Taming The Billionaire. Dani Wade
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noise, like something small had fallen, barely reached her across the rotunda. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
No response. Only the sound of the rain beating at the house.
Willow swung the flashlight around in a circle, taking note of the numerous doors leading off this room and on the upper floors. A strong sense of uncertainty crept over her. She had no idea where to look, and no idea which direction to go. With this many rooms, she could look all night and possibly never find this man.
Had she made a mistake coming here so late?
Her excitement at finally being inside the house had now given way to more uncertainty, mixed with rapidly rising fear.
A metallic rattle came from the hallway opposite her, ramping her pulse to high speed. Was that a normal noise for the house? She had no idea. Her light reflected back from the ocean-blue tile outlining the bottom of the plaster walls. She took a tentative step forward, struggling to think logically.
The bedrooms were probably upstairs. She’d start on the second floor. He would most likely be there. If she could just find some light. Surely, given how often the power went out on the islands, he would be well equipped with lanterns.
Or a generator. Though if he’d already gone to bed, he might not have bothered starting it. She couldn’t remember if Murdoch had mentioned one in his instructions.
Her wet tennis shoes squeaked on the tile as she made her way to the bottom of the staircase. Reaching out, she grasped the wooden balustrade. Her light trailed upward, showcasing the stairs’ brilliant blue tiles with a mother-of-pearl glaze. The silver filigree in the blond wooden rail looked delicate but remained firm in her grip. As her light reached the next floor, she caught a shadow move out of the corner of her eye.
Startled, Willow dropped the flashlight from her hand. The clatter echoed through the massive room.
“Hello?” She tried to project her voice, but fear made it tiny. She almost couldn’t hear it herself over the rain and rumble of thunder.
Just as she bent forward for the light, a strong arm snaked around her neck, forcing her back against a hard wall of muscle and heat that she recognized as human...and huge.
The size and strength of her attacker told her it had to be a man, but she was too busy trying not to wet her pants to figure out more than that.
The arm around her neck tightened, almost cutting off her air. Then she felt the man’s face near hers, his breath harsh in her ear. “Want to explain what you’re doing in my house?”
* * *
Tate Kingston felt a surge of adrenaline like he hadn’t felt in years.
He’d thought there was a burglar. When he first heard the sounds, he knew they didn’t belong in the house where he’d lived his entire life. His brain had automatically drifted down dark alleys with nefarious characters. Not surprising for a horror fiction author.
Then again, he’d never experienced an intruder in this house. Just to be sure, he’d slowly made his way down the back stairs. Spying what he thought was a young man, he stalked him as he came into the center rotunda. A teenager, he’d thought. Maybe someone who’d been dared to sneak inside Sabatini House, the place of legends.
Instead, Tate found a woman pressed against him in his tight grip.
She came only to the hollow of his throat, even though she had to be taller than average. She froze in fear. Not that he blamed her. He’d be scared stiff, too, if he’d just broken into what he assumed to be an empty house.
Only this one was occupied.
He pressed his forearm down against her collarbone, careful to avoid the more fragile area of her neck. Though his knowledge of this hold was completely cerebral, he wanted to instill simple fear. Not find himself with a lawsuit on his hands.
“I asked you a question,” he said, letting his voice drop even deeper. He carefully emphasized every word. “What are you doing in my house?”
“Your house?” she squeaked, trying to get her words out even though he could tell she was short of breath. From fear? Good. When she walked back out that door, he didn’t want her or her friends to even think about coming back here.
“What are you talking about?” she gasped.
He loosened his hold, giving the impression of leniency even though he had no intention of giving in to whatever she wanted. But if he wanted answers, he needed her to talk. “How about you answer the questions?” he demanded. “Who are you?”
Her sudden lunge forward took him by surprise. He loosened his grip and let her go, not wanting to injure her just to keep her contained. After all, she couldn’t escape. There wasn’t a place in this house he couldn’t find her.
But she went only as far as the stairs, sinking down to grab her flashlight. From her crouch against the railing she let the beam slowly travel up the length of him. “You can’t be Mr. Kingston,” she breathed as the light paused right below his face.
“Clearly I am.”
“No...” That breathless quality distracted him more than he cared to admit. “Mr. Kingston is...um...”
“Is what?”
This time she didn’t answer.
“Look, I don’t care why you’re here. But if you leave right now, I won’t contact the police.”
Behind her flashlight he could barely make out a frown.
“But I’m supposed to be here,” she said.
What? “I don’t think so.”
“I am,” she insisted, her voice quickly firming up. “I’m the new housekeeper.”
For a moment Tate’s very active brain froze. Somehow this scenario had never occurred to him. “Absolutely not.”
Now it was her turn to ask. “Why?”
“You cannot be my new housekeeper.”
Murdoch would not have done that to me.
Tate let his own powerful flashlight travel up her body, till the beam hit her full in the face. His author brain kicked in automatically, narrating the view. Pale, creamy skin. Hair that glinted fire, even in the strong light. And a thin, soaked T-shirt that outlined her curves perfectly beneath an open rain jacket.
She eased to her feet, blinking to adjust her sight. “I am the new housekeeper,” she insisted. “Murdoch hired me.”
“You can’t be. The new housekeeper is a man. Will Harden.”
She slapped her hand on her hip. “Uh, no. It’s me. Willow Harden.”
Damn Murdoch.
“I know I was supposed to be here earlier,” she explained, “but things got pretty complicated with the storm moving in early. The power was out here and I worried, um, that you were okay.”
“As you can see, I’m neither old nor in need of assistance.” Yet. Though some days he felt every one of his thirty-eight years and more. He ignored the discomfort of that thought and continued, “I’m perfectly prepared for the weather. I certainly didn’t need you to break into my house to check on me.”
“I didn’t break in. Murdoch gave me the keys.”
Of course he did. “And the codes?”
“Yes, sir.”
As her voice grew small, Tate recognized that the bully method of questioning wasn’t helping anything. Obviously he’d been fed incorrect information on purpose. Murdoch knew Tate would view a woman as a threat. An unwanted intrusion to a life spent making amends for his mistakes. Deadly mistakes.
Heck, that was probably why Murdoch had done it. He’d been different since finding his daughter again, since deciding