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“If you don’t want the money, then I need your signature on a different document relinquishing any claims on the inheritance.”
Surprise flitted across his face. Had he expected her to run away screaming?
“Did you not hear me, Miss Sutton?” He raised his chin even as he managed to look down his still-aristocratic nose at her. “I’m not signing it. Any of it.”
Fine. If the man wanted to refuse billions of dollars, money that people like her parents and her neighbors back in Maine could have used to do so much with, then that was his choice. That he would prefer to throw it away rather than put it to good use angered her further and added acid to her next words.
“Then use it for something else. Drawing. Writing poetry. Perhaps making paper airplanes. My nephews get a kick out of that sort of thing.”
“Do I look like the kind of man who writes poetry?” he growled.
“No.”
She took a risk as she moved to the bottom of the staircase and looked up at him. He stood a few stairs above her. The light from the chandelier highlighted the left side of his face from the unblemished warm ivory of his skin to the sharp line of his jaw. Dark golden hair, thick and slightly tousled, fell over his broad forehead.
Her anger bled away. It almost seemed crueler to leave him with half of his former face. A constant reminder of who he had been.
Their gazes collided. Her heart stuttered in her chest. The heat returned, spread throughout her body and made her limbs heavy, drugged her with desire.
She blinked and stepped back, trying to get her bearings, to summon something akin to professionalism after her eruption. The scar by Griffith’s mouth twisted as his lips curled back into a sneer.
“Then what kind of man do I look like, Miss Sutton?” He came down until he was just one step above her, only inches between them. “A spoiled bastard who got what was coming to him? Or maybe something simpler? A monster, perhaps?”
The last words, raw and guttural, stopped her anger in its tracks. Her gaze moved over him, registered the taut cords of muscle in his neck, the tension in his jaw twisting his scars. And behind the patrician gleam of disdain in his eyes...pain. Deep, horrible pain.
The remnants of her anger dissipated, slipped away, left her wanting to reach out and offer something, anything, to lessen the burden of such profound agony.
“No. You look like someone who’s hurting.”
His face twisted into an expression of disgust that made her feel small and insignificant. He stared at her, chest rising and falling, a pulse pounding in his throat. She could almost feel his heartbeat, feel the anguish that kept him in an iron grip.
Her eyes traveled from his throat up to the scarred, handsome face, her breath catching as his glittering gaze ensnared her.
“I said no. I’m not signing.”
For a moment she just stared at him. Dimly she heard a howl of wind, the deeper rumble of thunder warning that the storm was getting closer.
Finally, the cold words registered and snapped her out of her reverie. Her fury returned, eclipsing her surroundings as she let go of any hope of keeping her job.
“I would be curious to see how a man who’s had everything handed to him on a diamond-encrusted platter would handle throwing out a mere mortal like myself. But no matter,” she continued as his lips parted on a retort. “I’ve literally traipsed hundreds of miles, stood out in the pouring rain and argued with your employees the world over to just get one signature. And I’m done.”
She held up the contract. Common sense whispered for her to stop, to hold back, but no. She was done playing nice with such a selfish man.
She let go, savored the thump when the file hit the table as much as she enjoyed the widening of his eyes, the thinning of his mouth.
“Have a good day, Mr. Lykaois.”
She shot him a megawatt smile, inclined her head to him and then walked out of the chateau.
CHAPTER FIVE
GRIFFITH STARED AT the open door. He couldn’t recall the last time someone had walked away from him. That she had done so with an attitude, acting as if he’d wronged her when she’d been the one to stalk him across the Channel and trespass on his land, had him stride across the hall to shut the door on Miss Rosalind Sutton once and for all.
He reached the door, then glanced back at the contract on the table. A seemingly innocuous stack of papers that he wanted nothing to do with. Signing them would bring an end to this mess. Stop Miss Sutton’s relentless campaign.
Although if her parting words were any indication, she had no intention of seeing him ever again. Which should make him relieved.
But it didn’t. Instead, the emptiness of the house pressed in on him, as did the roar of the storm growing outside. The thought of never seeing Rosalind again, a woman who had made such an incredible impact in a matter of minutes, sent an unexpected pang through the hollowness of his chest.
