“The gentleman asked for a discount, which I gave, of course,” Mr. Belmont said with a smile, counting the notes to pay Laetitia her share of 40 percent.

Laetitia bobbed her head twice. “Of course.”

“I charged three hundred pounds per linear meter,” he said. “Here. I split the discount between us. We are interested in you consigning more.”

Laetitia almost touched her chin to make sure she wasn’t gaping openmouthed at Mr. Belmont.

“It’s rather a shock, I gather?”

“Yes, rather,” Laetitia uttered, thrusting the stack of notes in her bag, not sure if she was exhilarated or what.

“Your work has reached a more mature level, Laetitia,” said Mr. Belmont. “You didn’t believe me when I said you were a natural, did you?”

“No, not really.” When she was a child, and later, as a teenager, she’d used whatever material was available. After she started working on Beardley Manor, she had been able to invest in better media and online courses, but she did it more for herself than because she thought she was talented. “As you know, I have more work stacked than I have sold.”

“Selling your paintings has been difficult because of their motifs, not because of their quality. They have a crudeness and intensity, which make them more personal to the buyer.” Mr. Belmont pushed a contract in her direction.

Laetitia read the clauses and looked at the old man. “You want me to sign a different contract. Why?”

“We need your authorization to market you and your paintings on our website. We can sell more that way.”

“I’ll think about it.” Laetitia folded the sheet and put it in her bag. “How many shall I bring next time?”

“I’ll send transportation. We want those.” He pointed to six photos on his iPad from her file. “I sold three others to the same buyer.”

She walked out of the gallery in such a giddy daze she almost forgot to stop in the supermarket to buy the goods for the party the baron’s nephew was throwing that weekend. She would work her fingers to the bone until Sunday.

Then she would think about the repercussions of having her work spread across England.

* * *

After following the highway and crossing the small town of Royal Leamington Spa, Tavish was now halfway past the even smaller neighborhood of Cubbington, almost in the middle of nowhere. Even though he was familiar with the region, as two of his best friends had an ancient country house and farm nearby, Laetitia Galen lived farther outside the city limits. And even with Baptist’s directions, it took him a while to find the turnoff.

There was a tall, heavily wired fence with signs warning of electric shock, and a video camera with an intercom; however, the iron gates were gaping wide.

Dense woods bordered one side of the road, with yew trees on the other. The wheels skimmed over the loose gravel that covered the long one-lane road that ended in a cul-de-sac, where sat a two-story, centuries-old house, partially hidden by a garden, which in contrast with the greener trees and seriousness of the building was an explosion of colors: Kashmir rowans, with eye-catching white berries hanging in clusters from the spreading branches, surrounded by creeping blue blossoms still full of pale-blue button-flowered florets and red maples’ striking scarlet leaves scattered here and there over the grass. The sun glinting over the garden added drama and reminded him of her paintings.

The silence managed to displace the quiet rumble of his black Range Rover.

Tavish killed the engine and observed the surroundings.

Her neighborhood—or the lack of it—pleased him. There was no background noise from traffic or from people. No far-off yells or shouts. No one around.

There was only the sound of birds chirping and trees rustling, as the gentle breeze fluttered through the branches. He could even hear the soft, lulling, gurgling sound of River Leam.

He got out of the car and closed the door without making much noise. He wanted a moment to look around before he knocked on her door.

* * *

The unusual sound of a motor rumble coming from the security system broke Laetitia’s concentration, making her frown at the new stencil.

On the camera she saw a car, its license plate unknown, coming down the lane toward the house.

Damn! I forgot to close the gates and turn on the alarm. Again!

Her carving knife clattered on the ground of the studio as she ran out. Pulling off her gloves, she entered the house by the kitchen and hurried to the hall.

A man was crossing her pebbled driveway and entering the front garden.

Laetitia knew that there were things in life that took their attraction from intricate symmetry, delicate structure, and innocent nature: rare orchids, unbroken seashells, and icy snowflakes; and those that were irresistible for their great power, refusal to be tamed, and dangerous potential: active volcanoes, huge waves, and craggy precipices.

And there were things that were simply too immense, too savage, or too intense to be contained in a single image or explained in mere words, even if there were a thousand of them.

The tall, powerfully built giant of a man walking toward her door belonged in the latter category, she was sure.

Wearing a tailored charcoal three-piece-suit, a baby-pink shirt, and a dark-gray tie, he was frighteningly male, terrifyingly beautiful, and vitally imposing.

His skin was an exquisite shade of the lightest coppery-gold. His mane was made of the darkest midnight-black silky locks, which shimmered under the soft sun. Wind-blown strands brushing against his forehead and wraparound glasses did nothing to diminish the sharpness of the man.

Who are you? By his firm strides, he wasn’t lost, which in her suspicious mind was not a good thing.

A funny flutter began in her stomach when he climbed the three steps to the double doors. His forehead creased for a moment, his ink-black brows going down, as if he was carefully weighing his next move.

Laetitia didn’t move but held her breath, waiting for him to leave, as she did whenever people came probing for information—when and if they came.

She didn’t know if she was afraid or excited, when, using one of the old iron lion knockers, he banged twice and called, “Ms. Galen?”

Even muffled by the old oak-carved doors and thick brick walls, his voice was a deep baritone, rich and sensual. It seemed to wash over her like warm rain on a summer night.

Damn. He knows me. She frowned and walked stealthily to the front door.

Cleopatra entwined around her calf, purring as if approving of the man outside.

Laetitia debated with herself: she had been careful ever since she had left Ireland in the dark of night, and she’d never had contact with such masculine power, yet there was her matured, innate sense saying that the danger he posed was not the one she feared.

Cleopatra tilted her head at her and lazily walked back to the kitchen, giving her a last look, encouraging her to open the door.

“Traitor,” she whispered, yet agreeing with her in some measure. She wanted an opportunity for a bit of unruly emotions to let her unthawed heart beat again.

He knocked again and called louder, “Ms. Galen.”

There was a quiet command in his deep voice. It compelled her.

Laetitia opened her door. “May I help you?”

* * *

Tucking his sunglasses into the inner pocket of his suit, Tavish looked down and froze, staring at the woman in front him as if he had never seen one before. Infinitely fragile. And equally arresting.

The white-blonde hair delicately framed her heart-shaped face of creamy skin, where lively violet-blue eyes shone under light-brown arched eyebrows and velvety plum-colored lips.

Then she smiled. Not exactly a grin, but not just a polite smile. It was more like an uncertain, questioning smile teeming with a checked desire to blossom. It was as fresh and delicate as the rest of her, and it gave her an angelic air.

His chest tightened, and for a moment he was unable to breathe. He was sure he hadn’t been living, but merely existing as days passed by in a blur of unending physical and psychological pain that he had learned to mask but that smile—that shimmering smile—made his heart slam painfully. I remember, Aingeal. I remember very well. Memories that had been lost and asleep were reborn and recreated to make him think of happy times long gone. It seems like yesterday. When I was a man full of life. When I had something to offer.

Time suspended into what seemed endless moments of breathless anticipation as a battle of unidentified emotions warred through him.

Not being able to distinguish among them, as they were deeply marred by what he had been through, desire won.

It heated his blood, blazing it to an erotic inferno, and surprised the hell out of him. Immediate desire wasn’t his style anymore—especially not something as strong as this. What makes her so different?

He tried to figure out how old she was, but her appearance exhibited an interesting blend of youthful charm with a hint of worldly sophistication, as if she were an old soul cloaked in an ethereal fairylike body. The flower-printed white turtleneck sweater over gray leggings highlighted her youth and efficiently hid the contour of her breasts and slender body.

He managed not to squint his eyes as his gaze wandered down, and desire clenched its fist around him. Beautiful shoulders, a slim waist, sweet flare of hips and legs. Elegance, beauty, and understated sensuality combined. Skin—

When his eyes met again with hers, Tavish saw she was looking at him with arched brows.

Jesus Christ, Tavish Uilleam! “May I speak with Ms. Laetitia Galen?”

Sea-green eyes. Lost in the most amazing eyes she had ever seen—eyes that should have made her run back into the sanctuary of her home and lock her door—she didn’t answer. Turbulent greens. Tumultuous seas.

She felt herself caught in the storm of that tempestuous gaze, and nothing would ever be the same for her.

Tavish’s eyes were a vivid color, between turquoise and intense green, framed by absurdly thick, long ink-black lashes. His rugged face was made of hard angles and fierce planes: high cheekbones, a thin blade of nose that was not so straight anymore, and a squared jaw. His feathered lashes and incongruous sensual lips gave an otherwise austere countenance a touch of the exotic.

He had a masculine and solidly built body, but not overly muscled. His height and the width of his muscular shoulders and chest made her feel small and slight.

Laetitia’s mouth parted as she breathed deeper. She knew that in front of her stood a man to be reckoned with. An intrinsic force of Nature. Uncontrollable. Someone who can threaten my whole world.

Something stirred within Tavish, calling his name like a whisper on the cold breeze—a whisper that rustled through the fallen leaves, caressing opened wounds and kindling extinguished flames. Pleasure and pain. Fear and desire.

He watched the tip of her tongue licking her bottom lip, as if asking him to kiss her, and he wondered how it would be to taste the sweetness of those lips.

For once in many years, he felt pure, undiluted lust burning in his veins, which threatened him with doubts about himself. Stop this. Just stop.

She stretched out her hand and in a husky voice, Laetitia broke the silence that had descended upon them. “I’m Laetitia Galen.”

With those three words she damned both of them.

* * *