The taxi stops in front of enormous wrought-iron gates just as lightning slashes the sky and an entire Niagara’s worth of water pours down. The driver, cursing, rolls his window down an inch, but before he can try to explain our presence, the gates swing slowly open.

“Sorry for the language, Miss,” he says as we follow a long, curving drive. The trees lining it are dancing wildly, whipped into a frenzy by the wind. I feel like the ill-fated heroine of a Gothic novel.

“It’s all right,” I tell him. “Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

He comes to a halt at the porticoed entrance to the mansion. The double doors open and a man in a dark coat, holding an umbrella, comes out. He’s aimed at the back of the taxi, which he can probably barely see in the storm. The driver jumps out so he can open the trunk; I dig in my purse for my wallet.

When my door opens, the man in the dark coat is standing there, my suitcase in his hand. The driver is back in his seat, so I push a generous stack of bills through the slot. “Thank you for driving out here in this weather.”

He pushes the bills back at me. “The guy already paid me, Miss.” Startled, I glance at the man, but I can’t see his face; the umbrella is blocking the light from the residence.

“Keep it as a tip, then.” I push the bills back through. “You’ve earned it.”

The driver doesn’t argue. “Thanks, Miss. Now I can go home for the night.”

“Good. Drive safely.” I grab my purse and carry-on bag and climb out next to my waiting escort.

“Thank you very much,” I tell him as he keeps the umbrella over my head, shielding me from the worst of the rain. I stick as close to him as I can so he’ll have some protection too. We go up the stairs and through the open doors into a marble-tiled foyer.

A woman waits there, short, her dark hair liberally threaded with gray and pulled back at the nape of her neck. Her eyes are keen, but not unkind. At her feet sits a sleek gray tabby cat, looking at me with unblinking green eyes.

I crouch down. “Hey, kitty.” He comes to my outstretched finger, then rubs himself against my hand. “Good boy.”

When I look up, the woman has a smile in her eyes. “Good evening, Miss Morgan. I trust your trip was uneventful.”

“It was,” I say, standing again. “Thank you.” No need to mention the shouting match with my father before he sent me away, or the angry tears I shed on the plane. “I’m sorry to arrive at such a late hour, and with so little notice.”

“Late hours are not altogether unheard of here. I’m Mrs. Jameson, the housekeeper.” She gestures behind me, where umbrella man must be standing with my suitcase. “And this is Mr. Thorne.”

I whirl. He’s put the umbrella in a stand, his coat on a rack, and my suitcase on the floor. I see now that he’s not a member of the household staff, as I’d assumed, but Cameron Thorne himself. The scion of an old-money family and ridiculously successful hedge-fund manager came out in the rain, personally, to fetch my luggage.

But my astonishment at his actions barely registers, swamped as it is by my visceral response to the man. He doesn’t resemble a financial genius so much as a pirate … the kind who’d like to plunder more than my gold.

He’s tall, dark, and a good twenty years younger than my father —in his thirties, not his fifties. He’s built like a professional quarterback, tall, broad-shouldered, with muscular arms and thighs. A short, neatly-trimmed beard and deep-set eyes that crackle with intelligence do nothing to detract from the aura that surrounds him.

One that signals danger — and heat.

I swallow hard and scrape together some semblance of coherent speech. “Mr. Thorne. Thank you for taking me in so unexpectedly.”

“Welcome to my home, Haley Morgan.” The rich, deep timbre of his voice sends a shiver chasing down my spine. “Your father was a mentor of mine, once upon a time.”

“It’s difficult to imagine you needing … mentoring.” The man before me seems capable of anything. In both senses of that phrase.

A slow smile curls one corner of his mouth, and I get an answering spasm between my legs. It’s a good thing Mrs. Jameson is chaperoning us, because I would like to jump my host right here in the foyer.

Not that he’d be interested. A man like him doubtless has his pick of women; a college girl like me can’t hold a candle to the supermodels he probably dates.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“No, I’m fine, thanks.” In truth, I was too upset to even touch the in-flight meal. I’m hungry now, but I don’t want to be a bad guest.

My stomach chooses that moment to gurgle loudly. Mr. Thorne raises an eyebrow that manages to be both inquisitive and accusatory at the same time. “It’s late,” I say in answer. “I’ve put you all out enough already.”

His eyes narrow. “There are rules, Haley, for you staying here. Not many of them, but those few I have I expect to be obeyed.”

The command in his voice stirs something deep inside me. But the words … those are another matter.

“Obeyed?” I repeat. What century does he think we’re living in?

“Respected, if you prefer.”

I can’t argue with that without being utterly ungracious, the very thing I’m trying to avoid. “Far be it from me to disrespect any reasonable rule,” I say with hands spread.

He gives me a look that says he spotted my mile-wide loophole. And then he moves, with a sensual grace that tightens my skin. “Who decides what’s reasonable?” he says when he’s right next to me.

Every cell in my body starts to quiver. Up close, he’s overwhelming. This man is a force of nature, and if I’m not careful he’ll steamroll right over me. “Well, that’s the crux, isn’t it?”

“My house, Haley. My rules.”

I somehow manage to keep my voice steady and neutral-sounding. “Perhaps you could explain the rules. And if I can’t agree to them, I’ll go find a hotel.”

“That’s unacceptable.”

My composure vanishes. “What?” I can’t believe he just said those words.

“Your father put you under my protection.”

“Mr. Thorne.” Hands on hips, I glare up at him. “Neither you nor my father seems to have noticed that I’m a legal adult and can do as I damn well please. I appreciate that both of you have good intentions, but we’re not living in medieval times.”

He regards me for a long moment. Then he stoops down and hoists me over his shoulder. “Hey!” I yell, pounding his back with my fists. “Put me down!”

Thorne ignores my outburst. “Mrs. Jameson, if you could send up some sandwiches, please.”

“Of course, Mr. Thorne.” The housekeeper sounds utterly unperturbed, as if this sort of thing happens all the time. Maybe it does.

My captor carries me out of the foyer and up a broad, curving staircase. “I can’t believe this,” I fume, unable to keep silent. “Except I totally do. No wonder he sent me here.”

Thorne doesn’t answer. I’m left to stare at the floor, or, alternatively, at his legs and his excellent ass. Watching the play of muscle under his clothes is so enthralling I forget to be angry for a few moments.

The arm he has clamped across the backs of my thighs doesn’t help. By the time he opens a door and goes through it, my panties are getting damp. Then he lays me down on a bed and sits beside me, his arm braced on the other side of me, penning me in.

That fast, my temper snaps back. I start to sit up, determined to jump off the bed and be somewhere else — anywhere, so long as it’s not where he put me.

“Lie still.”

Did I say he was commanding before? Oh, no. This voice makes that one sound like a croon. It cracks across my nervous system like a whip, putting me flat on my back as effectively as if he’d severed my spinal column. Stunned, furious, I clamp my lips together and wait.

“Here are the rules for your time in this house.” He speaks softly now, but his words are tempered with steel. “Number one: your well-being is my responsibility. I don’t care how antiquated a notion you think that is; I will take care of you.

“Number two: never, ever, lie to me. About anything.”

When he doesn’t say anything else, I review the scene in the foyer. By saying I wasn’t hungry when I was, I violated both his rules. On the face of it, they sound completely rational and benign, except that they’ve led to me being carried upstairs and pinned to a bed within five minutes of my arrival here.

“And if I break a rule?” I challenge him.

“Then you’ll be over my knee.”