The Manhattan Encounter. Addison Fox
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London, Today
“You can’t be a damn playboy all your life.”
Liam Steele stared down his grandfather and ignored the fact the man’s rheumy blue eyes held more mischief than censure. “Fascinating advice coming from a man who narrowly avoided an arranged marriage to a princess because the urge to sow wild oats remained too strong.”
“I was waiting for the right woman. She wasn’t it.”
“Maybe I am, too.”
Alexander Steele’s snort was loud and about as subtle as the whistle of an oncoming freight train. “Could have fooled me.”
A light sigh floated over the top of Liam’s head before a gentle hand cupped his shoulder. “Alex. For the love of God and all that’s holy, would you please leave the man alone? Even I’m sick of listening to you.”
Liam stood and took his grandmother’s hand, helping her into the chair. “Nice save, Grandmother.”
“A necessary one.” She settled her hands in her lap, her gaze focused on her husband. “He’s been going on and on and I’m done listening to him. You’ll settle down when you’re damn well ready to and not a moment sooner. Just because your father married at twenty doesn’t mean that’s the right path for you.”
“Now, Penelope.” His grandfather started in with the tone Liam and his sister Kensington had dubbed the “Parliament Address.” “Marriage is good enough for Campbell, Rowan and Kenzi.”
“Because they found the right partners. Liam’s still looking for the woman who makes his heart sing.”
Liam shook his now-empty glass, the whiskey-tinged ice cubes making a satisfying sound to echo the end of Round 1. “I’m actually standing right here, you know.”
“Yes, dear.” His grandmother patted the hand he’d left on her shoulder. “But sadly, the argument rages on whether you’re here or not. Your grandfather has wedding fever.”
Which, to his grandmother’s earlier point, his siblings had done an admirable job of feeding. Three relationships in less than a year—good, solid relationships that were destined to stand the tests of time—had only increased his grandfather’s focus.
His grandfather’s maniacal focus.
“In the event it’s escaped anyone’s notice, I date plenty.”
“Plenty being the operative word,” Alexander Steele grumbled. “You date a series of vapid models who are convinced a piece of chewing gum will make them fat. Real women eat.”
Liam had learned long ago to let the opinions of others—even those he loved as dearly as he did his family—roll off his back. He lived his life as he chose and couldn’t muster up much concern about what anyone else thought.
So why was the urge to simply leave so overwhelming?
“I’m only in London overnight. Any chance we can discuss something a bit more interesting?”
“What’s more interesting than the rest of your life?”
“Living it.” He set the leaded glass down with a thud on his grandmother’s antique end table. Whatever either of his grandparents had been about to say faded on their lips as they both stared at him, silence descending on the room like a thick roll of fog.
* * *
Isabella Magnini dug the piece of paper out of her pocket once more to double-check she’d come to the right address. Rain beat down on her umbrella, sluicing off in a curtain of water that made the front door hard to see, and she squinted to make out the gold numbers partially hidden by wet ivy. At least she’d found the place.
The bottom of her slacks was a soupy wash of wool against her ankles, striking evidence that the Tube ride that had begun her evening was a monumentally bad idea.
Like coming here.
She fought the thought and marched the rest of the way toward the door. No backing out now. No turning around. No wishing her actions away. She needed help and if the increasing threats finding their way to her office, her home and her car were any indication, she needed it now.
The London townhome rose several impressive stories above her as she lifted the heavy knocker. A small porch cover shielded her from the rain and she turned to shake off her umbrella as she waited for the door to open. A heavy clap of thunder startled her—just like everything else these days—and she jumped, water flying off her umbrella like a wet dog shaking out its fur.
“Hey!”
A dark voice behind her added to the surprise and she whirled around, the motion flinging more heavy drops of water toward the doorway.
A man filled the portal, his thick dark—almost black—hair brushed back except for a few errant curls that formed artful waves over his forehead. Broad shoulders filled the breadth of a white button-down shirt that tapered into a narrow waist clad in black slacks. The water she’d inadvertently slung at him stained the white in heavy drops and he wiped water from his eyes before turning a narrow gaze on her.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry.” She reached forward in a vague attempt to wipe the water off his shirt but stopped with her arm outstretched as the man took a decided step back.
Oh no. She’d written the address down wrong, that had to be it. Another mindless mistake, one of the many she made in her daily life as her head filled with the abstract thoughts of her work. Thoughts that took up so much room she edged out all the smaller details others had no problem recalling with ease.
She shook her head and dropped her outstretched arm, the heavy pour of rain at her back misting against her nape. She had the wrong house. Alexander Steele was eighty-five if he was a day and the man who answered the door most definitely did not have the look of hired help. This part of London was known for its high-end homes, an increasing number filled by eligible bachelors who worked the stock market or billed exorbitant rates at the city’s most well-heeled law firms. She’d clearly found her way to the front door of one of them.
“I’m so sorry. I must have the wrong house.”
The smallest spark of warmth filled his shockingly blue eyes before he reached out a hand and gestured her closer. “Where are you headed?”
She glanced at the crumpled paper, now nearly transparent with rain, but didn’t move from her spot. “Three twenty-five.”
“You’ve found it.”
“But I’m looking for Mr. Steele.”
“I’m his grandson, Liam.” Cultured tones lit up his voice—not quite British under the American but obviously influenced—before he reached out and snatched the umbrella, then took her firmly in hand. “You must be this evening’s entertainment.”
Entertainment? “I’m just here to see your grandfather, Mr. Steele. I won’t take up much of his time.”
A small smile lit up his face and the transformation was so shocking she simply stopped in the center of the large foyer to stare for a moment. A large glass chandelier hung from the ceiling, lighting the entryway in a soft glow and the warm light bounced off the rich locks of his hair.
The smile changed his face—warmed it considerably—and in some small, nonsensical portion of her brain she had the distinct thought the man smiled rarely, if ever. The stoic figure who stood in the doorway had looked like a formidable opponent. But the smiling man before her was a devastating one.
Sleek as a shark and likely as lethal, with a smile that begged you to come closer.
“Who are you?”
The words were as effective as the rain at dousing her fancies and she pulled herself from her drifting thoughts. “Isabella Magnini.”
“Dr. Magnini?”
“Yes.”