looked like a man who had suffered, yet survived, a horrific car accident.
