False Family. Mary Anne Wilson
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drive that wound to the right. Wind shook the low car as it climbed upward. Then, as it crested the rise, two bolts of lightning ripped through the sky, one right on top of the other.
The eerie blue-white light exposed the scene in front of Mallory for no more than a split second, yet the images seemed to burn into her brain.
On a hill that rose out of a sea of rain-beaten grass dotted by trees that were almost bent to the ground by the wind, stood a looming structure that for all the world looked like a medieval castle. Corner turrets rose high into the turbulent night sky, and narrow windows glowed faintly gold from the interior lights. The drive wound up toward a jutting portico supported by huge pillars, and low lights lined sweeping steps that climbed to the entrance.
“This is Saxon Mills’s home?” she breathed as thunder rumbled.
“You sound surprised.”
She sat forward as they approached it, straining to make out more details, but unable to see little more now than the hulking shape and the dim glow of light at the windows and stairs. “I am, and I’m impressed. I’ve heard about the man being eccentric, but this looks like a castle.”
“I think the resemblance to a castle is more than coincidental.” As they neared the portico, the headlights swept in front of them, exposing rough stone walls that shimmered with rain. “If you know Saxon Mills at all, you know he gets some sort of a rush out of taking on the mantle. Actually, I don’t believe he’d mind if you chose to worship him.”
Mallory looked at the man. “Mr. Carella—”
“Tony,” he said, correcting her. “I don’t go along with formal royalty in this country.”
“It sounds as if you don’t like Saxon Mills very much.”
He eased the car under the portico and stopped at the foot of the stairs, which led up to twenty-foot doors set in the heavy stone walls. The wind drove rain under the protection of the overhang, but the heaviest part of the downpour was blocked. “Whether I like him or not isn’t important. I know what he is. That’s the bottom line.”
“He’s an eccentric millionaire,” she said.
“A billionaire, and he’s much more than eccentric.”
“Whatever,” she murmured, glancing at the dash clock. “I’m already fifteen minutes late. Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate it.” She turned to get out, but before she could touch the handle, Tony stopped her.
His fingers circled her wrist, cool and firm. The shock of his touch when he’d gripped her arm earlier was nothing compared to this. Skin-on-skin contact jolted her, and his fingers were tight, hovering just this side of inflicting pain. She sat very still and darted him a cautious look.
Even with the shimmering light of the house lamps coming through the rain-streaked windows, Tony was in the shadows, the glow not penetrating the darkness that seemed to surround him. When she tugged at the confines of his hold, she was freed, but she knew it was only because he allowed her to break the contact. If this had been a match of strength, she knew she wouldn’t stand a chance.
“What is it?” she asked, forcing herself not to rub at her wrist, which still tingled from the contact.
“Don’t you want to know about Saxon Mills?”
Even though his eyes were hidden by shadows, Mallory could feel the intensity of his gaze on her. “You told me, he’s an eccentric billionaire. What more is there to know?”
His hand gripped the top of the steering wheel so tightly that Mallory thought he would snap it. “That’s a PR release, not the facts. The old man’s known publicly for what he’s made work in this world. But privately he’s known for destroying anything that gets in his way or doesn’t measure up to his standards. Everything and everyone is expendable for Saxon Mills. Everyone.”
Intensity vibrated in his deep voice, and Mallory knew that to say this man didn’t like Saxon Mills was akin to saying the Grand Canyon was a little hole in the ground. He obviously hated the old man. “Is that all?” she asked.
“Yes, it is.”
She hesitated, then quickly turned from Tony and made her escape. Even under the protection of the portico, the wind drove the rain along the ground, and the stinging mists whipped around her legs. She hurried to the stone stairs, but as she reached the bottom step, she was shocked to sense Tony near her.
He didn’t speak as he passed her and strode up the steps, taking them two at a time with his long stride. Mallory glanced back at the sports car to find its lights out and the motor off. She turned and hurried up after Tony, and when she caught up with him at the front doors, she looked up at him. His height was intimidating, and it made her feel at a distinct disadvantage.
“You don’t have to see me in,” she said as she tugged her coat more tightly around her.
“I know.” He reached for a door knocker that was fashioned like a gargoyle head, the perfect touch to go with this house. With just a fleeting glance at Mallory in the glow of the lanterns by the doors, he released the knocker and the metal struck the barrier with a resounding crack. Even before the sound died out completely, the door clicked, then opened.
The glow of interior lights spilled out into the night and a woman looked out. She was tall, almost six feet, and dressed in a high-necked gray dress that wasn’t quite a uniform, but was severely plain on her lanky frame. Her gray-streaked brown hair was pulled back from a long face touched by fine lines and decided paleness. Sensible wire-rimmed glasses reflected back the low lights and effectively hid her eyes, but Mallory didn’t miss the way the woman’s lips thinned as she looked at her.
“Good evening,” she said with a nod to Mallory.
“Myra,” Tony said.
“Mr. Carella.” She inclined her head slightly, and the light shifted so Mallory got a glimpse of the woman’s eyes. Gray eyes, the color of fog, were framed by pale lashes and looked as drab as the woman herself. But the distaste in them as they studied Mallory was vivid enough. “You are with Mr. Carella?” she asked, and Mallory realized that the woman had a slight accent.
“No, I had a six o’clock appointment with Mr. Mills. I’m Mallory King.”
“When you were not here at the correct time, we thought you were not coming,” Myra murmured.
“I wouldn’t have made it without Mr. Carella’s help. My car’s down the road, stuck. I hope Mr. Mills will still see me.”
“Do come in while I go up and tell Mr. Mills you are here,” she said in her oddly annunciated English.
Mallory was thankful not to be sent away, and she turned to tell Tony goodbye for the second time. But he simply stepped past her and into the house. His coat brushed her arm, and the fleeting feeling of his body heat barely materialized before he was past her. A shiver came involuntarily, then she stepped inside, making sure to keep some space between herself and Tony.
In the glow of three massive chandeliers that illuminated a vast entry foyer, she got her first good look at Tony. In a long, dark overcoat parted to show a pale shirt and charcoal slacks, the man looked as big, dark and intense as she remembered from the theater. And the edge she felt then was still firmly in place. But now it seemed that it was touched by a certain nervousness that he hadn’t shown before.
She didn’t understand him—not why he was at the theater, on the road in the storm, or in this house with her—and she averted her eyes from him. She chose to look at the foyer, with its natural stone walls that soared up through three stories and had carvings of horses fashioned into the hard surfaces. As Myra closed the door and shut out the night, Mallory looked up at the heavily beamed ceiling, then down to the reflected light from the chandeliers on polished black marble floors.
A sweeping staircase to the right was framed by intricately carved banisters and turned posts twined with boughs of holly, and it led up to a second-floor balcony. Twenty-foot-high doorways,