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“That’s why I hired you, Miss Cambridge.”
“But you can’t mean to just pass your daughter off—”
A door closed with a resounding thump, somewhere up at the top of the stairs. Somewhere in his dark retreat.
“Well, that was productive,” she said, and stepped closer to the staircase, looking up. All she could see beyond the upper landing was a hallway and a large polished wood door with a brass latch handle. How could he be so indifferent? Kelly was a baby, for pity’s sake, barely four. And was he so badly disfigured that he wouldn’t come into the light, or was he just vain? Regardless, it was Kelly she was concerned about, and straightening her shoulders, she climbed the staircase and knocked, hard.
“I believe we need to have a discussion, Mr. Blackthorne. Now.”
No answer.
“I can be very persistent if I’ve a mind to, you know.”
“Go away, Miss Cambridge. I will summon you when and if you are needed.”
“Of course, your lordship, how stupid of me to think you actually cared about your only daughter,” she said bitterly, and turned on her heels. Pigheaded man, ill-mannered, rude. Her daddy would have knocked him in the teeth for talking to a woman like that.
Laura strode into her room and skidded to a stop, instantly losing her breath. Oh, but the dragon man had good taste. The decor was lavish, the carpet, drapes and even the mats on the paintings blended with the plush furnishings in a scheme that was as sensual as it was relaxing. A large four-poster bed loomed in a corner, draped and covered in thick down comforters, mounds of pillows, and like the room, cast in burgundy, dove-gray and white. There was a Queen Anne-style desk with a computer system resting against the wall near the doors, a cluster of delicate feminine furniture positioned a yard or two before the fireplace, and a padded bench built into a set of three dormer windows, the needlepoint pillows making it look so inviting. To the left was a huge walk-in closet that she could never begin to fill, but darned if she wouldn’t like to try, and a bathroom, modern, thank the Lord, with the biggest tub she’d ever seen. Tossing her briefcase and purse on the bed, she crossed the hall and entered Kelly’s room.
She stopped short. My word. Apparently money was not a problem for Richard Blackthorne. The room was almost dreamlike, a pink-and-mint-green fantasy in fairy tales with a Victorian dollhouse, new toys galore, and a bed situated at an angle in the corner, its half canopy with sheer curtains draping back to the elaborately carved headboard and caught in rich satin bows. The story of the Princess and the Pea instantly came to mind, for the little girl would have to use that step stool to climb into the high bed. He’d thought of everything, she decided, inspecting the closet and drawers and finding them stocked with clothes in three sizes. He really didn’t know anything about his daughter, she realized, and went back to her room, opened her briefcase and slipped out the file Katherine Davenport, owner of Wife, Incorporated, had given her only two days ago.
The face of a little dark-haired girl peered back at her from the photograph, her smile infectiously sweet, her eyes as blue as a Carolina summer sky. Tossing the photo aside with a sigh, she moved to the window bench, brushing back the curtain as she sat down. She could see the mainland and the other islands that were scattered along this portion of the southern South Carolina coast. The October wind whipped over the beach and blew the tall, willowy sea oats like palm fronds in the tropics. Waves rushed the shore, darkening the sand, the sky a dull gray and heavy with moisture. Gloomy. The best time to curl up with a book and dream. And what did a little girl dream about, she wondered, especially one who’d lost her mother and was about to come to an isolated island and meet the father she didn’t know she had.
She dreamed of a prince to keep her safe, Laura thought.
Not a dragon who breathed fire when anyone dared step into his cave.
His back braced against the door, Richard closed his eyes, her image locked in his mind and refusing to leave. She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. The kind of woman who made heads turn, men stumble over themselves and women envy them. And just to look into her jade-green eyes made him feel every scar with fresh stinging pain. It was like dangling candy before a starving man. Offer him the sweet, yet deny him a taste.
He could bearly tolerate her being here, in his home, in his sanctuary. Just knowing she was near would drive him mad, he thought, and he wanted to strangle Katherine Davenport for sending him such an exquisite female. Didn’t Kat realize he hadn’t been near a woman since the accident? And until this morning he didn’t even have a name to reference, only Katherine’s word that she’d found someone who was qualified. He hadn’t been able to do a deep probe of her past, and although he’d found only a portion of it, there were no photographs of her, not that he’d needed them once he’d learned about her pageant wins. Still, it was as if she didn’t want that pretty face to be seen. He had good reason for that, but what was hers?
She was still gorgeous at thirty.
Damn. He’d been specific on his requirements for a nanny—matronly, strong and healthy enough to chase after a four-year-old and one who understood that the responsibility of Kelly would be hers. He couldn’t let Kelly see him. Not ever. The child would run from him, and Richard knew he couldn’t take that. Not again. People shunned him because of his disfigurement. He wasn’t about to scare a child.
Kelly. Richard clenched his fists. A child he hadn’t known existed until a couple of weeks ago when his wife was killed. It seems he was only good enough to care for his own child when there was no other option. He cursed Andrea again and again for not telling him she was carrying his child when she left him. God, how he’d needed to know that four years ago, for something to hold on to in his world of surgeries and recovery and the hard reality that nothing could be done to change his torn body.
Pushing away from the door, Richard picked up the phone, punching a number with a vengeance.
“Wife Incorporated. Katherine Davenport speaking.”
“Dammit, Kat, she’s beautiful.” Breathtaking, exotic, he added silently, remembering every curve of her body in the tailored white suit.
“So, you came out of your lair long enough to actually look?”
“Why did you do this?”
Her sigh was audible. “Laura is one of the kindest women I know. And I didn’t do it for you, sugah. I did it for Kelly. Laura loves children, and she’s worked with kids before. She has all the qualifications you wanted. She’s educated, but not so much that she can’t talk to a child. Besides, she’s fun and creative. Give her a chance.”
“I don’t have a choice. Kelly arrives in two days.”
“It will work out, Richard.”
“Find someone else, immediately. I don’t want her here.”
There was a pause on the line, and when Katherine spoke her voice was crisp and cool. “Andrea should have told you about Kelly, I will agree with that, and if I hadn’t sworn an oath not to tell you, I would have. But when she said she’d left you because you’d turned cold and mean, I couldn’t believe it. I see now that she was right.”
Richard felt as if she’d slapped him. “Andrea left because she couldn’t handle the repercussions of the accident. She wanted me to look the same and act the same. It was never going to happen. And it never is.” He drew in a breath. “Find someone else.” He hung up the phone without saying goodbye, his fingers tightening on the receiver before he released it and moved behind his desk.
He dropped in the leather chair and swung it around to face the window. The sun struggled to push through the clouds and sparkle on the river, and Richard forced the memories back, banishing the accident, the tearing pain, and Andrea’s reaction when they’d taken off the bandages. Horror. Repugnance. He’d always felt Andrea would be there, beside him, and he was stunned when she left. He should have seen it coming when she wouldn’t share his bed, wouldn’t touch him after the accident. He saw her revulsion every time he reached for her. The night before the crash was the last time he’d felt the tender wash of pleasure with a woman.
And now a woman voted most beautiful in the state was living in his house. It didn’t matter that it was ten years ago, she could still stop traffic.
The knock was so soft he almost didn’t hear it.
“Mr. Blackthorne.”
Something slammed through him at the sound of her voice, so southern and delicate. He almost hated her for it. “I said I would summon—”
“Gee, last I recall, my job description required that I take care of your daughter, not you. So you can summon and demand all you like, my lord—”
“I pay your salary.”
“Big deal.”
He arched a brow and twisted around to glare at the door.
“And didn’t your mother teach you it was rude to interrupt a lady?”
“Didn’t you learn diplomacy in the State Department?”
“Yes, but this is not foreign soil, and you can’t claim diplomatic immunity.”
Fighting a smile, Richard leaned his head back into the leather chair. “What do you want?”
“Aah, the negotiation stage,” she said with relish. “Now, unless that rather bland pile of groceries in the fridge and freezer is your idea of a balanced diet, I think I need to do the menu planning.”
“Fine. Order whatever you like.”
Laura sighed and let her head loll forward. What a difficult man. She jiggled the tray, letting the beautiful china clink. “Hear that? It’s dishes, with food on them,” she said enticingly.
“Leave it at the door.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Surely you heard, Miss Cambridge, the door is not that thick.”
“Apparently your head is,” she muttered.
“Set it on the floor and leave.”
Laura set it down, and when she straightened, she glared at the wood, determined to get him out of that cave. “We are going to have a real hard time at this, Mr. Blackthorne.”
“Only if you break the rules.”
“And they are?”
“I will e-mail them to you on your computer.”
“My, how positively sterile.”
“It’s the only way,” he said softly when he heard her footsteps on the staircase.
Richard rubbed his forehead, his fingertips grazing the scars, and he cursed, thrust out of his chair and began pacing. Grinding his teeth, he wondered how he was going to survive with that gorgeous mouthy fantasy strutting around his house.
Laura did the dishes with a vengeance. She shouldn’t be so upset. What was it to her if he stayed in his sanctuary and brooded? But Kelly would come into this. She couldn’t let a child who was expecting to see her daddy, feel the instant exclusion Richard Blackthorne dealt with a few choice words. He wanted no contact whatsoever.
We will just see about that, she thought, throwing a load of laundry in the washer and deciding to investigate the house. Her sneakers squeaked as she walked down the wide hallways, decorated with medieval furnishings. A suit of armor, shields and at least three swords. This guy went all out, she thought, sparing only a brief glance in the other rooms, noticing a painting, an antique settee and a vase so delicate she thought looking at it too hard would crush it.
She walked into the living room. Or was it the parlor or study? She’d passed a couple of locked rooms and figured Mr. Blackthorne didn’t want anyone in there and wondered idly if one of them was the dungeon. Well, there were enough nooks and crannies that it would take days to discover them all. And she already surmised that the top floor was off-limits. She threw open the patio doors, and the warm, moist wind hit her face like a gentle, frothy caress. She breathed deeply, tasting salt in the air, and closing the doors behind her, she took off down the beach. It was a pleasure she couldn’t resist. Her feet dug into the sand as she pushed her muscles, then she threw her arms out and laughed. Oh, this isn’t so bad, she thought, folding over to catch her breath. Of course, she should be in better shape. Straightening, she looked back at the house, the castle on the hill. A little hitch caught in her chest. It was the place of dreams, she thought. And evidently, a place for Richard Blackthorne to hide.
No wonder he was feared, whispered about. The mansion towered over the village like a landed lord, high on a green mound of earth and surrounded by a seven-foot-tall stone wall, the sea as its moat. And from her room at least, it possessed a magnificent view of the river and the islands beyond. Flawlessly peaceful. She lifted her hand and shielded her eyes, staring at the house, at the tallest tower peaking the mansion. For a second she saw a figure at the window, the stark white of his shirt against the dark curtains, then he was gone, receding into his cave of stone.
A lonely dragon-prince, she thought, who did not want to be rescued.
Two
She should have just called in the grocery order, Laura thought, and kept filling the shopping cart, ignoring the people staring at her, the young men, much younger than she would ever consider dating, leering at her. Yes, she decided, that one was definitely a leer. She smiled sweetly, the parade smile, she thought with a sadistic little chuckle. A couple of the men were fishermen, covered in fish guts and wearing rubber boots. Stunning.
She checked her list, then headed to checkout. Here it comes, she thought, noticing how everyone in the immediate area approached slowly, like stalking cats. A teenage boy swept his broom a little nearer. The cashier looked eager despite the crowd of people waiting. Customers stared openly. No wonder Blackthorne never came out of his home. Whatever happened to southern hospitality?
“You’re new here,” said the cashier, a blonde wearing too-big earrings and sporting a mouthful of gum that was well beyond ladylike.
“Yes. This is a lovely island.” Make them prod, she thought.
“You stayin’ at the castle on the point?”
Like there was another house designed like a castle on the island? “I’m Mr. Blackthorne’s nanny.”
“Nanny!” several people exclaimed at once.
Laura glanced around, making eye contact with each person. “Mr. Blackthorne is expecting his daughter to arrive, and I am here to care for her.”
“Oh, the poor child,” an elderly woman said, her accent heavy and drawn.
“Why?” Laura asked, yet knew the answer.
“To have such a horrible man for a father.”
“You’ve met Mr. Blackthorne, then?”
“Not exactly.”
She hoped her expression was slathered in innocence. “Then how could you possibly know what he’s like?”
“He doesn’t leave that place,” the cashier said. “He hasn’t shown his face in four years, even Dewey hasn’t seen him up close and he lives there.”
Dewey, she assumed, was the groundskeeper she’d yet to meet.
“He’s—he’s mangled,” the young man bagging her groceries stammered.
“And if you’ve never seen him, then how do you know that?”
The kid shrugged as if it was common knowledge. Yet no one had seen Blackthorne.
“I fail to see where looks matter.” She tried controlling her temper, hating that appearances were such a priority. She understood, for she’d experienced reactions to her own appearance, albeit the complete opposite. Women refusing to befriend her, believing she was a snob and thought she was better than them. Or men tripping all over themselves to impress her, each trying to get her into their bed or something as superficial as having her on their arm for some social function. An impression to be made. A trophy. Not one person, not even her former fiancé, had seen beyond the face God gave her. And apparently no one wanted to see beyond Blackthorne’s scars, either.
It all made her stomach twist in knots that were achingly familiar. Her defensiveness, for a man she did not know, and for herself, reared along with her temper.
“Charge his account and have them delivered by three,” she said, and left, aware of the stares boring into her back.
She skipped the cab ride back, and let her temper cool with a walk through the quaint little town, but the memories came, of her mother pushing her into TV commercials even as a child, the pageants that only invited viciousness. She had hated all of it. And when she was old enough, she chose the ones she wanted to enter. A bit hypocritical, granted, but then, she’d wanted to go to college and she’d needed the prize money and scholarships.
She glanced around at the shop fronts, gleaming glass windows, darling porches, white wood benches placed here and there, and tourists and islanders strolling and shopping. Two elderly men sat near the pier swapping sea stories and whittling. From the pile of shavings at their feet, it looked like a daily ritual. And it made her smile and remember her grandpappy rocking on the back porch, carving wooden animals for her and her brothers to play with since they could afford little else. Simple pleasures for a simple life, grandpappy always told her, and memories of his love lifted her mood.
She drew in a deep breath of the cooling sea air. October was still warm when the sun was up, but during hurricane season the rain came often, the cloud cover making the air overly humid and the island breezes adding to the chill. She wrapped her arms around her waist and quickened her steps down street after street, where the houses thinned to the long stretch of road leading to Blackthorne’s house. Even more isolation, she thought, and rushed inside the warmth of the house.
After putting on a pot of coffee, she was rubbing the chill from her arms when she heard the distinct sound of someone chopping wood. Frowning, she went to the back door, brushing back the curtain covering the small window. Everything inside her that claimed her a woman jumped to life as her gaze moved over the bare-backed man swinging an ax, muscles rippling as he split a log with one swipe.
Blackthorne.
Oh, Lord, he was magnificent-looking, wearing nothing but jeans and boots, and from this angle she could barely see his profile. Obviously the unscarred portion, but what she could see of his face was sharp and aristocratic. Dark hair blew in the wind, fluttering at his nape, overly long and shaggy. His arms were ropy with muscles as he positioned another log, lifted the ax and brought it down again, neatly splitting the log and sending the two pieces of wood flying out. He cut two more, then paused in his work, the ax head on the stump and his arm braced on the handle. When he looked off and spoke, she realized he was not alone, and she moved to the window. Another man, older, sat on a bench, playing mumblety-peg with a pocket-knife. Dewey Halette, she realized, and apparently he was more than just the groundskeeper. He was Blackthorne’s friend, perhaps his only one.
Dewey spoke to Blackthorne, his animated features beneath the ball cap weathered as a wrinkled apple and tanned as rawhide. His dark T-shirt hugged his taut stomach, the knees of his jeans were worn to white. Her gaze shifted between the men, and as if Blackthorne knew she was there, he kept his back to her. Yet she glimpsed shiny scars marking his rib cage, like long daggerlike slashes. It must have been horribly painful, she thought, then wondered again over the specifics of his accident. Suddenly he threw his head back and laughed, the rough sound carried on the wind and startling her with a burst of warmth. At least he was not totally lost to the simple pleasures, she thought, and quelled the urge to join them. If he wanted her to see him, he would have shown himself first off.
He said something that made Dewey blush and the older man stood, shooting Blackthorne a grin, then smugly dumped another stack of unsplit logs at his feet. Blackthorne worked, splitting log after log as Dewey gathered and stacked. Then Dewey stilled, looking past Blackthorne and directly at her.
She stared right back.
But it was Blackthorne who threw down the ax and reached for a hooded jacket.
She stepped out. “I apologize,” she called out. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You did,” Blackthorne said, his back to her as he slipped on the jacket.
“Forgive me, I’ll go elsewhere.”
Richard sighed, wanting to turn around and look her in the eye. “No, I can’t have you feeling as if you need to be anywhere I’m not.”
