Taming the Beast
Auteur
Amy J. Fetzer
Lezers
16,3K
Hoofdstukken
12
One
Laura Cambridge looked up at the gray stone castle and wondered what she’d find inside. Prince Charming or the dragon?
The dragon most likely, she thought, if there was any truth to the gossip the townsfolk were more than willing to share during the ferry ride to this beautiful little island. Did Richard Blackthorne know how much he was feared, she wondered, her gaze moving over the ominous stones and the arched windows as the cab proceeded up the steep driveway. Lord, the structure even had turrets and crenellations. And a tower.
Laura saw only the loneliness of it all.
“Ma’am,” the driver said when he stopped before the huge house. “You sure you’re supposed to be here?”
Why did everyone in this little island village ask that, as if she were walking to her execution? Blackthorne was just a man, for pity’s sake. “Oh, yes, I’m sure, Mr. Pinkney,” she said, without looking at the middle-aged cabdriver.
“Mr. Blackthorne ain’t exactly the most congenial sort, you know.”
“With everyone acting as if he’d take a bite out of them, it’s a wonder, don’t you think?” She looked at him now, arching a brow.
He reddened a bit, then looked back at the house. “Idea had to come from somewheres,” he drawled, then rolled out of the driver’s seat to get her bags.
Laura left the car, walking with him up the steep front steps.
Summoned like a serf to the king, she had been hired to help Richard Blackthorne’s four-year-old daughter adjust to living here. To living with a recluse, a man locked in a castle and shielded from any human contact. Oh, this was going to take some work, she thought, for she knew from the gossip that no one had set foot inside this house, except delivery personnel, in four years. Laura felt instant pity for the little girl, who’d just lost her mother and had been kept from her father. Laura was here early to grow accustomed to the surroundings before the child arrived.
Mr. Pinkney set her bags down. She turned to pay the man and found him jotting something down on a slip of paper. As she handed him the fare, he handed her the paper.
“This here’s my number. If you’re needin’ a ride outta here or anything, you just give me a holler.”
She was touched, but it wasn’t necessary. “He’s not a monster, Mr. Pinkney.”
“Yes, ma’am, he is. He snaps and growls at anyone who steps on his land and he made mincemeat out of the delivery boy, and he was just bringing in groceries. I hate to think of what he’d do to you.” When Laura gave him a determined look, Mr. Pinkney looked up at the castle. Sighing, he went on. “This here house was built by a man years ago for his bride. She wanted to live like a princess, and he designed and built this house for her. Had every stone brought over from the mainland, some all the way from England and Ireland, to hear tell it. She died before it was finished, or before the fella had a chance to marry her.”
How sad, she thought, then tipped her head. “You act as if it’s cursed or haunted or something.”
Mr. Pinkney said nothing, staring at the wide-arched double slabs of wood as if they were the mouth of a cave. Haunted my fanny, she thought, and lifted the cool brass knocker, smiling to herself. It was the head of a dragon. Well, Mr. Blackthorne, if you wanted to keep the public away, you’re certainly doing a good job at it. She let the knocker fall.
Instantly a voice came over the intercom to the right of the doors. “Come in.”
The voice was deep, sandy-rough, the growling sound of it sending shimmers of apprehension over her skin.
“See what I mean?” Pinkney said.
“Hogwash,” she replied firmly, and opened the door, stepping inside. A small lamp on a beautifully carved side table cast the foyer in shadows. She set her purse and briefcase down, then turned to find Mr. Pinkney pushing her bags inside and making a hasty retreat back to the front steps. But that didn’t stop him from getting an eyeful of the house, she thought. She flipped on the light switch, and the foyer was flooded with light. He flinched and back-stepped farther.
“You call, you hear,” he said, his southern drawl more pronounced.
His attitude, much like that of the folks she encountered in town—the shock, the warnings, and mostly the horrid way people felt they could openly ridicule a man they’d never met—made her feel unaccountably protective of Mr. Blackthorne.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said, and closed the door. Sighing hard, Laura turned, her heart skipping to her throat as the light went off and a figure loomed at the top of the polished curving stairs.
“Mr. Blackthorne?”
“Obviously.” His gravelly voice rumbled down the staircase to her.
“Hello, I’m—”
“Laura Cambridge, I know,” he cut in. “Barely thirty, single, USC graduate, raised in Charleston, formerly Miss South Carolina, Miss Jasper County, Miss Shrimp Festival.” There was a smirk in his tone then, she swore. “Have I left anything out?”
Well, wasn’t he the superior being, she thought, staring up at where he stood on the landing, shrouded in shadows. “You forgot former State Department attaché, embassy schoolteacher, and a linguist, fluent in Italian, Farsi and Gaelic.”
“But can you cook?” he said in flawless Gaelic.
“I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t.” She folded her arms over her waist and regarded the hulking shadow of a man, the foyer light offering only a look at the razor-sharp creases of his dark trousers breaking over his shoes. His hand rested on the banister, a heavy gold signet ring caught the light. Lord, he had big hands, she thought, then said, “So, do I have a Web site or something that I’m not aware of?” And just how much did he know about her, she wondered.
“Telecommunications is an amazing resource.”
“Yeah, well, spare me from listing my bra size or the time I lost my pom-poms under the bleachers with Grady Benson,” she said.
“Is that all you lost?” The words came out in a low growl that tingled up her spine.
It irritated her further. “Search the Net and find out,” she snapped, not liking at all that he knew so much about her and she didn’t know diddly about him. She hadn’t had the chance to find out anything much, except that he’d been reclusive since a disfiguring accident, divorced, and that he would, in a couple of days, take in a daughter he had never met. Curiouser and curiouser, she thought as she took hold of her bags. She faced him. “Where do I stay?”
“The second floor.”
She walked to the staircase.
“Leave the bags. Follow me,” he said.
Laura set the suitcases down, yet kept her briefcase and purse with her as she trailed him. He walked several steps ahead of her, as if he could anticipate her stride, always keeping himself in the dark. His walk was smooth, almost elegant, and what little light there was came not from the ceiling but glimmered along the floorboards. All she could see was the outline of his shoulders in the pristine white shirt, broad and straight. Impenetrable. He stopped at a door and quickly shoved it open.
“Here,” he said, and kept walking.
She stopped outside the room. “And your daughter’s room?”
He hesitated for the briefest instant. “Across the hall.” He was halfway up a second set of stairs. “I’ll have your bags brought up.”
“I thought you lived alone?”
“I do. There is a groundskeeper who lives in the cottage behind the house and a maid who comes on Mondays.”
“Don’t you think we should discuss your daughter’s arrival?” she shouted, since he hadn’t stopped walking.
“She will be here in two days. Meet her at the ferry.” He took each stair with such slow deliberation, Laura wondered if he was in pain.
“You won’t come with me?”
“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.
