Written In The Heart. Judith Stacy
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and I even went beyond that figure,” Richard said.
Stephen shoved away the reports he’d been looking at. “Then what the hell else does she want?”
Richard shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Stephen pushed himself out of his chair and started pacing. Until last night he’d never even heard of a graphologist. But now, this morning, he absolutely had to have one.
And not just because of those dreams he’d had last night.
Stephen mumbled a curse as he paced. Damn that Russell Pickette. That rogue wasn’t going to get away with stealing his land, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to make a fool of him.
Stephen stopped pacing. “I need that Sommerfield woman. And I don’t care what it takes to get her here.”
“I’ve tried everything.”
“Then try something else.”
“There is nothing else,” Richard insisted.
Stephen pressed his lips together, fuming silently.
“I tried everything, Stephen. Her mind is firmly made up.”
“We’ll see about that….” Stephen grabbed his jacket and stalked out of the room.
When the bell jangled at the front door, Caroline bolted to her feet, nearly upsetting the teacups on her aunt’s breakfast table.
“Caroline,” Aunt Eleanor admonished, “let Bessie get the door. You know what’s expected of servants.”
Eleanor wasn’t a wealthy woman, but moved in social circles that occasionally intersected the upper class. Her long-deceased husband had left her well off, with a nice home and a servant, both well past their prime. Bessie was maid, cook and personal secretary to Aunt Eleanor. The years were catching up to her.
But it wasn’t Caroline’s concern for Bessie’s health that drove her from the breakfast table. It was her own aunt and the husband-hunting strategy session that was under way.
“Really, I don’t mind,” Caroline said, easing away from the table.
“If it’s someone selling something, tell them we’re not interested,” Aunt Eleanor called.
Caroline beat a hasty retreat through the house. If a salesman were at the door, she’d beg him to come inside and she’d listen to his sales pitch all day, if she could. Anything to get away from Aunt Eleanor.
Already this morning Caroline had had a visitor. Richard Paxton. She’d thought she might run into him at a party sometime, since he moved in the same crowd as Aunt Eleanor, or perhaps encounter him at a luncheon or dinner party. Where she didn’t expect to see him was on her doorstep bright and early in the morning.
And with a job offer. An offer of the job she’d dreamed of. But Caroline had told him no and sent him on his way without even letting him into the house.
Luckily, he’d come by before Aunt Eleanor had risen for the day, so Caroline hadn’t had to make up a lie to explain his presence. She shuddered to think what her aunt might say if she knew what Caroline’s real plans were. And surely she’d faint away if she ever found out where Caroline had been last night.
That whole unfortunate incident was best forgotten, Caroline decided, as she reached the front door. And that most definitely included Mr. Monterey.
Stephen.
The thought of him slowed her footsteps and tied a knot in her stomach. Her skin tingled, just as it had last evening in his office when he’d watched her every move and made it a little difficult for her to breathe.
Caroline shook her head, clearing her thoughts. That man was trouble. He did things to her—without even touching her. No, Stephen Monterey was better forgotten. She was glad to be rid of him, to have him out of her life. In fact, she hoped she never saw him again.
Caroline smoothed down the folds of her dress and opened the door.
Stephen stood on the porch.
She gasped, stared wide-eyed. Then slammed the door in his face.
What in the world was he doing here? Caroline fell back against the door, pressing her hand to her forehead. Why on earth would he—
The doorbell rang again.
She ignored it.
It rang another time.
She ignored it again.
Once more, the bell rang.
Caroline whipped around and opened the door wide enough to squeeze her face into the crack.
“Would you just stop that?” she hissed.
The angles of his face drew into hard lines. “Miss Sommerfield—”
“Go away.”
He squared his wide shoulders and glared at her, one eyebrow creeping upward. “Miss Sommerfield—”
“Shh!” Caroline glanced back through the house, praying her aunt wouldn’t come to see what all the racket was about. She peeked out the door again.
“You have to leave,” she said.
“I want to talk to you.”
“We have nothing to discuss.”
“We sure as hell do.” He braced his arm against the door, forcing it open.
Caroline pushed back. “Don’t come in here. I—I have a gun. I’ll shoot you, I swear.”
Stephen rolled his eyes. “Fire away.”
She fell back into the foyer as he pushed his way inside. Darn, she was going to have to work on her lying. She couldn’t fool one single soul.
Stephen closed the door, looking slightly annoyed. “This may come as a surprise to you, Miss Sommerfield, but there are literally dozens of people who would give their right arm to have me appear on their doorstep with an offer of employment.”
“Keep your voice down.” Caroline waved her hands at him and glanced over her shoulder again.
He craned his neck, following her line of vision. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Of course not. Why would anything be wrong? Now look, Mr. Monterey, I appreciate your coming here, but I’m simply not interested. Good day. Please leave now.”
He didn’t budge.
She drew herself up taller, stretching her chin as high as it would go. “Mr. Monterey, I’m afraid I must insist that you—”
“Caroline? Caroline?”
She cringed. It was Aunt Eleanor, and by the sound of her voice she was drawing closer.
“Hurry.” Caroline caught Stephen’s arm and tugged him toward the door. He didn’t budge. Didn’t even sway. It was like pulling on a tree trunk.
“Mr. Monterey, you really must—”
“Why, Caroline, who have we here?”
She spun around as Aunt Eleanor glided into the foyer. Too late. She was trapped.
Caroline dropped Stephen’s arm and stepped a discreet distance away.
“No one, Aunt Eleanor,” she said. “Just some vagrant asking for a handout.”
“Why, Caroline, how you do tease.”
Aunt Eleanor crossed the room, her hand extended. She was a tall, thin woman with gray hair and an uninspired wardrobe. But she was the epitome of social graces, a gentlewoman who always did the right thing and never stopped striving for perfection. In others, as much as herself.
“I know quite well who this gentleman is,” Aunt Eleanor