I’d assumed he was rich, but holy shit.
“Ms. Laurent?”
I lift my head at the familiar sound of Gibson’s voice. “Good morning,” I say, greeting the polite older gentleman as if I’m here on a social call.
His answering smile is kind, perhaps even a little sympathetic. He must know the reason I’ve come has nothing to do with a casual visit.
Right. Of course, he knows. He was there in the corridor when I practically broke down outside Rush’s study the other night.
I’m sure by now the entire household staff knows about Daniel’s humiliating loss in the game room and my contractual obligation to help him fix it.
Gibson gently clears his throat. “If you’re ready, Ms. Laurent, Mr. Rush has asked me to show you upstairs now.”
Am I ready?I’m not sure I ever will be.
I get up from the silk-upholstered settee, my long hair swishing against my back as I smooth my hands over the skirt of my sleeveless, pale blue cotton wrap dress. I haven’t worn the summery frock since last year at Katie’s kindergarten class graduation party at the school.
This morning as I was digging through my closet, searching for something appropriate to wear, the unfussy dress seemed the best of my limited options. Especially considering I was only going to be required to take it off, anyway.
God, I still can’t believe I’ve agreed to this.
I should turn on the soles of my ballerina flats and run all the way back to Queens before it’s too late.
I should tear up my agreement with Jared Rush, apologize to Daniel for abandoning him to the consequences of his own recklessness, then go back to living my life. Back to working my two extra jobs to keep a roof over Mom and Katie’s heads while I’m barely nibbling at the edges of my mounting student loans.
That’s what Ishoulddo.
Instead, I dutifully follow Gibson through the foyer to whatever awaits me upstairs.
He leads me into the same elevator Daniel and I rode in with him two nights ago. Instead of stopping on the second floor as we did then, today we ride all the way to the top of the five-story residence.
There is no long, broad corridor on this floor as we step out of the elevator car. This floor is even more private; a vast, beautifully appointed living space. Gleaming white marble floors. Soaring walls embellished with carved millwork and crown moldings. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking some of the most costly, historic real estate in Manhattan.
Gibson leads me through the heart of the stunning residence, pausing outside a pair of French doors that are opened into a spacious living room and solar. Turning to me, he gives me a nod of permission to enter.
I glance inside, hesitant. I don’t see Rush, but I canfeelhim. That dark, electrical charge that traveled through me when I stood before him in his study two nights ago is back now, waking every nerve ending in my body.
Sumptuous furnishings in butter-soft brown leather and creamy fabrics accented in masculine earthtones are arranged in a conversation-friendly cluster in front of an entire wall of bookcases lined with what I guess to be hundreds upon hundreds of hard-bound volumes. A large, elegant fireplace completes the inviting interior, unused at the moment, but flanked by a tidy basket of logs and gleaming tools.
From somewhere deeper inside the enormous room and out of my line of sight, I hear the quiet clink of silverware and china dishes, accompanied by the aromas of bread and bacon and freshly brewed coffee.
“Ms. Laurent,” Gibson says, whether to prompt me into motion or to announce my presence to his employer, I’m not certain.
I step inside the room. Behind me, Gibson discreetly closes the French doors and departs the hallway in silence.
“Come in,” Jared Rush tells me, his deep voice calm and relaxed as it rumbles from somewhere off to my right.
I follow the vibration and the heavenly smells of his breakfast. He is seated at a dining table in front of another set of French doors, this pair looking out onto a private terrace green space and patio off the back of the mansion.
Last time I saw him, he looked like a decadent lord of the manor, smoking his cigar and drinking whisky in his expensive, dark suit and partially unbuttoned, crisp white shirt. His thick tawny hair had been loose around his shoulders that night, the wild mane of a beast on a man surrounded by luxury and fine things.
This morning he is dressed casually in an ecru-colored linen button-down with the sleeves rolled up over his tanned forearms. Beneath the pressed white tablecloth, his long legs are encased in relaxed, faded denim. His large feet are bare inside soft leather loafers, and spread wide on the beautiful Persian rug that runs from one end of the expansive room to the other. It must have cost a fortune. Everything in this room, in this mansion, must have come with a staggering price tag.
Including me, I realize with no small amount of chagrin.
He’s taking a sip of coffee as I approach. Today, his long hair is swept back into a loosely fastened queue at his nape. The hint of brown whiskers shadowing his lean cheeks and squared jaw the other night have been scraped away, but even clean-shaven there is still an untamed quality to his handsomeness. A wild, savage edge that no woman with warm blood in her veins could possibly ignore.
I wish I could say I was the exception, but even as I take the last few steps toward him at the table, my senses prickle with uninvited awareness.
