The Maid's Daughter. Janice Maynard
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tiny crescent moon cast a dim light that filtered down like fairy dust among the trees that surrounded the house. When Wolff Castle was built, Devlyn’s father and his uncle had been insistent that as little of the woods as possible be cut down. Consequently, the forest cloaked the enormous house like a security blanket, maintaining the privacy for which the Wolffs were famed.
The late-night scene was serene. Gillian’s emotions were anything but. She felt trapped, claustrophobic. Even if she had the energy and the will to do so, she couldn’t leave. Her car was crumpled at the bottom of the mountain.
Her mother’s voice had been hard to read when Gillian called her to explain what had happened. Doreen Carlyle was well acquainted with all the members of the Wolff family, including Devlyn. And Devlyn’s reputation with the opposite sex was no secret.
Women loved him. And he loved women. But never for more than a season, at best. Though he seemed like an open book, dark currents ran beneath his easy charm and his outrageous sex appeal.
Gillian curled her fist in a fold of cloth and shivered as her bare toes chilled on the flagstones that edged the doorway. Dare she go outside? Would anyone know?
Without another thought, she pulled her thick sweater over the fancy pajamas and shoved her feet into her boots. Even without a mirror, she knew she looked ludicrous. But she had to escape, had to prove to herself that she wasn’t a prisoner. A small, spiral, wrought-iron staircase at the end of her balcony offered easy access to the level below.
The air was colder than she had anticipated. Rain had finally moved on, and indigo skies overhead were clear, allowing the temperature to plummet. Fall would soon give way to winter, especially at this elevation. She followed a pathway at random, not at all worried about being alone in the dark.
She was a country girl, born and raised in these mountains. Travelers came from across the globe to see the mystical and beautiful Blue Ridge, but for Gillian they were more like an old, comfortable friend.
As she meandered, she thought about the last time she had visited Wolff Mountain. She’d been a sophomore in high school, and in her economics class, they’d been doing projects about starting a business. Doreen Carlyle had asked Victor Wolff, Devlyn’s uncle, if her daughter could interview him.
Gillian remembered how nervous she had been that day, but Victor Wolff, despite his gruff demeanor, had put her at ease. By the end of the conversation, they had been old buddies. He had a keen intellect and a knack for making money.
As she was leaving the house, preparing to negotiate the long, winding driveway in her fifteen-year-old Volkswagen Beetle, Gillian had come face-to-face with Devlyn Wolff. She remembered how her throat closed up, how hot color flooded her face. Neither of them spoke a word.
Devlyn seemed on the cusp of saying something urgent, but before he could tell her again that she didn’t belong, she fled. And until tonight, that was the last time she had ever seen him in the flesh.
The press, however, was another story. Devlyn’s exploits both in and out of the boardroom were legendary. He’d bought baseball teams, had at one time even dabbled with driving his own race car. The two Wolff patriarchs had put a quick stop to that, but even so, Devlyn deserved his reputation as a billionaire playboy … an out-of-date term, perhaps, but one that fit.
His wilder party days had tempered as he approached thirty, perhaps because he was being groomed to take over the reins of the family business.
Victor and Vincent Wolff started their families late in life, both of them at least fifteen years older than the beautiful wives they eventually lost.
Now, they were at a point where they wanted to enjoy retirement. So Devlyn was in control of everything. Nothing short of brilliant, he worked as hard as he partied.
Gillian was not immune to his appeal. But he was way out of her league. She preferred bookish, intellectual men, guys who were more like house-trained pets than wild, night-roaming creatures.
Devlyn was incredibly dangerous and yet so very attractive.
She hugged her arms around her body and decided she had had enough. Her limbs trembled with fatigue, and it was time for another dose of painkiller. Things always seemed so much worse at this hour … her bleak employment future, the lack of male companionship in her nunlike life … the hole in her emotions left by her father’s passing.
Blinking back tears of self-pity that she refused to let fall, she turned and immediately tripped over a root, stumbling to her knees on the cold and muddy ground.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Devlyn’s outraged voice startled her as much as the fall. In an instant, his hands were under her arms, lifting her effortlessly to her feet. Seeing the state she was in, he cursed beneath his breath and shrugged out of the thick, fleece-lined jacket he wore. He wrapped it around her and scooped her into his arms.
“You can’t spend all your time carrying me around,” she muttered. But it was a token protest at best. His warmth surrounded her even as his strength filled her with an odd contentment.
It was a false sense of security. She knew that. But for this one moment, this single, unlikely and unsettling reunion, she decided to pretend that she had a right to be here in Devlyn Wolff’s embrace.
She had left the double, glass-paned doors to her room unlatched. After negotiating the narrow stairs, Devlyn deposited her on her feet long enough to remove her muddy boots and his shoes, before urging her inside, locking the doors and drawing the drapes.
Gillian had left a single lamp burning. The confusion in Devlyn’s eyes mirrored her own. “I’m sorry I disturbed you,” she said, the words stiff. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Same here.” Still he stared at her. “Sit down on the bed, Gillian.”
He stepped past her, and moments later she heard water running in the bathroom. When he returned, he had a damp washcloth in his hands. “I said sit down.”
She sat.
Why was she enabling his bossiness? She was a mature woman with a life that clicked along quite well. She didn’t need a man to take care of her.
He took her fingers in his and gently wiped away the mud where she had landed, hands down. His touch was gentle but firm, removing the bits of leaves and grass that clung to her skin.
Next he removed his coat, the one he had wrapped around her. His eyes went to the muddy knees of her pajamas, and her stomach clenched. Surely he wouldn’t—
“Lift your hips.”
Like an automaton, she obeyed, watching the tableau unfold as he bared her legs and dragged the pants down to her ankles and away. “Get under the covers,” he said.
Her face flaming with color, she obeyed, painfully conscious that he didn’t even bother to avert his gaze. When she was covered from the waist down, she removed the sweater, managing to tangle her hair in the process. Devlyn disappeared into the bathroom a second time and came back holding a brush still wrapped in cellophane.
He sat down beside her, opening the package. “Turn away from me,” he commanded.
She felt one hand settle on her shoulder. With the other, he dragged the brush through her hair. Her eyes closed and a whimper of delight escaped her lips. Her head lolled on her shoulders as the simple pleasure unfolded. Occasionally, as he encountered a knot, she felt his fingers sift through her straight, thick tresses.
Gooseflesh erupted all over her body, and her breasts grew heavy with arousal. Did he try this on all his women? God, the man was a genius. He never seemed to tire. The gentle pull of the bristles against her scalp went on and on. Sleepiness gradually replaced sexual excitement.
Dimly, she heard him speak soft words as he eased her onto her back. She felt hard, warm arms encircle her.
After that … nothing.
Four
Devlyn