Taming The Billionaire
Dani Wade
Can this beast be tamed?Willow Harden has a new job working for Tate Kingston at his island castle. Soon she’s thinking less about her mission to uncover his family’s secrets than about being under his covers. It’s not long until the pair find themselves on a collision course with destiny…
The beast of Sabatini House is real.
And only one beauty can tame him.
When Willow Harden arrives at Tate Kingston’s island castle for her housekeeper job, she finds her temperamental boss isn’t just an enigmatic author living in self-imposed exile—he’s an attractive flesh-and-blood man. Soon she’s thinking less about her mission to uncover his family’s secrets than about being under his covers. Until an unplanned pregnancy sets them on a collision course with destiny...
DANI WADE astonished her local librarians as a teenager when she carried home ten books every week—and actually read them all. Now she writes her own characters, who clamor for attention in the midst of the chaos that is her life. Residing in the Southern United States with a husband, two kids, two dogs and one grumpy cat, she stays busy until she can closet herself away with her characters once more.
Also By Dani Wade
His by Design
Reining in the Billionaire
Unbridled Billionaire
A Family for the Billionaire
A Bride’s Tangled Vows
The Blackstone Heir
The Renegade Returns
Expecting His Secret Heir
Taming the Billionaire Beast
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Taming the Billionaire
Dani Wade
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07628-9
TAMING THE BILLIONAIRE
© 2018 Katherine Worsham
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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To Charles Griemsman, aka Awesome Editor… You’ve taught me a great deal over these years about writing, communication, story and self-worth. Thank you for helping me grow in confidence and style. I’m truly blessed to work with such a kind, considerate (yet constructive!) editor.
Contents
Cover (#u6363191b-6c1c-5e37-8693-100145516e94)
Back Cover Text (#u262dfd77-523e-5756-bdb4-1afd2b4e0908)
About the Author (#ue4acba48-e3e1-5827-beb9-86874e8b2f32)
Booklist (#u25c19b52-2df2-5587-9a23-3a6f3fa4e2a6)
Title Page (#u2cbd35e4-0604-5f85-93fa-6bcbe9b604a7)
Copyright (#u35ea8922-2959-5c25-b0ba-f722a2268f42)
Dedication (#u7a87369a-9e87-5062-9f54-45df58e7ad76)
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One (#uaf29149e-ccf7-505c-b22d-47c96151c2b0)
Sabatini House. Finally.
Willow stared up at the imposing, impressive castle-like residence through the windshield of her car. The thunderstorm raging around it was only appropriate. A structure as mysterious and unique as Sabatini House deserved an atmospheric introduction.
Unfortunately, since the intercom hadn’t worked when she’d stopped at the gates, Willow now had to figure out how to get inside. It took concentrated effort to relax her fingers on the steering wheel.
The rain pounded her little car, at times completely obscuring the view. Willow had been fascinated with Sabatini House for several years, since she’d discovered mention of its owners, the Kingston family, in her great-grandmother’s journals. But they contained very little about its history, which had only whetted her appetite for more.
According to the rare articles she’d found about the house since then, it was said to have been built by a Spanish pirate for his lover. It featured underground caves that allowed the ocean to actually flow underneath the house to create a swimming cove. In her journal, Willow’s great-grandmother had described the cave from her one and only time sneaking into a party in the house, declaring it a truly magical tie between the land and the sea. As a descendant of pirates herself, that would be something her great-grandmother would have appreciated.
From the outside it still looked like a magnificent castle, with turrets and peaks and arched windows. But Willow was dying for a glimpse of the inside. She hadn’t been able to find any photos or documentation in her research. The current reclusive owner had never allowed anyone else inside besides his caretaker, Murdoch Evans, and the occasional trusted workman.
Until today.
Taking a deep breath, Willow pulled her raincoat around her as best she could. There wasn’t any point feeling wimpy about the rain. She needed to get inside. The sooner she settled in, the sooner she could start looking for clues. As much as the house fascinated her, the secrets it held were what truly drew her here. Secrets about the Kingstons, and one fateful night generations ago, that could change her own history forever.
Her umbrella would be useless in the strong winds blowing off the water. On the count of three, she jumped out of her car and ran for the side door where Murdoch had told her to enter.
With Murdoch gone to Florida to visit his daughter after she’d had a baby, there was no one to cook and clean for the current resident of Sabatini House. She and Murdoch had gotten to know each other well in the year she’d been pestering him for information about the house. When he’d known he was leaving for the summer, he’d hired her to come in on her summer break from teaching at the local college to take care of the place.
Hiring on without even meeting her employer hadn’t seemed that odd at the time. Right about now she was second-guessing that choice.
She’d been due to arrive midafternoon today, but the thunderstorm had blown in early. Packing and driving had become a complicated mess. Living in required she take quite a bit with her, even if she’d be going home to visit on Sundays. Loading the car in the rain had left her and her luggage soggy.
The island would normally have been about a forty-five minute drive from the house where she lived with her sisters in Savannah. Instead she’d been struggling with poor visibility and winds rocking the car for a good hour and a half. So she was now arriving after dark with no warning, since the weather had knocked out the power and phone lines on the island, preventing her from letting her new employer know of the delay.
The rain pelted her with angry pellets as she ran. The flashlight in her hand was her only guide. Reaching the small covered porch was a relief, although not much of one. She fumbled for the key Murdoch had given her.
Excitement shimmered in her belly, even as the effort to get inside exhausted her. She was about to walk into Sabatini House...and hopefully discover all of the mysteries it held.
She knocked hard as she inserted the key and turned it, eager to get out of the rain blowing in under the small porch awning overhead. Giving her new boss a heart attack wasn’t on her agenda, but the heavy streaks of lightning splitting the sky didn’t encourage her to linger. Fumbling with the keys, flashlight and doorknob, she finally got herself inside and out of the blowing rain. Conscious of the unlit alarm keypad on the wall to her right, she allowed herself to lean back against the now-closed door for only a brief moment. Her heart raced.
“Hello? Mr. Kingston?” she yelled.
Considering the constant barrage of thunder and rain, the odds of him hearing her were slim unless he was close by. She hated to burst in like this, but what other choice had she had? The lines had been down when she’d tried to call earlier in the evening, and there wasn’t a cell tower close enough to allow them to work out here. Murdoch had warned her about that. The house was huge, and with the power out there were no lights to guide her.
But that uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach told her to find him quickly, announce her presence, and make sure he was safe and sound. The fact that he was out here by himself only woke her curiosity. As she tiptoed through the empty room, she wondered where his family was and why he was all alone, even though that was absolutely none of her business.
“Mr. Kingston? It’s Willow, your new housekeeper.”
Her voice seemed to be swallowed up by the darkness and rain, though the sounds from the storm were muted in this part of the house. The flashlight illuminated the path out of the mudroom where she stood. Thank goodness she’d grabbed a good, sturdy one on her way to the car.
Even inside, the smell of the ocean permeated the air. It mixed with the rain, salty and wet with a slight undertone of some kind of flowers.
She dripped on the tile floor as she made her way through a modernized kitchen, narrow and long like an oversize galley with all the amenities. Murdoch had mentioned the kitchen had been updated about five years ago.
Lightning flashed outside, brightening the entire room through the long row of arched windows along one side. Willow winced, trying to concentrate on her surroundings so she didn’t get spooked. Sweeping the flashlight around, she noticed more arches. Every doorway, every window. Some were outlined in brick. Some plaster. Hopefully cleaning the windows wasn’t her purview, because there seemed to be a lot of them.
Determining that the room was empty, Willow pushed forward through the kitchen and found a wide hallway at the other end. The whole time she called for Mr. Kingston. The darkness, as well as the thought that he had no idea she was in his house, left her with antsy feet and a churning stomach. And she was increasingly uncomfortable not knowing he was okay.
Hopefully he would forgive her intrusion. Murdoch hadn’t said anything about her boss being incapacitated, but in a storm like this anything could happen. A fall. A bad cut. A concussion. All alone, he could lie on the floor injured for hours with no help. He could bleed to death. And there was no way to contact the outside world because the landline was down.
She cautiously made her way down the wide hallway. Everything here was built on a majestic scale. She flicked the beam of light over the various rooms as she went, checking for Mr. Kingston.
Most of the doors were open, some of them revealing empty spaces. Other rooms held furniture covered in sheets. Only a formal living room boasted carefully placed antique furniture, but it still lacked a lived-in look.
If she hadn’t known better, and the kitchen hadn’t appeared to have been recently used, Willow would have suspected the house was unoccupied. Empty of all life. But she knew Mr. Kingston had to be here somewhere.
Her uneasy feeling grew until Willow’s stomach cramped. Yes, the house was huge. Three stories that she knew of, though the turrets suggested more. Still, what more could she do to be heard? The storm seemed to absorb her calls and footsteps.
The hallway finally opened into a large, two-story rotunda-style room centered on an incredible staircase leading upward. The sound of the storm outside now resounded in her ears. The staircase drew her eye as far up as she could see in the darkness. No lights shone on the upper floors, offering no clues as to where her employer might be.
“Mr. Kingston?” she called again, her voice suddenly echoing loudly back from the walls. Guilt snaked through her. Even though she needed him to hear her to answer, it felt wrong to yell in a house that wasn’t her own.
A 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 to visit her for the first time. But that didn’t mean Tate had to live with his friend’s decisions.
This woman had to go.
They stood there in the dark, flashlights trained on each other like weapons. Tate would have found the situation amusing if he wasn’t faced with the complications she represented. There was no way he could tolerate this intrusion.
“Well, I appreciate your concern, Ms. Harden—”
“Willow.”
“—but I’m well equipped for this kind of thing. If you’re a Savannah native, you know that the power goes out on these islands quite easily. I have lanterns, a portable cookstove, stored water, a generator—everything I need.”
Her light dipped. Tate wondered what she was thinking. Why the hell would Murdoch hire a woman to come in and take care of Sabatini House while he visited his new grandchild? Granted, Tate hadn’t specified gender when they’d discussed Murdoch’s stand-in, but it should have been a given considering his history.
When she didn’t speak further, he figured he needed to spell it out. “Well, Willow, since I’m not what you wanted. And you aren’t what I...”
He caught the lift of one eyebrow. Somehow he could read the warning for him to choose his words carefully. The fact that he understood that unspoken communication, and the earlier joy that had streaked through his body as he’d been pressed against her softness, convinced him she definitely had to go.
Joy was the last thing he deserved...and having her in this house would be nothing more than a temptation.
He continued carefully, “You aren’t what I expected, so I think it would be best if we called this whole thing off. Don’t you?”
He wasn’t certain, but he thought she mumbled Are you sure about that? under her breath. The sound of the rain doubling down outside made it hard to tell.
“Obviously Murdoch made a mistake,” he said.
“Nooo,” she countered, shaking her head. “No, he didn’t. He was very specific in his instructions. And after all this time, he knew I would follow them to the letter.”
Tate tried to squelch his curiosity, but the words slipped out anyway. “How long have you known Murdoch?”
He could see her muscles loosen a little, softening her stance. “We met early last year. He’s such a sweet man, once he lets you get to know him.”
That’s exactly how Tate would describe the man who’d been with him through the last twenty years of self-imposed exile from most of the world. Murdoch had been with him through the death of both his parents, the sale of his first book, but mostly he’d been there for Tate as he dealt with the grief that seemed never-ending. Murdoch had mentioned on more than one occasion that Tate’s lifestyle wasn’t healthy, but that simple opinion wouldn’t change the choices Tate had made.
Couldn’t change them.
Then Murdoch had said he was leaving...and now here Tate was facing the only woman to be in this house since his mother died.
“Look,” she said, taking a step closer. “Murdoch would never forgive me if I walked away after all of the trouble he went through to make sure this place was taken care of while he was gone. Please. Just give me a chance.”
Tate let his eyelids slide shut. The first thing that came to mind weren’t words, as was often the case, but the memory of her body against his. The close heat. The sweet scent. The softness of curves.
Nope. Bad idea. He crossed his arms over his chest, knowing full well his bulk could be intimidating.
Probably reading the rejection in his stance, Willow continued, “Besides, how will you hire someone else? Phone calls. Interviews. How many will it take before you find the right person?”
“No.”
No more intrusion. Anger rose as Tate tried to think, quickly. This woman was way too smart, and well-armed with info. Uneasiness slithered through him as he wondered what else Murdoch might have told her.
But the aggression in his tone didn’t seem to faze her. “Or you could just accept the inevitable,” she continued.
“And that is?”
“Without me, you’re gonna have a ton of people tromping all through this place. From what Murdoch said, that’s not something you would enjoy.”
“Or I could settle for just you?”
He caught her sneaky smile on the outer edge of his flashlight glow. Then she asked, “Besides, have you driven in this stuff recently?” She flicked the flashlight toward one of the massive windows behind him. “I thought I was going to die trying to get here. I have no desire to go back out into this weather.”
“A little melodramatic, aren’t you?” Even he cringed at his condescending tone. Defensiveness didn’t sit well on him.
But on her... The way she stiffened her spine put other attributes on display. Tate tried not to notice.
“Are you kidding me?” she demanded. “You obviously haven’t tried driving a tiny car over that bridge in fifty-mile-an-hour wind gusts. Have you?”
Tate felt himself automatically shut down. No, he hadn’t driven in this kind of weather...not for many, many years. And he never would. Certainly not over the narrow bridge that connected the island to the mainland.
“I made a lot of effort to get here. It’s at least common courtesy to let me try to do the job.”
Tate clenched his jaw, frustration tightening his tone. “If you stay, you won’t find courtesy to be one of my strong points.”
This time she didn’t respond, but adopted a stance that mimicked his own. In that moment, Tate recognized her.
Oh, he’d never met her before, but he’d described her type over and over in his work. She was the embodiment of the heroines he wrote about in his horror stories. Women with grit, determination and smarts who made it out alive when lesser mortals rarely survived.
That tingling awareness he’d been doing his best to ignore multiplied. All the more reason to get her out of here.
A flash of white lit the room as lightning suddenly streaked across the night sky. Tate saw her jaw clench and shoulders straighten as she braced herself. Admirable. It was a little clue that told him a lot about her. Heck, the fact that she’d made it here in the first place in this weather signified a strength and determination some people never displayed in their lifetime.
The flash was followed closely by a hard clap of thunder. The storm was picking up again. But it was just starting for Tate.
Somehow he knew giving in on this point meant he would lose this battle...and lose the war. But she was right. As a long roll of thunder shook the house, he knew he couldn’t send her back out in this weather. His own feelings about her presence aside, he refused to make an impulsive decision that cost someone their life.
Again.
“Let me show you to a room, then.”
Two (#uaf29149e-ccf7-505c-b22d-47c96151c2b0)
At least he had let her stay instead of forcing her back out into the weather.
The consolation was mild as her overactive brain was assaulted with emotions. First the drive and the storm, then the dark house, and now being led up this magnificent staircase by a tall, brooding man carrying an old-fashioned lantern. If she wanted atmosphere, she’d received it in abundance.
Actually, more than she’d hoped for.
She shivered, though she couldn’t tell if it was because of her still-damp shirt or the continued uncertainty of this entire situation.
Tate led her only a short way down the hall before pausing beside a closed door. As with the ones she’d seen downstairs, there were intricate carvings, swirls and maybe leaves and vines that gave the wood dimension. Even in the gloom it was gorgeous. “This will be your room for the night.”
So, he still wouldn’t concede that she was right?
“Where’s yours?” she asked, only to clamp her lips together in regret.
In the light of the lantern she watched one thick, dark brow rise. “I’m in a suite at the end of the hall,” he answered simply.
Right.
The darkened room beyond slowly came to life as Tate lit candles from a fireplace match. Willow stared in awe as the historical setting came to life. A large silver candelabrum on the dresser provided most of the light, with smaller candlesticks dotted around the room. As Tate’s big body moved through the shadows, fear and fascination mingled inside of her.
A four-poster bed with drapes and some kind of fabric topper dominated the space, the white fabric with navy filigree pattern lending to the old-fashioned feel of the room. Add in the tall man with shoulder-length disheveled hair and she had the makings of a regular Wuthering Heights on her hands. The thought sent another shiver over her.
As he turned to look at her, she became all too conscious of her body’s reaction. She’d love to blame it on the cold, but she feared the tightening of her nipples had more to do with the man standing before her than the temperature. She quickly crossed her arms over her chest.
Let him make of that what he wanted.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured. Even in the shadows, there was no mistaking the intricate designs on the furniture and fabrics.
His gruff command grated on her nerves. “Don’t get too attached. We will discuss this situation in the morning.”
“Really? We’re still not over that, are we?” She wasn’t sure what gave her the gumption to say it, but as she stood there shivering with cold, she was over his attitude.
He raised those dark brows again. “I may require more patience than you possess.”
There was almost a literary quality to his pronunciation that sharpened the edge of his words.
Maybe he was right, but... “I have more patience than you could imagine. After all, I teach history to eighteen-year-old freshmen who think being at college gives them the freedom to do whatever they want.”
Her response seemed to surprise him, lightening his expression a little. “The fearlessness to enter a dark house, the patience of a saint... Is there anything else Murdoch didn’t tell me about you?”
I’m attracted to tall, dark and mysterious men? “Um...a classroom of eighty of those monsters has made me efficient, organized and slightly entertaining?”
“Do you really call them monsters?”
This time she didn’t hold back a cheeky grin. “To their faces—with the utmost of affection, I assure you.”
“Then I can only imagine what you’d call me.”
Before she could come up with a clever response, he was at the door. “Good night,” he said as he left the room, closing the door behind him.
At least he didn’t lock me in.
Willow half grinned, half whimpered at the thought. Her sisters would take away her modern-woman card if they knew she’d been seriously attracted to the dark brooding man in the darkened house on the isolated island. Somehow she’d been cast in her very own Gothic mystery with a leading man who would fit right in with Hollywood’s most gorgeous heartthrobs.
But she had a feeling he saw her more as a nuisance than a leading lady. She’d do well to remember that.
Despite wanting to get out of her damp clothes and shoes, Willow took a moment to slowly turn around in the middle of the room. This place was incredible. The furniture she’d seen in the other rooms had been antique, too, but this was an incredibly high-quality fairy-tale look that she’d seen only in photographs.
The bedroom was fit for a royal prince, even if Murdoch had only been the hired help. Willow jumped as lightning flashed through the sheer window coverings, then giggled as she glanced around. The dark furniture was offset by the creamy color of the bed draperies that almost matched the ivory walls. There was a heavy chifforobe, a dresser with an oval mirror hanging above it that reflected the light from the large silver candelabra and matching bedside tables. A large navy carpet mimicked the pattern of the drapes. It looked so soft, Willow couldn’t wait to dig in her cold toes.
Conscious of how damp she was, she glanced in the chifforobe for anything to cover herself with, but it was empty. Well, she wasn’t going back out in this weather for her suitcase, and Tate hadn’t offered. She would just have to make do.
At least her current dilemma took her mind off the man sleeping in the suite at the end of the hall.
She flipped the cream-colored duvet down to the end of the bed, grateful to find another blanket beneath it. As she removed her jeans and wet shoes, she tried to think of ways she could convince Tate to let her stay. This was a short-term gig. Murdoch had chosen her personally. She could prove she was good at the job...if Tate would just give her the chance to show him.
She blew out all the candles except a couple right beside her bed. The urge to search out the dark corners of the room still irked her. But even crawling under the warm blanket didn’t relax her. Exhaustion lurked just below the surface, but her overactive brain wouldn’t let it take over.
Maybe she could make him her special French toast for breakfast? They said food was the way to a man’s heart. Maybe showcasing her cooking skills would at least soften his.
As she reached for her phone to set an alarm, a noise caught her attention. The deep creak of old wood sounded above her, reminding her of her mission and renewing her courage. She needed this job. She needed to find out the secrets her great-grandmother had hinted at in her journals.
Just remember that, little miss!
More creaking, then a thud overhead had Willow sitting up. That sounded like more than just an old house settling in. Had Tate gone upstairs before going to bed? She hadn’t heard any footsteps, but—
Bam!
Willow tucked herself down in the bed, instincts insisting those few inches would save her. But when nothing else happened, she giggled a little. Boy, tonight’s atmospheric adventures were sure affecting her.
Drip. Drip.
Willow bent over to inspect the water droplet that had landed on her now-bare calf. Where was that coming from? She glanced up at the material above her. The heavy drapes were gathered in the middle, creating myriad folds that revealed nothing. The lack of light wasn’t helping. Curiosity getting the better of her, she lifted up onto her knees for a better vantage point. That might be water droplets hanging from the fabric. Maybe?
Then the world went dark as the creak became a crash.
* * *
Tate debated whether to go back to work or give it up for the night. He’d been moving along at a fast clip when he’d heard Willow downstairs. But the conflicting emotions of the last hour had left him growlier than a grizzly bear. He usually didn’t write well in that state. Working out would be better, but with the electricity off he’d better not be wandering around in the basement.
Also he probably needed to keep an ear peeled for his houseguest for a little while. Something told him she needed supervision. A feeling that had nothing to do with wanting to get his hands on her again. Absolutely nothing.
Suddenly he could feel the approaching crash on the final lap of his adrenaline rush. Yeah, writing would be impossible in a matter of minutes. His brain would fog over and the words simply wouldn’t be able to break through. Better to rest now and write tomorrow—after he’d dealt with the problem lurking in Murdoch’s bedroom in the form of one sexy redhead.
Tate strolled into the office to shut off the battery-operated lantern he’d left in there earlier. Before he cut off the light, he paused, staring at the shutters closed tightly over the windows. Heavy rain beat against the house, but here the sound was muffled. The last thing Tate had wanted to see was the choppy waves of the sea below, stirred up by the storm.
Haunting memories rose despite his mental protest. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight, after all.
As he flipped the switch on the lantern, another noise joined the rest. It was so faint he almost missed it. Moving back toward the hall, he wondered if his guest had come to find him. He hoped not. He had willpower like a suit of armor, but she seemed to be able to find every weak point.
Then he heard the booming crash. He hurried down the empty hall until he reached her room. A commotion was in progress behind the door. What the hell?
He swung the door open, then froze. The door slammed against the wall. Before him...he wasn’t even sure what was happening. A writhing mass of wet bedclothes, splintered pieces of wood and dripping water occupied the bed...instead of the slightly damp housekeeper he’d left here thirty minutes before.
For a moment, the scene captured his artistic imagination. Despite the urge to rush in, he had to catalog it for future reference. And frankly, he was enjoying the show.
The frantic wiggling granted him glimpses of nicely rounded calves. He should help untangle her, he really should. Then she froze. He could just hear the quick intake of breath before she screamed, “Help me!”
That galvanized him into action. He struggled to find an opening as she thrashed about. “Be still,” he snapped.
His low command seemed to make it through to her because she paused long enough for him to snag the edge of the fabric. With a heavy tug, he divested her of the soggy bed curtains.
Then had the immediate urge to cover her back up.
As her bare calves had warned him, she’d taken off her jeans. And her bra. She now crouched, breathing hard, in the middle of the bed wearing nothing but a wet T-shirt and panties. Her wild auburn hair flew in every direction, including over her lightly freckled face. If he’d had twinges of attraction earlier, they were nothing compared with now.
Finally she reached up and tossed her hair back from her face. Tate quickly directed his gaze up to the ceiling. Whoa. Leaning over, he got a better angle to see what had happened. The substantial hole over her bed revealed only the darkened room above and the steady drip of water that he suspected came from dislodged tiles on the roof.
Straightening, he then let his gaze track back to the woman in the middle of the mess. “Don’t guess you will be sleeping here tonight. There must be some damage to the roof. In this part of the house, there’s only the one floor above you. It was fine during the last inspection, but something might have hit it or the wind must have ripped something loose.”
Reaching out, he plucked her from the bed. Her squeal echoed around the room. The distinctly feminine sound jump-started his heart. He hadn’t heard someone make a sound like that since he was a teenager. The women he met now didn’t squeal. They wouldn’t consider it sexy.
“Let’s get you settled somewhere else,” he said.
She was already shaking her head, sending her hair flying once more. “We need to clean up first,” she insisted. To his surprise she started gathering the mess into the middle of the bed.
While the thought was appreciated, her movements afforded Tate an even better view. The T-shirt barely covered her upper thighs. The expanse of smooth skin was mouthwatering. “I’ll get something to catch the water,” he murmured.
Escape was a relief, but a brief one.
When he returned with a large plastic tub, he found himself eye level with a pair of silky panties he’d have been better off not seeing. “What are you doing?” he growled.
Willow jerked, her shock unbalancing her and the candle in her hand as she stood on the bed.
“Woman,” he snapped. “Let’s not catch the bed on fire, too.”
She frowned at him. “This isn’t my fault. I was just trying to see what had caused the leak.”
“I’ll investigate in the morning.” He glanced over the now-stripped bed and soggy mattress. “And get this all replaced.”
There was no helping it. His gaze snagged on creamy white thighs below the edge of her T-shirt. She might not have realized how she looked before, but now was different. Her delicate hand came into view, tugging the hem down. He flicked his gaze up to her face, only to see a red stain spreading across her skin. Yep, she was fully aware now.
“Let me help you,” he murmured, then had to clear his throat as his voice deepened without his permission.
Still she accepted his hand for balance as she climbed down. The shocking chill of her skin as it met his made him shift gears from lust to more practical matters. Like where she was going to sleep...
He placed the tub carefully in the middle of the bed to catch the dripping water. Good thing it wasn’t coming down heavier. “This should halt the damage for a while. It should stop raining in a couple of hours,” he said.
Willow offered a brief nod, then skirted around behind him. “I’ve got to see about some clothes,” she said, her voice sounding strangled.
He shouldn’t have made her uncomfortable, but the rest of the night would make matters much worse.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked as she scooted toward the open doorway.
“I guess I’ll have to go out to the car to get my bags.” She paused, then inched back inside. “I should probably put on some shoes for that.”
“You aren’t going out in this weather.” As if to back him up, lightning flashed outside, then thunder rumbled loud enough to rattle the windows. “We will find something else for you.” He gestured for her to go out into the hall, but she hesitated.
Tate had a feeling this was where living as a single man and not as part of a family was going to bite him in the ass. He turned smartly on his heel and headed back the way he’d come, silently gesturing for her to follow. He ignored her questions, trying to get everything straight in his own mind first. With a sense of trepidation that he kept well hidden, he walked straight into his bedroom and opened the top drawer of the bureau, pulling out a well-worn T-shirt. He turned back to see her hovering in the doorway.
“You might as well come inside,” he snapped.
“Why?”
Her obvious hesitation reminded him that the situation wasn’t her fault and was completely out of both of their control. He tempered his tone.
“Because this is where the only other bed in the house is,” he said with a voice full of resignation.
She stepped through the doorway, her eyes wide with shock. “What?”
He spoke a little more slowly. “This is the only bed... And the only decent sofa is right there.” He pointed back toward the living area that comprised half the large master suite. “We’re going to share a room tonight, I’m afraid.”
Even in the dim light he could see her eyes cataloging everything she’d seen tonight—which wasn’t much. Still, she tried. “But there are so many rooms—”
“Which have been stripped. Or I assure you the mattresses are nothing but dust and springs by now.”
He held out the oversize T. “Your attire, my dear.”
Three (#uaf29149e-ccf7-505c-b22d-47c96151c2b0)
Even with the sound of heavy rain outside, Willow could still hear every squeak of the leather when Tate moved on the couch. And he moved a lot.
Too bad it wasn’t thundering still.
As the furniture protested yet another turn of Tate’s big body, Willow contemplated their current situation in the dark. She knew Murdoch had said they never had visitors, but she never imagined a big house like this wouldn’t at least be set up for the possibility. This was the South. Hospitality was an actual way of life down here. All these rooms lying dormant would be unheard of.
It was a type of isolation Willow couldn’t imagine.
She should be sound asleep right now. Between the tense drive and the stress of meeting her new boss, exhaustion weighed down her bones. But her unexpected dousing in cold water and ceiling tiles had her hyped. And every squeak of the leather told her Tate was in the same boat.
As one particularly restless move was followed by a long sigh, Willow finally gave in. She sat up and projected her voice above the noise of raindrops hitting the windows. “This is ridiculous. Come to bed.”
Hmm...that probably wasn’t the right way to put it. Now that her vision had adjusted somewhat to the dark, she could see his head and bare shoulders rise above the back of the couch. “What did you say?”
She should have been intimidated, but she was over that by now. “Come sleep in your own bed. You’re never gonna get any rest over there. And neither am I.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That every time you move that couch creaks. It’s even noisier than the rain outside.”
He slowly got to his feet. To her relief, he wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, covering the light skin that she wanted so badly to see. To cover her awkwardness over having her gorgeous new boss approach the bed she was sleeping in, she said the first thing that came to mind.
“At least the one good bed left in the house is the size of a football field.” Frankly, she felt a little lost in all this yardage.
“I’m not a small guy.”
To that, she could attest.
“But I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said.
“I think we’ll manage,” she said, her sense of humor asserting itself. “I won’t think less of you if you put pillows down the middle. After all, I want you to feel safe.”
Even in the dark she caught his pause. “Shouldn’t that be my line?” he asked. She detected a touch of amusement. Probably the best she could hope for with him, especially since his progress had slowed considerably. Did walking toward her on the bed have to resemble a death march?
Not that he should be too eager, but still...
“I’m not the one who needs convincing,” she reminded him. “And if I don’t get some sleep soon, I’ll have trouble proving my worth to my new boss tomorrow.”
This time she was granted a chuckle, and he finished making his way across the room. The bed shifted a little as he lay down, but he seemed to stay as close to the edge as possible. Heck, her arm fully stretched out wouldn’t come close to reaching him.
“No pillows?” she finally asked.
“I think I’m safe.”
You wish. She tried to relax, tried to sink into the most comfortable mattress she’d ever lain on, but it wasn’t happening. Then he suddenly spoke.
“Considering how well you’ve taken everything that’s happened tonight, I think you might have earned a point or two in your favor. Hopefully your new boss will agree.”
She huffed out a little laugh, then consciously forced her muscles to clench, then relax. It was the only thing she knew of to distract herself from his presence. So close, but still a good distance away.
That’s the way she should want it, but a niggling desire wouldn’t be smothered. If what he’d said was true, she’d have to learn to live with lusting after her boss in the quiet recesses of her own mind.
Though she’d thought sleep wouldn’t show up, considering the thoughts running rampant through her brain, the steady sound of the rain, the exhaustion she couldn’t fight any longer and the even breath of the man a few feet away eventually lured her under.
She woke to a different environment altogether. Instead of rain, sunshine peeked through the slats that protected the windows. Heavy covers kept her warm. Her body, her muscles, felt languid, almost liquefied in her relaxation. Then something shifted against her leg and sleep was immediately a thing of the past.
Suddenly the weight against her back and lower body made more sense. It wasn’t a heavy blanket. It was a man.
Her heart picked up speed. She lay on her stomach. His chest seemed to be covering part of her back. Now that she knew what to look for, she could see his fingers against the covers on the opposite side of her body. His warm, musky scent clung to the sheets, tempting her to draw in a deep breath.
But would even that slight movement wake him up?
As incredibly sexy as this was, and as much as her body throbbed its approval, the last thing she wanted was to face him knowing his leg had slid between hers. Why hadn’t he stayed on his side of the football field?
He shifted, rubbing a warm, hairy leg against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. The shirt he’d given her hung almost to her knees, but now she had a feeling her panties were exposed...and probably a little damp.
She needed out now. But how did she do that?
Above her hair, she heard a heavy sigh. The big body half covering hers stretched, pressing harder against her. A certain part of him was making its approval well-known. Willow bit her lip to keep a groan inside. Why did he have to feel so good?
Then he went absolutely still.
She squeezed her eyes shut. I don’t want to deal with this. And she certainly didn’t want him to see how much she enjoyed waking up to his body pressed against hers. But as he shifted infinitesimally, she braced herself for the inevitable awkward confrontation.
“Oh no,” he groaned softly behind her.
Oh yes. The only thing to do was guard her expression as best as possible and brave this out. Twisting around, she tried to blink innocently. “Sleep well?”
“Not my usual,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly enough to send tingles along her nerve endings.
She tried to ignore his heavy eyelids, sleepy expression and tousled black hair. But this whole “barely awake” look was short-circuiting her overloaded brain. “Pardon me?”
“Sleeping is usually a solitary experience.”
Even though the past twelve hours had proved that guests weren’t an option around here, she had a difficult time believing this hot, virile male only slept alone. “Seriously?”
Pulling away, he sat up on the edge of the bed. With him facing away from her, she couldn’t read his expression. She had a feeling that was on purpose.
His voice was low when he spoke, though not as gravelly as earlier. “I haven’t slept in the same room with another person since I was a teenager.”
As he walked away, Willow marveled for a moment. Considering how good it had felt to lie with him in this bed, she’d have thought he’d had plenty of experience in this area.
Or any area related to the bedroom.
* * *
Tate was glad Willow had disappeared by the time he came out of his dressing room. The tremor in his hands as he’d washed up and dressed had startled him.
The desire had hit him hard and fast.
Not since he’d been an untried youth had he been near a woman he had to have. His casual liaisons focused more on one-night stands to scratch an itch. He could appreciate a beautiful woman, even desire one. But urgency was definitely a thing of the past for him.
Yet his body’s response to Willow had been all-consuming. If it hadn’t been awkward enough to curb him, they would still be in his big bed—a whole lot more naked than they’d been upon awakening.
He breathed through the sudden surge of his body, waiting until his response died down before making his way out the door and downstairs. Instead of the sound of crashing thunder, the rooms now echoed with the rumble of waves beneath the house. The sound was muted as he moved down the hall to the kitchen.
There he found Willow bent over, inspecting the contents of the fridge. His body pulsed, responding to the sight of feminine curves encased in still-damp jeans.
His body was happy. His brain was not. This response was downright unsettling.
“What are you doing?” he asked, a little too gruff.
He felt bad about his tone when she jumped, bumping her ginger head into the lower edge of the freezer door. Her low moan made it worse, because it brought to mind things he shouldn’t be thinking about around her. He’d never had sex with anyone in Sabatini House since he’d become an adult. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told her that he hadn’t slept with anyone. Though why those words had come out in that moment, he had no idea.
Just say what you need to say and get out of here.
But words escaped him as she turned to face him. Seeing her in full sunlight was like living color compared with the black-and-white of last night. Willow had the classic pale skin of a redhead with just a fine dusting of freckles across her cheeks. She had emerald-green eyes, which was what he favored for the female characters he wrote about, but in person hers were so vibrant. She was tall for a woman, just as he’d noticed last night, but now he could see all the sexy curves he hadn’t had a chance to truly savor this morning.
He cleared his throat, glancing out the window behind her to steady himself. Which wasn’t as effective as looking seaside. That would have reminded him of exactly why this woman was off-limits to a man like him. But at least the view of the barren hill leading to the gates below calmed the resurgence of desire that thrummed through his veins.
As if his silence was an invitation, Willow jumped right in. “I’m just checking to see what the inventory is like.” Crossing to the island, she picked up a pen and tapped it against the pad of paper lying there. “The landline is still out, but when we can get through, here are some places I’ll call about the roof and repairs—with your permission, of course.”
Though he’d prefer to direct this discussion himself, focusing on action was a very good idea right now. “Why wait? I’ll get the satellite phone from my office.”
She raised a brow. “Murdoch didn’t mention that you had a satellite phone.”
“I prefer to forget I have it. My editor, Charles, insisted I get it because he got tired of my being out of reach and ignoring his emails. The landline goes down all the time out here. I only use it to call him and my agent and for emergencies.”
He could tell by her face that this little explanation puzzled her, but Tate wasn’t going out of his way to explain his eccentricities. That was the way he operated. She could take it or leave it.
He glanced over the list. “These two,” he said, pointing to a couple of companies he’d worked with in the past. She had good taste. “I’ll get your luggage while you put in the calls.”
“What? So you were serious—”
“If you haven’t slapped me yet, I guess we’re pretty close to compatible. And it saves me the time of searching for a housekeeper to hold me over for just two months.”
Willow started a little happy dance on her side of the island. Tate did his best to ignore the sway of soft body parts.
This decision was probably a mistake, but it was expedient. And after accosting her in his sleep he felt obligated to be rather generous.
“So let me know when they arrive, and I’ll show them around.”
“I can handle it,” she quickly countered.
Tate adopted his sternest expression. “But I know the house, so I will. Got it?”
“Yeeesss...” The drawn-out word made it clear she didn’t understand, but she would soon enough.
“I’ll give you a chance to clean up, then we’ll go over a few things,” he said, eager for a break from his unrelenting response to her presence.
“We can now,” she said, eagerness practically vibrating off her in waves. “I’m good.”
Maybe getting it over with was a good choice. Like ripping a bandage off a particularly sensitive patch of skin.
“Let’s start with the rules.”
She blinked, as if trying to comprehend what he was saying.
“What did Murdoch tell you?”
Her smile opened her face up, revealing a pleasure that sunk straight into Tate’s darkened heart. He couldn’t catch his breath for a moment. Luckily she didn’t notice as she bent over to pull a notebook from her backpack. Guess she wasn’t a designer purse kind of girl.
“He gave me a whole notebook on house procedures. Let’s see, gate and alarm codes, chore schedule, your favorite foods...”
But no real rules? Somehow at this point he wasn’t surprised. Yesterday he would have been. Not today.
But Tate was a big believer in start how you mean to go on...
“Rule number one. I am not to be disturbed.”
That seemed pretty self-explanatory, but Willow still asked, “You mean when you’re writing?”
Tate refused to show the jolt of surprise that shot through him. “So Murdoch told you what I do for a living?”
“Actually, the fact that you’re an author is pretty well-known and speculated on in Savannah. Though no one has been able to crack the answer to what you actually write.”
“And Murdoch didn’t share that.”
The solemn shake of her head didn’t dampen the curiosity in her expression. But he wasn’t about to satisfy her with an answer. Instead he ignored the whole line of questioning.
“Actually, when I’m in my office at all, I’m not to be disturbed. I’ll come down at the set mealtimes I’m sure Murdoch gave you.”
Willow quickly moved on. “What about mail? Do you want your mail when it comes, or for me to wait for a meal and give it to you then?”
As she opened her mouth to say something else, Tate raised his hand for her to stop. “Do. Not. Disturb. Understand?”
He could see another question brewing in those green eyes, but he forged ahead. “Rule number two. No talking about me or anything that happens here or that you see here outside of these premises.”
“What about with my family?”
That wasn’t an issue Tate had ever run into with Murdoch. He and his family had been estranged for the first ten years he had worked here, but even after the reconciliation Murdoch hadn’t shared important details of his job with them. He’d simply gotten into the habit of keeping Tate’s issues private.
But Willow’s family might be a different story.
“I think that rule is self-explanatory,” he said, injecting a stern note into his tone.
“Actually, it’s not,” Willow said. “I mean, I’m guessing you want me to keep quiet about who you are, since Murdoch did. What about the house? Can I talk about it? Am I supposed to keep quiet about everything I see? Where’s the line? Can I tell my family how to contact me?”
“Of course.”
She’d asked more than one question, and the litany confused him. Murdoch was a quiet, loner type. Willow was not quiet...at all.
“Of course you can tell your family the landline number, as long as they don’t abuse it or share it,” he amended. “But my home, my business, are to be kept private at all times.”
“Do I need to sign a nondisclosure agreement?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
The rapid shake of her head sent wisps of red hair flying. Man, that was gorgeous. This woman was all living color. He looked back out the windows.
“Certain rooms in the house are off-limits to everyone but me.”
“Murdoch mentioned that, but how will I know which ones they are?”
“Good God, woman, do you ever stop asking questions?”
Tate looked back at her just in time to see her blink hard. For a moment, he feared he might be facing tears, but no. Just a sad “Sorry. I guess I just want to do it right the first time.”
Man, I’m such a jerk.
Tate’s brain scrambled to rectify the situation. He heard himself say, “I’ll take you around and show you.” Until now, he’d had no intention of doing any such thing.
And the way her eyes lit up made him think what should be a simple thirty-minute walk would turn into hours of her asking questions he didn’t want to answer. “Later,” he added.
He might need to fortify himself with a drink...or two...beforehand.
Four (#uaf29149e-ccf7-505c-b22d-47c96151c2b0)
Willow wasn’t stupid.
She knew her curiosity tended to get on people’s nerves. A lifelong learner—that’s what one of her professors in college had called her. The insatiable curiosity and hunger for knowledge made her annoying to some people and boring to most.
Her sisters loved pretty dresses, nail polish and all things feminine. And while Willow had a good enough eye to help them pick things out, she had no desire for those things herself. Instead she was excited by books, old houses and antiques. If there was a mystery to go along with them, all the better.
She seemed to get on Tate’s nerves more than most. Which was too bad. Because he was a hunk.
All those glorious muscles, that messy hair and brooding intense stare. He matched the mysterious house to perfection... But he wasn’t well matched with her. She could tell he’d enjoyed her much more in his sleep—when she wasn’t talking.
After a morning spent inspecting the kitchen and fixing his lunch, she waited impatiently for him to finish eating. He took his time in the breakfast nook, while she struggled not to eagerly bounce from foot to foot in the kitchen. She’d snuck a peek at some of the adjacent rooms, but she was eager to see the rest of the house...even if it was just a tour for him to show her what she wasn’t allowed to touch.
Finally he brought his plate back into the kitchen.
“Is it time now?” she asked, then pressed her lips together, inwardly chastising herself for her impatience.
He raised one dark brow, but this time seemed rather amused by her enthusiasm instead of annoyed.
He gestured toward the hallway leading to the rotunda. “Shall we?”
As they walked down the hall, she once more glanced into the open rooms. For the most part, they were bare. Some were decorated with boxes and sheet-covered lumps that could have been furniture. Intricately carved doors and elaborate lighting fixtures coated in dust reinforced their lack of use.
As they reached the rotunda, Tate paused. He braced himself in the middle of the round room, staring up the magnificent staircase as if he were challenging it. A multitiered chandelier that Willow hadn’t been able to make out in the dark hung from the very high ceiling. A row of small windows around the top of the rotunda let in light that bounced off the chandelier’s crystals.
“Sabatini House was built by a pirate,” he started, his voice echoing slightly off the walls. “It took over ten years to complete, though he brought his bride here after only three. It’s built to celebrate the spot where the water forges its connection with the land.”
Willow started to open her mouth, started to question whether the stories of the underground caves were true, but then she remembered the cut of his reprimand this morning. She quickly closed it again.
The last thing she needed was to aggravate Tate at the moment. She’d hold all of her questions as long as she possibly could. After all, she wanted him to be able to at least tolerate her. Maybe there would be a time to ask her questions later, after he got used to her being around.
Or maybe she could settle for something benign? Like “How long have you lived here?”
“The house has had a long and varied history,” Tate said. “My family were direct descendants, so I’ve lived here all of my life.”
She thought of how much her own little house meant to her and her family. It wasn’t anything as magnificent as this, but it was a direct link to their people. “Wow,” she said. “That must be an incredible feeling.”
The indistinct noise Tate made drew her gaze away from the impressive rotunda to his face. He stared at nothing with a deep frown. “Both a blessing and a curse,” he said.
She ached for him to explain, but he simply turned away. Where was his family now? she wondered. Why did they leave him all alone? These were definitely questions she should not ask.
And he certainly wasn’t volunteering that information.
Instead he kept to the general. “The house was built to withstand the rough weather of the outer islands. Tropical storms, hurricanes, flooding—they all pose a threat. But not to Sabatini House. After a lifetime living on ships at sea, that pirate knew exactly what he was up against. Even the erosion of the ocean was guarded against when building the foundation.”
Curiosity burned in Willow’s throat. He had to be referring to the flood of the ocean beneath the mansion. Were the rumors true? Murdoch had refused to deny or confirm the existence of caves beneath Sabatini House, stating it wasn’t his place to say.
Tate’s strong legs carried him up the stairs. “Sabatini House doesn’t have an elevator. All the upper floors are reached through this staircase, or the one on the opposite end from the kitchen. If a room is locked, it is off-limits to you. That includes the third floor.”
Panic swallowed up Willow’s reserve. “But what if—”
Tate paused, twisting around to stare down at her from a few steps above. “Off. Limits.”
“Right,” she mumbled as they continued up the stairs. She struggled not to show her unease. Her personal reasons for taking this job included finding the answer to a family mystery...an answer that probably hid in one of the third-floor rooms, if Murdoch’s information was correct.
Resolving to find a way, Willow focused once more on the current tour.
As they traversed several hallways, Tate gave short explanations about architecture, molding and carvings in the plaster. But nothing personal. Nothing meaningful. He could have been a boring docent in a beautiful museum for all the enthusiasm he infused in his words.
Many of the rooms were dusty. Some were completely empty. He hadn’t been kidding when he said there wasn’t another mattress in the place. One of the downstairs living areas had been decorated with “more modern” furniture from the fifties or sixties. Any bedrooms had empty bed frames—beautiful, but achingly empty. While Tate obviously understood the history of the house—the why and how it was built—that didn’t translate into pride of ownership.
Willow’s hands itched to work on some of the antiques that they passed. A large grandfather clock. Leather-bound books. Incredible pieces of furniture covered in dust cloths...or simply dust. Restoring antiques was a passionate hobby of hers, but she doubted Tate would appreciate her efforts.
They came to the wing on the second floor that Willow remembered from this morning. It was closed off from the main hall with heavy wooden doors carved with intricate swirled designs.
Tate paused. “This wing holds my suite of rooms,” he said. “If these doors are open, you may come down the hall. You’ll of course need to clean and gather laundry. But my office is absolutely off-limits.”
He pulled the heavy floor-to-ceiling doors open with a loud creak. Guess there was no sneaking in here... She smothered a giggle. Tate didn’t seem the type to appreciate her subversive brand of humor.
This hallway was darker than the others. Most of the adjoining doors were closed, cutting off the light from outside. Tate pointed to the far end. His face was grim as he said, “My bedroom suite. You can go in there to change the sheets or clean the bathroom. But cleaning only.”
He pointed to a long table on one side of the hallway. “That door there is my office. If any mail comes that needs to be attended to, you can set it on the table and I’ll get it when I’m ready.”
He turned to study her, his expression almost expectant. She knew he was wondering why she didn’t ask any questions. Her earlier behavior had proved her curiosity. But the questions she wanted to ask weren’t appropriate. Like, why are you keeping these rooms off-limits? What is it you have to hide? Why can’t I bring the mail to you, instead of just leaving it on the table outside?
None of his secrecy or demands for privacy made any sense.
Finally he continued, “The third story and turrets are off-limits.”
It was a struggle not to roll her eyes like a smart-alecky teenager, despite the unease that resurfaced. She was beginning to think the word off-limits was his absolute favorite.
“There’s nothing up there that you need to be involved in, and some of the rooms could be dangerous from disrepair. As evidenced by the roof caving in last night.”
“I thought you said the roof had been inspected?”
“It is, yearly. But as you can see, in a house this old, anything is possible. Even when you’re careful.”
She trailed behind him as they went back down the stairs, only this time he curved around behind the staircase and down another, much smaller set of stairs. Her heart started to thud as the sound of the ocean grew louder in her ears.
“Down here you’ll find the laundry room, and some storage areas where we keep extra supplies.”
He walked down the hallway. The floor seemed to be carved straight out of rock. The laundry room was industrial-sized, but obviously converted from something else that had been there for many, many years. The storage room was lined with shelves. The cool atmosphere was perfect for storing a variety of items and keeping them fresh. She could just look around these rooms and see the history of them, feel how integral they had been to a huge busy household that had many mouths to feed. The history buff in her shivered with excitement.
The other side of the hall had one large, long room with a door open at each end. The space was full of exercise equipment. Guess she now knew where Tate’s bulk came from.
“I work out every night.” Gesturing toward a phone at one end of the room, he added, “You can reach me on the intercom here if necessary.”
At least he wasn’t off-limits when he was working out. Although seeing him half-dressed and sweaty might be more than she could resist. After all, that might make her forget his current attitude...
They made their way back toward the bottom of the staircase. Willow kept expecting him to mention the sound of the ocean and the underground cave that was rumored to be part of the house, but he never did. She’d been a good girl, keeping herself focused on the essentials and not plying him with questions. But as he took that first step up the stairs, she couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“Is it true?”
He turned to stare down at her, his brooding look almost daring her to ask the question. But she couldn’t help herself.
“Are there underground caves here beneath Sabatini House?”
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