The Tycoon's Trophy Mistress. Lee Wilkinson
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square panes of uneven glass that picked up the light. Above the polished brass knocker, shaped like a lily, hung a holly wreath with a scarlet bow.
The whole thing was so totally unexpected that Charlotte wanted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
‘This is where I live,’ Daniel told her. ‘As you can see, it’s really quite small.’
In a city like New York this charming little house should have appeared totally incongruous, an anachronism, but somehow its aura of calm serenity, its air of belonging here, made it look as much at home as the Statue of Liberty.
Stopping by the kerb, the chauffeur sprang to open the car door.
‘Thank you, Perkins.’ Daniel stepped out first into several inches of snow.
Turning to take Charlotte’s hand, he said, ‘Mind you don’t slip.’
She heeded his warning and descended carefully.
The sun had disappeared, leaving a sky of icy pearl, and the air was decidedly chill.
Conditions underfoot serving as a good excuse, he put an arm around her waist while they crossed the sidewalk and climbed the steps.
Just for a moment it gave her the perilous illusion of being cared for.
Taking an ornate iron key from his pocket, he opened the door and, standing aside, ushered her in. ‘Welcome to The Lilies,’ he said with grave courtesy.
‘Thank you.’ She stepped over the threshold and wiped her feet on the doormat.
Ducking his head to follow her, he felt a surge of pure elation. The woman he’d wanted for so long was in his house at last and he couldn’t wait to get her into his bed.
But he couldn’t afford to rush things a warning voice reminded him. In the past it had never mattered if a woman refused—there was always another one in the offing—but Charlotte Michaels was different, and this time it did matter.
As Daniel closed the door behind them Charlotte gazed around the living-room with unfeigned delight. It was old-fashioned and utterly charming, with period wallpaper and white plaster cornices decorated with sheaves of lilies.
The minimum of furniture, all of it glowing with the patina of age, stood on dark oak polished floorboards and on the right a small graceful staircase curved up to the second floor.
A bright fire burnt in the grate of a purply-blue ceramic fireplace adorned with garlands of white lilies, and a thick white sheepskin rug lay in front of the hearth.
Grouped nearby was a trug-shaped log basket, a hexagonal coffee table, a single wing-backed chair and a settee covered in dull gold velvet and piled with cushions.
Various other rugs and curtains tied back with bows picked up and echoed the indigo-blue of the fire-surround.
Between the long windows a tall beautifully decorated Christmas tree with a star on top stood in a tub. It was a fresh one and Charlotte could smell the pungent scent of pine needles and resin.
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