Chapter 5

Gretchen showed up to dinner five minutes early, a bit on edge. It was silly to be nervous, of course. It was just dinner with a man who, for all intents and purposes, didn’t seem to like her very much. She supposed that she still felt a bit of guilt about their rather nude-ish meeting. It was her fault she’d embarrassed him, after all. And since he was the only shot she had of any company while she was staying here, she very much wanted things to be calm and easy between them.

She’d brushed her hair back into a clean ponytail instead of her regular messy bun, but she wore no makeup and dressed in her track pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. It was just dinner with someone that she wanted to be a friend. Dressing up would make it weird.

Still, when she knocked on the door (after getting directions from Eldon earlier that day) and entered the red dining room, she was surprised to see Mr. Buchanan open the door for her. He was dressed in a crisp suit jacket, and his hair was smoothed against his scalp.

“Were we supposed to dress up?” Gretchen offered him a smile as she stepped into the room. “I admit that I thought of this as a work trip so I wore my usual writing clothes. Sorry if I’m a bit underdressed.”

“It’s fine,” he said abruptly. “You are sufficient.”

She laughed, trying to ease the mood. “Sufficient? I bet you say that to all the girls.”

He looked flustered, and he turned away, shutting the door behind her with a bit more force than it needed. Good Lord. Here she was just trying to be funny and he acted as if he had ants in his pants. He’d been the one to invite her to dinner. “Thank you for the rose,” she told him, crossing her arms over her chest and moving around the room to get a look at the furnishings. That seemed safer than looking at her dinner companion, who looked as if he might fall to pieces if he caught her staring at him.

And to be honest, she was practically twitching with the need to watch him. She’d been distracted in the gardens since it had been so cold and their conversation had gone badly. She wanted to stare at his fascinating face and figure out how it had ended up the way it had. He was covered in scars on one side of his face—deep, almost pitted scars that held a story in them. She was very curious about that story.

But since he seemed to be skittish, she pretended to look at the art on the walls of the red dining room. She could see why the room was called that, for rather obvious reasons. The walls were a flat, dark red, and the paintings on the walls were of still life scenes that contained quite a bit of red. This one was of a bouquet of roses, that one of apples. It was all very . . . red. She imagined it would be rather blinding if the lights were up fully, but fortunately—or not—the room was lit only by two candelabras in the center of the long wood table.

If Mr. Buchanan weren’t acting so very weird, she’d think that between the rose and the candlelight that this was a date of some kind, except his manner seemed to say the exact opposite.

“Blue Girl,” he said abruptly, moving to the far end of the table and pulling out a chair.

“What?” She turned to look at him.

He averted his gaze, as if not wanting to meet her eyes, and gestured at the chair that he’d held out for her. “The rose I sent you. It’s called Blue Girl.”

Gretchen took a step forward, noticing that when she did, he subtly shifted to one side, unconsciously moving to ensure that the good side of his face remained in her sights. Interesting. “I see. It’s a lovely rose. I thought it was more purple than blue, though.”

“It is. Very hard to get a true blue color from roses. Most soil is not acidic enough.” His tone was brusque, as if explaining things to a fool.

“Ah.” She sat down at the table and he pushed in her chair for her, then moved to her right. She noticed he didn’t sit at the far end of the table but moved to the center of the right side, sitting at a ninety-degree angle from her. To hide his face again? She couldn’t see the scars on the right side when he sat there. The only thing she could see was a clean, crisp profile.

He was handsome enough, she supposed. His jaw was square and strong, his features regular. His nose was slightly larger than beautiful and, on most men it would have overwhelmed his features. On him, it just looked . . . commanding. His eyes were narrow and dark, and his mouth was thin, as if he never smiled.

Of course, then when he turned slightly to the side, she saw the reason for his serious mien. The scars that covered the right side of his face were hideous. They marked the smooth rise of cheekbone and marred the strong lines of his chin. He was careful to keep his face angled away from her, but she recalled long gouges of scarring that crisscrossed his entire face. His brow was striated with white scars, and the scarring even went into his hairline.

She wondered what had happened that would have caused such scarring.

He glanced up and noticed her watching him. He dropped the silverware he was holding, and it clanged to the tabletop with a bang.

“My apologies,” he said.

“No problem,” she told him, a little curious at his mannerisms. Was he . . . nervous? “Sorry I didn’t dress up. I figured this wasn’t a date, so you know . . .” The words trailed off and for a moment, she felt a little uncomfortable. What if he viewed this as a date?

“Of course not,” he said. And as if to prove her wrong, he gave his napkin a rough snap of the linen and placed it in his lap. “I simply wore a jacket because it was pleasing to me to dress well.”

Well, so much for that, she thought. She couldn’t tell if his words were intended to put her at ease or put her in her place. Actually, it was never easy to tell with him.

Mr. Buchanan reached over to a bottle of opened wine. “Would you like some?”

“Are you just trying to get me liquored up?” she teased.

He stiffened.

“That was a joke,” she told him quickly. Wow, he really didn’t know how to interpret her humor, did he? “I’d love a drink.” Gretchen extended her empty glass toward him, still watching him. His fingers were long and skilled, and he poured the glass with remarkable grace. If she hadn’t seen him drop his knife earlier, she would have never suspected him of such a thing. He finished pouring and tilted the bottle back with a practiced flourish, not spilling an ounce.

His manners were beautiful, even if his words were abrupt.

The candles flickered as she sipped her wine and he began to pour his own glass. She wondered for a moment if the candlelight was for ambiance or to hide his scars. If it was for the latter, it was a bad idea—the flickering light made his scars that much more hideous with the shadows. And again, she found herself wondering about them.

“I’m Gretchen,” she offered when he finished pouring. “I don’t know that we ever had a formal introduction.”

“We did not,” he said in a crisp voice. “I find it hard to introduce myself when I am naked and unawares.”

Her mouth dropped a little at that, and it was on the tip of her tongue to offer another apology when he glanced over at her, and she realized . . . that was a joke. Was he waiting for her to laugh? Or respond?

“Yes, I do imagine it’s quite hard when a madwoman approaches you in the gardens shouting about how she saw your penis,” Gretchen offered back. “I can understand how that’s not much of an icebreaker.”

She tried to gauge his reaction, curious. Would he get upset again, or would he be a bit more at ease now that they were sitting and talking?

To her disappointment, he showed no reaction. Instead, he nudged a covered silver plate closer to the two of them. “I’m Hunter. Buchanan.”

“I figured it was Buchanan,” she said. “Unless you were related to Eldon and you had the real Buchanan locked away in the attic.”

He snorted, though there was no smile on that grim face. “Eldon is my assistant and butler.”

“Clearly you hired him for his sparkling personality,” Gretchen said.

Hunter glanced over at her, still expressionless.

She grimaced, taking another swig of her wine. Faux pas again? “Sorry. I’m not trying to be unpleasant. He just wasn’t very . . . welcoming when I arrived. I’m sure he’s quite capable as an assistant.”

He pulled the lid off the tray, revealing a pale white pasta. It looked as if it had been cooked hours ago, and the noodles were limp, the sauce clumpy.

“Eldon is very protective of the estate. He is not fond of visitors.”

“I gathered that,” she said lightly.

He gave her a solemn look. “Was he cruel to you? Should I speak to him?”

“Oh, no.” Gretchen extended her plate toward Hunter, since he seemed to be serving. “I was just surprised, that’s all. So it’s just you and him in this big house?”

“Not at all,” Hunter said, taking the serving ware and spooning out some of the rather awful-looking pasta onto Gretchen’s plate.

“Oh?”

“The cleaning crew is here most days. I assume Eldon told you the schedule?”

She took her plate back from him and tried not to look repulsed by the noodly mass on her plate. Maybe he’d cooked it himself, though? Could she insult him by asking about it? She decided it was time for a little white lie.

“This looks delicious,” she told him, adjusting her napkin in her lap and waiting for him to spoon out his own portion.

“Eldon is an adequate cook,” Hunter said.

“Well if that isn’t a ringing endorsement, I don’t know what is.”

He gave her another curious look, but still did not crack a smile.

She waited for him to take a bite, and when he didn’t fall over, choking, she took a tentative bite herself. The food was every bit as awful as it looked. The sauce was congealed, the noodles overcooked, and the entire thing was cold. She forced herself to swallow, her gaze on Hunter. How could he sit there and eat this mess?

Sufficient cook, indeed.

He glanced over at her. “Is everything all right?” Tension seemed to suddenly vibrate through his body.

Gretchen forced a bright smile to her face. “Great, thank you.”

Hunter grunted and turned back to his food, eating quietly and methodically.

Well, this was definitely one of the oddest dinners she’d ever had. She was seated in one of many dining rooms at the biggest house she’d ever set foot into, and the food was worse than anything she’d ever tasted. Worse than that, the room was unnervingly quiet, and she wondered if Hunter even knew how to make small talk. Or did he even have to? She imagined he had people falling all over themselves to talk to him.

Another thought bothered her. He was a man who seemed to value his privacy. Perhaps spending dinner with her wasn’t very pleasurable for him and he was only doing it out of politeness? Ouch.

She toyed with the noodles on her plate.

He paused again, setting down his fork and knife. “Something is bothering you.”

“No, really, I’m fine.”

His gaze hardened, as if disapproving of her obvious lie. “It’s not necessary for you to humor me with dinner. If you wish to go, please go.”

Oh, great. Now he thought she didn’t want to be here with him? She shook her head and shoved another forkful of the hideous pasta into her mouth to prove that she did want to be there. Immediately, her gag reflex kicked in and she choked. Grabbing her napkin, she spit the gluey wad into it. “Sorry about that. I don’t think I can eat this.”

He looked down at his plate, surprised. “Do you not like Italian?”

“Don’t you have a cook?” she blurted out. “I mean, you’re rich. You can afford a cook, right?”

He frowned at her, then put his napkin down on the table. “Eldon’s cooking is sufficient.”

“I can’t eat it,” she told him. “It’s not you. Trust me. I just . . . I’ll gag if I have to pretend to like another mouthful.”

“You already gagged,” he pointed out.

She wished he would smile so she could tell if he was joking or not. “Yeah, I did. Thank God this dinner party is only for two, right?”

“Is the wine acceptable?”

She nodded and chugged the rest of her glass, determined to wash away the taste of Eldon’s cooking. “It’s very quiet here, too. I find that unnerving.”

“Quiet?” He tilted his head, regarding her as if the idea were foreign to him. “Do you not like the quiet?”

“I live in SoHo,” she told him, and held out her glass for him to refill. “There are cars on the street at all hours, and noisy neighbors, and people going up and down the stairs of my walkup. It’s never quiet. You never feel isolated and alone like you do here. I guess I’m just not used to it.”

“I see.”

She had no idea what he meant by that. “Your house is gorgeous, though. Please don’t take it as a slight against this place.”

“I don’t.” He looked over at her, and she realized that, for the majority of their dinner, he’d taken great care not to look at her.

“Well, I appreciate you letting me stay here, regardless.”

“But you do not like it here.”

“How can anyone not like it here? It’s like a castle.”

“Castles are not pleasant for those in the dungeons.”

“Well, if my room is a dungeon, it’s the most enjoyable dungeon I’ve ever stayed in. Seriously, it’s fine.” She took another sip of her wine. “I can’t believe I’m insulting the grandest house I’ve ever stayed in.”

“Perhaps it is not the house,” he began slowly. “But the lack of company?”

Gretchen smiled gratefully at him. “That’s probably it, yes.”

“What about your cat?”

“Well, Igor’s not much of a conversationalist,” she teased.

He got that funny expression on his face again that made her think he was blushing. “I meant you could keep him with you.”

“Oh. That’s very nice of you. I worry he might get lost, though. My room’s larger than my apartment.”

“If he gets lost, I will help you find him,” he said gravely.

She pictured that—the stuffy billionaire on hands and knees, calling her hairless cat—and stifled another smile. “You’re very kind.”

“Would you . . .” He paused again. “Would you like to meet again for dinner tomorrow night?”

A smile curved her mouth. He’d sounded so utterly reluctant saying that, and yet . . . she didn’t think he disliked her. She didn’t know what he thought of her. “You don’t sound excited by the prospect.”

“It is you who should not be excited. Eldon will be cooking again.”

She laughed. “Can he make a sandwich?”

His expression seemed to thaw a little, though he still did not smile. “He can make a mean sandwich, yes.”

“Then dinner sounds terrific.”

***

One Week Later

Gretchen stared at the thirtieth letter and contemplated burning the entire trunk of them. “Seriously, Igor, I don’t see how a project like this could be so mind-numbingly dull.”

The cat didn’t get up from his spot under the lamp, basking in the glow of the artificial light. He didn’t even stir.

She sighed, carefully placing the letter back in the trunk and stripping off her plastic gloves. At least it was close to dinnertime. Strange how the project she’d been so excited about had turned out to be a total snooze-fest, and the billionaire she’d initially thought to avoid turned out to be the highlight of her day.

Over the past week, Gretchen had woken up early, dressed (well, sometimes), and headed to the library to dutifully work on the project. Each letter was opened up, attached to a specialized clipboard with delicate care, and then transcribed. There were better ways to do such things, as she’d pointed out to Eldon at least once, but he seemed very against her ideas. When she was finished with cataloging the letters, she’d be able to move on to the next phase of the project, which involved turning all her notes into some cohesive sort of storyline that would make a novel.

Of course, that was going to be a bit trickier than she’d anticipated. The letters were boring as hell. Written in a tight, crabby script, Ms. Lulabelle Vargas droned on and on to a Mister Benedict Benthwick about the weather in Rochester. Or how the family vacationed for the summer in Jersey. Sometimes she commented on flowers in her father’s gardens or the upcoming Christmas Eve ball that seemed eons away. Sometimes she commented on her fashionable new neighbor, down to the number of bows the woman wore in her bonnet (thirty-nine).

Finishing seemed eons away for Gretchen, too. She’d gone through plenty of the letters and they’d only gotten to September of 1872. She still had most of the trunk to go through. By the time she got through all the letters, she’d know the weather patterns for the entire time period, the neighbor’s wardrobe, and she’d probably want to jump off the balcony from the sheer monotony of it all.

And because the letters were so incredibly dull it was taking her a damn long time to work through them. She had a month to catalog the hundreds of letters. She’d gone through thirty in the last week. At this rate, she’d be done by, well . . . she thought of upcoming holidays and cringed.

Her agent would kill her if she blew an important deadline like this one. Not only was she behind on her Astronaut Bill deadline, but now this one? It wasn’t looking good.

“We’ll just have to buckle down, Igor,” she told the cat, reaching out to scratch behind his enormous triangle-shaped ears. “I’ll come back after dinner and then we’ll pick up round two. Sound good?”

The cat ignored her.

Figured. She’d only been at this big, empty house for a week and already she was talking to the cat. Again. “I don’t know how Hunter does it,” she muttered to herself. Give her another week or two and she’d probably be talking to the furniture.

She scooped up her cat and returned to her room, straightening up before dinner. It was just casual between friends, of course, but for some reason, Hunter continually dressed in jackets and nice clothing, and so she’d started to do the same, since she felt weird sitting next to him in sweatpants.

Last night, she’d shown up in a plain green dress, and his eyes had gleamed with appreciation. She’d felt a little . . . pleased at that. Unfortunately she’d only packed two dresses, and those at Audrey’s insistence. She’d never expected to actually have an occasion to wear them. Go figure. Tonight she dressed in her dark gray sweaterdress that had a large cowl-neck and clung to her curves. Audrey had insisted on her bringing it but she normally didn’t have an opportunity to wear it. Tonight, she could have kissed fussy Audrey in appreciation of her forethought.

Gretchen pulled her hair into a simple upsweep, washed her hands free of dust from the letters and, on a whim, headed back to the library.

Every day, a new rose was left on her desk. Whether it was politeness on Hunter’s part or something else, there was always a new rose. Considering that it was winter outside, she suspected he had them ordered in. They were always unique and different from the last one, though. Today’s rose was a delicate white on the inside and a dark pink at the edges of the petals.

She wasn’t quite sure what the roses meant. Just a polite gesture from a lonely man? She liked to think otherwise. Maybe he was as quietly fascinated with her as she was with him. There was something about Hunter that called to her. His sharp mind? His flawless physique? His scarred face and tortured eyes? She didn’t know, but she couldn’t get him out of her head. He was so different from all the other men she’d ever met. He fascinated her.

Let’s face it, Gretch. You have it bad for him.

She snapped the rose stem and tucked it behind one ear, then winced. A tiny bead of blood welled on her fingertip and she sucked it clean, searching for the hidden thorn. Figured that she’d be pricked the moment she tried to look pretty. Still sucking on her finger, she headed down to dinner.

Hunter was at the red dining room, waiting for her. He didn’t smile at the sight of her—she was coming to expect that—but his gaze moved over her in a way that made her definitely think he’d noticed her dress and approved of it.

“Good evening,” he said, as stiff and formal as ever.

“Hi to you, too,” she told him, grinning. Somehow just seeing him always made her day a little more fascinating. “Have a good day?”

“It was—”

“Sufficient?” she interrupted cheekily. She’d noticed something about him over the last week. He never mentioned things in a positive sense. If she asked him how his day was, his answer would be neutral, guarded. If she asked him if he’d liked dinner, it would be equally neutral. It became a game to her to see if she could goad him into a response—one way or another.

“Indeed,” he said in a dry voice that was almost amused. Almost. “How are the letters coming?”

“They’re coming,” she said in a bright singsong voice that masked her utter dislike for the project thus far. Not that she could tell Hunter that, since the publisher had handpicked her for this job. “Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

He grunted.

She laughed, shaking her head as he pulled her chair out for her. “Before I leave this place, Hunter Buchanan, I’m going to get you to admit that you’re having a good day and that the weather is nice. Not everything has to be shades of gray.”

He ignored her teasing, pushing in her chair as she sat. “I see you received your rose today.”

“I did. What’s this one called?” She touched a hand to the flower behind her ear.

“Gypsy Carnival.”

“I love it.”

“Do you?” He stilled, as if hardly daring to breathe.

Gretchen nodded. “Well, it’s not quite my favorite so far. I liked the first one the best. The blue one.”

“Blue Girl. I remember.” He looked so very serious, so intense.

“I liked it best, though they’re all incredibly lovely. Your taste is impeccable.”

Another grunt of acknowledgement.

Tonight’s dinner was more sandwiches. After her first complaint, they’d had sandwiches every night. It wasn’t thrilling food, but at least she could eat it. She just went to dinner for the company, anyhow. If she wanted decent food, she cooked it herself when she was bored, and then dined on leftovers. She never touched Eldon’s cooking. Hunter might have thought Eldon was sufficient at cooking but she thought he was terrible. Why a billionaire didn’t hire a cook, she didn’t understand.

Hunter was an enigma, and she was growing increasingly fascinated by him. She’d never met anyone quite as remote as him.

To her surprise, he picked up her hand and examined her red fingertip. “You hurt yourself.”

“It’s nothing.” She studied his fingers on her skin, and she noticed the scars were on the back of his hand, too. He seemed to be missing a finger as well, which she had never noticed before now. Had he lost it in the accident?

“You should be careful.” His gaze moved over her face and, to Gretchen’s surprise, he was leaning so low that she could scent his aftershave. A hot rush of pleasure coursed through her. Odd that she would be attracted to this man. She knew nothing about him because he never shared anything of himself at their companionable dinners.

But was it because he refused to? Or because he didn’t know how?

Greatly daring, Gretchen pulled her hand from his and regarded him. His face was carefully angled away from her once more. “May I ask you something personal?”

“I suppose.” His tone had gone flat, wary.

“How did your . . . injuries happen?”

He jerked to his feet, and Gretchen knew she’d made a mistake.

“I’m sorry I asked. I just . . .”

Her words trailed off as he headed for the door. Well, shit. She must have touched on the one thing that could break through that icy veneer. She’d wanted him to show a reaction, after all. She’d gotten one.

He paused at the doorway, as if struggling with something internally. Then, he turned and gave her a look so cold that she shivered. “You want to know about my scars? Why I’m as ugly as I am?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“My secret is not a secret. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you. You can find it in all the newspapers, too. When I was ten, I was kidnapped from boarding school and held for ransom. The fools thought that because my father was incredibly wealthy, that he’d pay anything for his only heir.” His laugh was cold, bitter, his expression bleak. “They did not know my father well. My father didn’t give two shits about me. He didn’t care about leaving a legacy. He just wanted to see how much money he could acquire before he died. I was simply an inconvenience. When he’d heard I’d been kidnapped, the first thing he wanted to know was how much they wanted. And when he heard the price, he refused to pay it.”

Her lips parted in shock.

“They kept me on a boat for a week. As the days passed, I knew my father wasn’t sending anyone for me, so I planned my escape. I thought it’d be easy to jump overboard and swim to shore. So I did, except when I went over the side, I hit the propeller. It destroyed my face and my arm and tore up my chest.” He held up his hand. “I almost lost all these fingers, but instead I only lost one. I nearly died.”

Holy shit. Her jaw dropped.

“I suppose I should be considered lucky. The propeller was moving at a very low speed and it only destroyed half of me.” The cynicism in his voice made her ache. “The kidnappers panicked as soon as they saw the blood in the water and tried to get away. A nearby fisherman saw me go overboard and swam out to save me. He is why I lived.” Hunter turned away. “Now you know. Never ask me again.”

And he shut the door.

Their tentative friendship had just taken one massive, ugly step backward. Gretchen sighed and tossed the limp sandwich back onto the plate, her appetite gone.

***

Anger and despair raged inside of Hunter. He tore down the halls of Buchanan Manor, knocking over priceless vases and statues as he passed them. He needed something—anything—to quell this helpless rage he was feeling.

She’d asked about his face. Wanted to know why he was so hideous. She couldn’t see past the scars despite her pretty words.

And it made him furious, even as it made him feel black with despair.

Why was he nothing to her but a ravaged face? Why was she just like everyone else? Why could she not ignore them and focus on the man underneath?

He slammed a hand into a delicate Chinese ginger jar, pleased when it launched off the end table and smacked into the wall. Good. Now it was as shattered as he felt inside.

How could he possibly explain to another person the event that had destroyed his life? Waking up in the arms of strangers as a young boy? The horror and fear he’d felt as they’d held a gun to his head and transported him to the boat? The emptiness he’d felt when days had passed and no ransom was forthcoming? Could they possibly have known that his father couldn’t have cared less that he had a son? That he couldn’t be bothered to deal with the child who had killed his beloved wife in childbirth? The grim determination he’d felt when he’d realized he’d have to save himself, and launched over the side of the boat . . . only to meet a fate worse than death when he hit the propeller?

It had destroyed his life, reshaped him like a crucible.

There was no one to trust. Better to be alone and safe, secure and unharmed. He could count on no one to care for him, save for those he paid. He grasped the delicate doily the vase had been sitting upon and fought the urge to rip it into shreds.

He would always be alone. No matter how much he hoped otherwise, it was just another reminder that he was unlovable. No one would ever see past his face.

A throat cleared.

Hunter turned. Eldon was in the doorway. He coolly surveyed the destruction Hunter had left behind him—the shattered glass covering the hallway, the destroyed priceless vases. He said nothing, simply waited.

Hunter ran a hand down his face, suddenly weary. “Send the cleaning crew in this wing tomorrow.”

“Of course.”

“That’ll be all.” Hunter turned, heading toward his room. He’d change and work out his aggression in his private gym. A few rounds with the punching bag, some shadowboxing, some weight lifting, and maybe he’d be tired enough that it wouldn’t matter.

“Shall I send her away, Mr. Buchanan?” Eldon’s quietly worded question made him stop in his tracks.

Did he want that? He could say the word and she’d be out of the house within the hour. No more questions. No more wide-eyed inquiries about his scars. Just him and utter silence once more.

He thought of Gretchen’s lovely face, her laughing eyes and her outrageous sense of humor. Her curves in the dress she’d worn tonight. The way her entire face lit up when she smiled, which was often.

He still wanted her. Still wanted to be around her, wanted to bask in her playful smiles and teasing comments.

“No,” he said abruptly. “She stays.”

“I see.”

“Thank you, Eldon.” He walked down the hallway and shut the door to his room.

***

Gretchen set her alarm for sunrise. She had a plan, and today she was going to put it into action.

When it went off the next morning, she jumped out of bed, slid into her favorite yoga pants, and dragged her hair into a messy ponytail. She tossed down a can of food for Igor, kissed his head, and bounded out the door in her slippers, heading to the library.

Hopefully she was early enough.

To her relief, the library was empty when she entered, and the customary flower and note inviting her to dinner were not present. That meant Eldon had not arrived yet. Perfect.

She sat down at the letters and began to work, glancing at the door repeatedly. Excitement was making her twitchy, and it was hard to settle down into the latest letter. They were so incredibly dry. Lula wrote to someone named Ben over and over again, and Ben never wrote back. It was so boring to read, like a one-sided conversation. Like she cared about household life a hundred and thirty-odd years ago? Like readers would?

When she finished transcribing the latest description of what bushes were flowering and how many times the neighbor had visited Lulabelle, she carefully folded the letter back into the yellowed envelope and replaced it in its spot in the trunk. Yawning, she pulled out the next letter and glanced at the date.

Three months had passed since the prior letter. Huh. She glanced down at the trunk, then back at the letter. Were they out of order? She flipped through the envelopes, but sure enough, there was a three– month gap between letters.

My dearest Benedict,

So much has changed since we last wrote.

Yeah, Gretchen thought to herself. Like winter into spring. Not exciting.

I cannot believe we are to be parted once more. The three months we spent together were Heaven on earth. I wake up in the morning, wanting to feel your form next to mine, but you are gone. My hands slide into my pantaloons and I must touch myself, trying to remember the feel of your mouth against my most delicate of female parts.

Gretchen’s eyes widened. Holy shit. That was . . . graphic. “Lulabelle, you little Victorian sexpot, you.”

My father is very against our marriage, as you know. However, I cannot help but think that if he knew of the carnal ways that we had tasted each other, the hours we had spent in each other’s arms, that perhaps he would relent. Still, I shall keep our secret as you have instructed.

Tell me when you will return to me and, until then, imagine my hands where yours should be.

All my love,

Lula

Well now. Things had just gotten a bit more interesting. Curious, Gretchen reached for the next letter and was surprised to see a masculine handwriting. Benedict had actually written Lulabelle back. Interesting. All the prior letters had been penned by one hand—Lula to Benedict.

Lovely flower,

It shall only be a few months that we are to be parted. You know that I cannot marry you as long as my fortune is no more than that of a beggar’s. Your father will never look upon me as a proper suitor for you unless I become more successful. Give my business time to take off, beloved, and we shall soon be together.

Your letter to me fired my loins and my imagination. My body aches to sink deep into yours once more, to feel your plump thighs wrapping around my waist as I move deep inside you. I know what we write is scandalous, but I do not care. If we cannot be together in person, let us be together in spirit. I know my mind is filled of thoughts of your mouth upon my maleness. It is an image burned into my mind.

Write me again,

Your Ben

Wow. So Lula gave old Ben a blowjob? She is a total vixen. Good for her. Gretchen pulled out the next letter, fascinated, and began to open it. The project had taken on new life with these latest letters, and now she couldn’t seem to read them fast enough. They were dirty and wrong—terribly wrong considering they were dating back to the Victorian period, but man, were they juicy.

For the first time, she tried to picture the duo. Lulabelle would have been dressed in some sort of frothy concoction of a dress befitting the times. Her appearance was never mentioned, other than she was concerned with fashion.

She pictured Benedict like she did Hunter, though. Tall, serious, and deliciously, wickedly scarred. Wounded inside and out. Maybe that was why he’d never written Lula back until now. Maybe she’d reached out to him over that three-month break and crashed through his barriers, and now he’d let her in.

I know my mind is filled of thoughts of your mouth upon my maleness, Benedict had written.

Gretchen suddenly envisioned herself, kneeling in front of Hunter, taking his cock in her mouth and working it as his hand knotted in her hair. Warmth pulsed through her body and she resisted the urge to fan herself with one of the delicate letters. Whew.

The door to the library opened and Gretchen jumped in her chair, whirling around.

Eldon stood there, looking just as surprised as she was. Of course, Gretchen couldn’t stop blushing now that she’d been more or less caught reading the letters. Not that she wasn’t supposed to be reading them, of course. It was just that they were . . . dirty. And it made her feel weird to be seen reading them. Did Eldon or Hunter have any idea how incredibly graphic the letters were? Was that why they’d wanted someone to transcribe them?

“You’re here early,” Eldon said, his voice disapproving. He held a tray in his hands.

She waved a letter at him. “Thought I’d get a head start on things. Don’t bother making me breakfast, by the way. I made my own.”

“I did not make you breakfast,” he said flatly, as if it were the last thing he’d planned.

“Yeah, I guessed.” He never made her breakfast.

Eldon moved into the library and set the tray down on the nearest end table. On her tray was the rose of the day, singularly beautiful and crisp, the bud just beginning to unfurl. Today’s color was a red so deep that it almost seemed like velvet.

To her disappointment, there was no note from Hunter inviting her to dinner. That was fine. She wouldn’t let him retreat away from her. She had plans.

When Eldon straightened, he turned to leave.

“Wait,” Gretchen said, jumping to her feet. She grabbed the folded paper on the edge of the desk that she’d written this morning and held it out to him. “Can you please give this to Hunter?”

Eldon eyed it, and then her. Ever so reluctantly, he reached out and took the paper from her.

Gretchen kept the smile on her face, though inside she was a bit gleeful at his capitulation. He’d taken her note. “It’s very important that he gets it as soon as possible,” she told Eldon, trying to seem innocent.

To her dismay, Eldon flipped open her note and read it aloud. “Dear Hunter, I would very much appreciate it if you would join me for dinner tonight in the kitchen. Nothing fancy, but I promise you I’m a much better cook than Eldon. Sincerely, Gretchen.”

All right, that was embarrassing.

The butler’s mouth pursed unpleasantly as he finished the letter. “I don’t see anything urgent in this.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t for you,” Gretchen said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Just deliver it, all right?”

“Shall I bring back a response?”

“Nah,” Gretchen told him. “I’ll know tonight if he shows up or not.”

“Very well.” He refolded the letter she’d given him and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Gretchen counted to ten slowly, waiting, and then crept to the door. Her slippers muffled her footsteps, and she ever so slowly eased open the library door, glancing down the hall.

Eldon turned a corner and vanished.

Excellent. With quiet steps, Gretchen tiptoed down the hall after him, keeping her distance. If Eldon did as he promised, he’d deliver that letter to Hunter. She could always wait for him to arrive tonight and apologize then, but Gretchen liked to be on the offensive, and what better way than to get things ironed out than to confront the man herself?

Of course, she couldn’t confront him if she didn’t know where he was. Which was why her plan to follow Eldon was perfect. She would be able to see Hunter’s reaction and find out where he was all at once.

Gretchen trailed a good distance behind Eldon, creeping quietly through the echoing halls of Buchanan Manor. It was a good thing for a change, she thought, that the place was so empty. No one would be there to tattle on her for stalking the butler.

Sure enough, he turned down the wing that she’d come to think of as Hunter’s wing and continued all the way down the hall. Once there, he opened a door and disappeared inside. She followed behind him and was surprised to see that the door led to a glass-covered walkway through the gardens.

Where was this going?

She followed him down the covered path, noting the snowdrifts against the glass. The path itself was cool enough that her breath frosted, but nothing like the wintry cold outside. The room ended in a small mudroom that had steps up to double doors. Through the glass, she could see a vaulted glass roof outside, the windows damp with condensation.

A greenhouse?

Of course, Gretchen realized, glancing around the mudroom. Of course he had a greenhouse. It was likely full of the roses he’d been gifting her with this last week. It had seemed odd but charming that he’d carefully selected one different rose every day. Now she knew he was plucking them from his own gardens.

How fascinating. There were layers to Hunter she was just beginning to discover.

The double doors hung open, and she could hear the faint sound of voices in the other room. She glanced around, but there were only a few jackets hanging on a peg in the shadows of the mudroom and a mix of boots lined up against the wall. Not much for her to hide behind so she wouldn’t be discovered.

“She left you this note,” she could barely hear Eldon saying. His voice seemed to drip scorn. Jeez. What had she ever done to him? Then again, she had not been nice about his cooking in the note. Guess he’s sensitive about that.

There was a long moment of silence. Then, a quiet, “Thank you, Eldon. That’ll be all.”

“Very well,” Eldon said in that same stiff voice. “I shall return to my duties, unless you’d like for me to carry your response back to her?”

“No thank you. I’m going to think on it.”

Think on it? Gretchen scowled to herself. What exactly was there to think on? Had she truly hurt his feelings that much just by asking about his face? She’d simply been curious about a friend. No more, no less. She’d had no idea he’d be so touchy.

Before she could think about it more, there was the sound of footsteps. A swell of alarm pulsed through Gretchen, and she darted behind one of the hanging coats in the mudroom, squeezing her eyes shut in the hopes that Eldon wouldn’t notice her lurking in the shadows. If he did, it’d be totally awkward.

She kept her eyes squeezed tight as she heard the soft sound of the doors closing, and then footsteps walking away.

Not caught. Whew.

After a few moments had passed and she was sure that Eldon would not return, Gretchen slipped out from under the jackets and crept toward the doors. She carefully turned the doorknob of one and eased it open a crack, peeking inside.

Greenery exploded into view—the jade of fresh leaves, the smell of turned soil, and the thick perfume of roses. Everywhere she could see brilliantly colored roses set against the thick verdant shrubs. There had to be hundreds of roses in the greenhouse. How amazing.

Standing nearby was Hunter. He wore no jacket, and the collar of his starched shirt was loose, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He wore a pair of gardening gloves, pruning shears in one hand. His gaze was on the nearby table . . . and the note she’d asked Eldon to deliver. He hadn’t noticed her.

She’d nearly shied away at the sight of him, thinking she’d be caught, but there was something so vulnerable about his face that she couldn’t help but stare.

He continued to read the note, his gaze flicking over it over and over again, as if memorizing its contents. And his face? He had such a naked, hopeful longing in his eyes that it made her heart ache. Was that longing for . . . her? Then why did he push her away at every turn?

It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

But she did know that if she caught Hunter unawares again, he wouldn’t be pleased. So she carefully eased the door shut again, waited a moment, and then knocked loudly.

“Enter,” she heard Hunter call out.

She opened the door, a careful, easy smile on her face. “Surprise.”

He did indeed look startled to see her. The note was gone, as if put away, and he stood there in the midst of the greenery, a solitary figure. “What are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you, too. Can I come in?”

The wary look returned to his face. “Of course.”

She stepped inside the greenhouse, immediately noticing the damp, warm feel of the air and the thick scent of roses and fresh dirt. Her gaze moved over the blooming bushes, and she leaned down to scent a familiar one. “Gypsy Carnival, right?”

“Correct.”

She smiled at him and straightened. “I thought you were ordering flowers to send to me. You grow all of them?”

The wariness in his gaze reduced a little, and he gave her a quick nod. “Gardening is my hobby. I enjoy roses the most.” He gestured at the greenhouse, thick with flowers. “This is where I come to get away from things.”

That could have been accusatory, but she chose to ignore it. “It’s marvelous,” she said, moving past him and strolling down one of the aisles to look at the neatly lined-up rows of roses. “You’re really good at this—the roses look better than anything I’ve ever gotten from a florist.” She leaned down to sniff one that had an open yellow bloom the size of her hand. “Do you do anything with them?”

“Do?”

“Yes. Do you sell them to a local florist or something? You have so many.”

He walked behind her a few steps, his gaze on her instead of the roses. “I . . . sometimes I have Eldon show them. And sometimes I cross them, to try and see if I can create a new variety. But I mostly like growing them.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder and smiled. “I would have never pictured a big, strong guy like you as a gardener.”

He blushed, his gaze skidding away from her again, a sure sign that he was embarrassed. “I enjoy plants,” he said simply. “They are far easier to understand than people.”

“Most people are assholes,” she said bluntly. “I think that’s why I prefer writing. Or baking.”

His mouth twitched and, for a hopeful moment, she thought he might smile, but it was quickly contained again. “Did you come out here to discuss the merits of books versus roses?”

“Actually, no.” She straightened and turned to face him. “I wanted to come out here and ask you if you were going to come to dinner tonight.”

“I . . .” His voice died and his gaze slid away again. “Perhaps.”

“Oh, come on,” she said softly. “I can tell you all about my day. It’s been most interesting.” Her voice had taken on a soft, almost sexy purr.

The effect on Hunter was startling. His gaze flew back to her, his eyes wide, one eyebrow lifting as if to voice the question that he wouldn’t.

She took a step closer to him, gratified when he didn’t back away. “You know all those letters I’ve been transcribing? It seems that my two historical figures had a rather torrid love affair.”

He said nothing. His was attention was frozen on her face, and she saw that strange mixture of fear and longing flicker through his eyes again.

Feeling bolder, Gretchen slid a bit closer to him, her voice husky. “What’s even better is that they describe, in rather blatant, sexual detail, what they want to do to each other. Isn’t that . . . interesting?”

Hunter’s lips parted, and Gretchen thought for a moment that he might break the distance between them and drag her against him in a wild kiss. Her pulse fluttered with excitement at the thought, and she found she desperately wanted Hunter to kiss her. Tongue the hell out of her mouth and toss her down into the dirt and claim her. She wanted to see that reserve of his shatter.

“What do you think?” she prompted.

“I . . .”

“Yes?”

He bolted away, turning his back to her. As she stood there, all soft and full of need for him, he stormed across the room and began to jerk on a pair of ugly, thick gardening gloves. “I’d like for you to leave.”

Disappointment crushed her fledgling desire. She sighed heavily and rolled her eyes at his retreat. “So I take it dinner’s off?”

“I . . . no. I will think about it.” But he wouldn’t look over at her.

“Suit yourself,” she said softly. “I’m off to go read more letters. I hope to see you tonight.” She sauntered out of the greenhouse before he could say anything else.

He was an utterly frustrating and confusing man. She knew he wanted her. She’d seen the desire in his eyes. The need. He wasn’t married or dating anyone. She wasn’t either.

So why was he fighting this so very hard? It didn’t make sense.

Was it possible he just didn’t like her? That was depressing to think about. Gretchen sighed and returned to the library, discouraged and unhappy.

She worked quietly for hours, cataloging letters and reading through them. Engrossed in her project, she didn’t notice that someone had entered the room until the door clicked shut again. Her head lifted, and her gaze settled on a tray that had been left on a table across the room.

It was a vase filled with roses. Every single one she’d casually touched this morning while in his greenhouse had been cut and placed in a gorgeous crystal vase. Unable to help herself, Gretchen moved to the roses and leaned over to take in their scent.

A note was on the table.

I will be there.

Gretchen smiled to herself. Maybe Hunter was interested after all.

***

“It sounds like he likes you,” Audrey told her over the phone. “But it sounds like he’s shy.”

“You think so?” Gretchen dragged one of her T-shirts out of the closet and winced at how ratty it looked. Why hadn’t she brought more dresses? “He’s just so hard to predict. I can’t forget how he freaked out when I asked him about his face.”

“Maybe he’s just a loner. I mean, he’s friends with Logan and his buddies, but out of all of them, he’s the most remote. Doesn’t attend any parties they give or anything.”

“He’s definitely a loner,” Gretchen agreed. “But there’s something so incredibly . . . remote about him. Most loners seem happy to be by themselves. He just seems a bit lost.”

“Yeah, Logan says that he’s not the friendliest guy, but he’s very true once he lets someone in. He’s always very polite to me, though.”

She’d forgotten the fact that Audrey’s boss was friends with Hunter. “I didn’t think he ever left this house.” She thought of what he’d told her—the kidnapping. His utter loneliness. The way that the staff kept to assigned wings so as not to “bother” him.

Gretchen had never met someone quite so alone as him. It made him strangely vulnerable despite his icy demeanor, and it fascinated her as much as it made her want to touch him. Show him that he wasn’t alone and unlovable.

“Of course he leaves his house, Gretch. He has a billion-dollar real estate empire.”

“Yeah, but does he have to do anything for that other than just, I don’t know, own property?”

Audrey giggled. “You really have no idea how billionaires work, do you?”

“I don’t want to know, honestly. All that money just seems like a lot of hassle.” She pulled a plain black sweater out of the closet and held it against her. A bit worn, but it’d have to do. “So did Logan tell you about his past? The thing with the scars and the kidnapping?”

“Nope. No one talks about it, apparently. No one except you.”

“Yeah, me and my big mouth.” She tossed the sweater down on the bed, and it landed on a curled-up Igor, who meowed in resentment. “I guess I shouldn’t have asked. But I was curious.”

“Well, leave your curiosity at the door. From what I can remember from meeting him, he doesn’t like it if people so much as look at him the wrong way.”

“Jeez, Audrey, exactly how many times have you met this guy?”

“A handful of times. Like I said, he’s one of Logan’s closest friends.”

“And you never thought to give your sister the cliff notes rundown on the man?”

“Well gee, Gretchen, I didn’t think you’d want to bang the guy.”

She sighed deeply. “Is it weird that I’m finding the scars sexy?”

“Yes,” Audrey said flatly. “They’re not cute scars, Gretch. They’re disfiguring.”

“Yeah, but they have a story. He has a story. I like that about him. I just can’t figure him out.”

“Have you considered that he might be a virgin?”

“What? He’s not a virgin.”

“Why does that seem so crazy?” Audrey snorted. “You said he blushes, right? And doesn’t look you in the eye? And that he was scarred at an early age?”

“Yes, but—”

“You think he’s going to get a lot of ladies with a playbook like that?”

“But he has to be close to thirty, if not already thirty. I can’t believe he’d still be a virgin. Can’t you hire hookers for that sort of thing?”

“Gross, Gretchen. That’s just gross.”

“I know, but we were both thinking it.” Gretchen stared into her reflection in the mirror, considering. Was the reason why Hunter kept shying away from any sort of flirtiness that she tossed his way because he didn’t know how? Because he was a virgin?

That seemed weird, and yet . . . the more she thought about it, the more it made sense. He’d been kidnapped when he was ten. Something like that would probably leave him with trust issues and emotional scars, not to mention the physical scars. He’d freaked out when she’d seen him naked. And he’d freaked out again when she’d come close to kissing him. He’d also froze like a deer in headlights when she’d flirted with him.

And he’d stared at her note like it was the thing he wanted most in the world. “You might be on to something, Audrey.”

“Of course I am,” her sister said smugly. “The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

“You mean, hold him down and take his virginity?”

“No! Yuck! Gretchen, that’s a visual I did not want.”

“You brought it up. What do you mean, what am I going to do about it?”

“I mean that the man’s skittish as hell. If he’s a virgin, you’re going to have a hell of a time getting him to come on to you.”

“So I’ll come on to him.”

“But you said he retreats every time you try to get intimate. Perhaps he doesn’t want you to come on to him. Maybe he wants to be the aggressor and you’re not giving him a chance? Is there a way you can level the playing field?”

Gretchen thought for a moment and became a little depressed. The playing field hadn’t been level since she’d seen him naked that very first day. There was no way to recover from that. “I’m not sure.”

“He might be off balance and afraid to make a move if he thinks you’re sexually experienced and he’s not. Can you pretend to be a virgin?” Audrey sounded amused at the thought.

“Har de har. I just need to think about it.”

“About pretending to be a virgin?”

“No. About leveling the playing field.” And somehow getting Hunter to forget that she’d seen him in the natural state.

“Good luck, whatever you do.”

Gretchen hung up the phone and chewed on her lip. She looked into the mirror and played with her wet hair, still dripping from the shower. Dress sexy? Nah. She didn’t have the right equipment. It was like Audrey said: Hunter would be off balance around her and continue to be off balance unless she did something to “level the playing field” as her sister had claimed. So that was what she needed to do—get them on equal ground. Somehow. She’d seen him naked, though.

An impulsive idea flashed through her mind and she immediately shut it down, hugging her robe closed. He’d run for sure if she did that.

There was a knock at her door.

Gretchen adjusted the belt on her robe and went to the door, but didn’t open it. “Who is it?”

“I . . . me. Hunter. Buchanan.”

As if there would be a dozen other Hunters at her door. Biting back her smile, Gretchen opened the door and glanced out at him. “Hi there.”

He was dressed in a black suit, a black shirt underneath, and a dark gray tie. His hair was impeccably smoothed into a part and he carried sunglasses in his hand. Behind him, a large man easily seven feet tall stood behind him, dressed in equally dark clothing and wearing his sunglasses. Gretchen had never seen him, and alarm immediately rose. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” Hunter said. He glanced backward at the man behind him and gave a brief nod. “Leave us.”

The man nodded and headed down the hall, his back to them. Gretchen peered out the door, watching him. Then she looked at Hunter. “Who’s that?” she whispered.

“My bodyguard.”

“I see. So you’re ditching me tonight?”

Two spots of color flushed in his pale cheeks. “That’s not what I . . . that is, I—”

“I guessed it as soon as I saw the suit. Though I admit, you do clean up nice. I’m a little sad the suit isn’t for me.” Not that she’d ever seen him wear anything but suits, but her flirty words seemed to be working. He was definitely blushing.

His gaze moved, darting about the room, looking anywhere but at her. “I came to give you my apologies. I can’t make it to dinner tonight. A business meeting was scheduled and I find that I cannot move it.”

“No worries.” Gretchen twirled one of the ends of her robe. “Thanks for letting me know, though.”

He shifted on his feet, and then tugged at his collar, seemingly more uncomfortable by the moment. “I would, however, like if we were to meet for dinner tomorrow night instead.”

“Tomorrow’s fine.”

“Good.” His voice was curt. “Very good. Good. That’s . . .”

“Good?” she offered. He was adorable.

He gave her another scathing look, but Gretchen only smiled. She was starting to realize his defense mechanisms. God, why had she not seen this before? Suddenly it was so obvious . . . and so sexy that she drove him so crazy.

She took a step forward, wanting to tease him a little. “May I?” She gestured at his tie.

He looked down at it, frowning.

“It’s crooked,” she lied, moving forward and pretending to adjust the tie. It was more or less an excuse to move into his arms and see how he’d react.

He stiffened, but didn’t move away.

She took that as an encouraging sign and continued to adjust his tie. Then she smoothed a hand down the front of it, noting the hard muscle underneath. “All better.”

Hunter’s attention was definitely on her now, and she noticed the look in his eyes was hungry. It emboldened her and made her think of her outrageous idea from earlier.

“Hunter?”

“Hmm?” He seemed distracted, almost dazed.

She reached for the loose collar of her robe and pulled it open. Stepping back, she flashed him her breasts.

He stared, frozen in place.

“Now we’re even,” she told him lightly. “The field is leveled. Enjoy your meeting tonight.”

And she closed her robe and sauntered back into her room, grinning the entire time.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 471