Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 129944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
A hunting scene. A terrified hare was trapped against a tree, pinned by a pack of hounds; its vulnerable neck caught between the teeth of one the dogs. I reached out to stroke the silky pieces of polished marble when the air suddenly altered, vibrating with a charge that skimmed the surface of my body. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention, and I instinctively knew that I was no longer alone in the room.
A pair of long, bare feet stepped into my line of sight. Male feet.
Startled, I fell back on my rear end and looked up. A large, dark form took the shape of a half-naked man. I heard a sharp intake of breath that I wasn’t certain belonged to me, or him. As we stared at each other, time seemed to expand.
He was handsome. Freakishly handsome. The kind that makes even the most conceited woman fidget. My mind began methodically cataloguing his breathtaking face. Large almond shaped eyes with thick lashes. Check. High, sculpted cheekbones. Check. And a nose that made his face go from cold perfection, to erotically masculine. It was gently sloped, aquiline, a perfect counterpoint to his sensual mouth.
…and tall, he was very tall, around 1 meter 92, 6’3” if you prefer, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. His chest was muscular and smooth, except for the dust of hair that traveled down from his navel and disappeared under the athletic pants that hung on his hips for dear life.
When my gaze descended past his waistline, it seemed he’d had about enough of my inspection. He pushed the wet hair off his face and arched a brow at me. His expression was opaque, cold, and fixed on me with an alarming intensity.
“Are you lost?” His deep voice was raspy, tumbled, with an easy American accent. A vague recollection of that accent crept in. I shook my head. “Then what the fuck are you doing wandering around my house in the middle of the night?”
A quick flame of humiliation colored my face, followed closely by a film of cold sweat covering every inch of my skin. I was never so grateful for the cover of darkness.
“The servants’ quarters are in the west wing.” He motioned with his long index finger, hostility oozing out of the space between his words. “I suggest you stay there if you want to keep your job…you do work here, don’t you?”
Rendered mute by embarrassment, all I could do was nod.
With a hitch in his step, he turned away from me and proceeded up the marble staircase. I stood up slowly and somehow managed to exert super-human control over the instinct to run for my life.
My eyes briefly swept down to the mosaic floor and locked onto the image of the frightened hare. At that moment I knew exactly how that poor hare felt. I never looked back but I didn’t need to. I could feel his intense glare burning me, singeing the delicate hairs at my nape.
As soon as I was out of his sight, I bolted to my room and jumped into bed. Pulling the covers over my head, I curled up into a ball and tried to catch my breath while my hand trapped my heavily pounding heart inside my chest. Charlotte had a point. He was foul-mouthed and angry. Radioactive angry. I needed to stay as far away from him as possible. I could do that, make myself small, fade into the background. Because I was absolutely certain of one thing––that man had nothing but contempt for me.
* * *
The estate ran like a well-synchronized Swiss watch. Most of the servants lived in town and all of them arrived promptly for the spectacular breakfast served at daybreak. Maybe Mrs. Arnaud had discovered the secret to punctuality. Displayed on the long counter in the kitchen was a veritable buffet of delights. An assortment of fresh baked goods; steel cut oatmeal sprinkled with fresh cinnamon and golden raisins; eggs cooked in three different styles; and café au lait powdered with a touch of Swiss chocolate. I sipped my café slowly, savored every rich swallow of thick foamy milk spiked with chocolate––my delight in it almost pornographic. The ever-present heavy suit of anxiety I dragged around had vanished overnight. I was flying so high I had to check to make sure I hadn’t sprouted tiny wings on my feet.
After breakfast Mrs. Arnaud led me to a series of rooms that needed to be cleaned. I was assigned the ones on the top floor of the west wing. The rooms were beautifully decorated with luxurious fabrics in pale colors and priceless antiques. She explained that the manor had been completely renovated four years ago. And although the style was still French traditional, the décor was subtle and restrained, in a way that only truly expensive things can be.