CHAPTER THREE
When I enter the living room, the fireplace is already crackling next to the grand piano. No one hardly uses this tacky space, with its over-the-top gold curtains and furniture, but my grandmother insists that the gas fire is lit anytime guests occupy the room. Her entire world revolves around putting on a show to impress others.
“Dr. Hughes?” I say, taking in the view of the tall man with wide shoulders standing with his back to me and looking out the window toward the garden. Our yard was featured in one of those magazines for its elaborate hedges in the shapes of swans, bears, and deer. I’d rather have real animals.
“Rose, I’m sure you’re wondering…” His voice fades as he turns and registers my outfit. He’s likely seen Joseph, the guard at the front gate, and Gloria, the head housekeeper, who answers the door.
“Yep. We’re all into matching outfits,” I say, planting my hands on my waist. “You come to join the club?”
“No.”
“Then mind explaining why you’re here?” I know I’m being extra sassy, but that’s how a Southern woman lets people know when they’re not welcome.
For a brief moment, his mouth flaps, and I try not to notice the shape of his lips or how they’re framed by a shadow of short dark stubble. I can’t care what his lips look like. I can’t care about anything other than him leaving as quickly as possible.
“I came to apologize,” he says.
“For?”
“I think you know.”
I toggle my head from side to side. “Mmm…maybe. But I’m much more forgiving after a long cooling-off period, so if you’d leave? Immediately.” If he says anything about me looking for a husband and my grandmother overhears, I’m done for.
I march past him, toward the front door, only to be stopped by a firm hand on my wrist. He jerks me to a halt.
“Hey!” I protest.
“What the hell is going on?” he whispers, leaning in close.
Funny, he smells exactly like I imagined. Expensive coffee, expensive cologne, and clean clothes. I smell like Windex and sweat most days, though it is clean sweat, so I do have that going for me.
“Don’t know what you mean,” I say, trying to wriggle back control of my arm. “But I’m actually very busy at the moment, so if you’d—”
“Not a fucking chance, Rose.” His cold blue eyes aren’t so cold any longer. In fact, they’re showing a whole hell of a lot of emotion. Most of it disturbed. I can tell he’s a stubborn sonofabitch, so he’s not going to leave until I satisfy…satisfy whateverthehell this is.
“You can’t be here,” I whisper. “If you want to talk, I’ll come to your office tomorrow, but you have to go.”
His jaw muscles beat with tension.
“Dr. Hughes,” I growl through clenched teeth, “you have to go.”
I watch those intense calculating eyes. He knows something’s not right.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll leave. But only if you promise to come first thing tomorrow.”
I nod. “I promise.”
He tightens his grip on my wrist, almost like he’s afraid to let go. But I know that’s stupid. This asshole doesn’t care about anyone.
“Just promise me you’re okay,” he says quietly.
My heart almost stops. Almost. I can’t remember the last time anyone showed this much concern for me other than his late father, Murdoc. Those thirty minutes I spent on the phone with him were a lifeline—thin as spider silk—but they gave me hope that I was not alone. This man’s hand on my wrist, his fingertips digging into my skin, feels like a bridge.
“I promise.”
“If you don’t come, I’ll be back.” He releases my arm.
Shit. Not that. “I’ll be there. Eight sharp.”
“Seven thirty. Not a minute later.” He turns to leave.
With a pounding heart, I watch his sturdy frame exit my painting—the dark nightmare I’ve lived in for the last twenty years. But he leaves something new behind. A splash of color. Real, live, three-dimensional color.