The tinted glass of the Escalade rolled down with a slow, mechanical hiss. Wade Hollis leaned his elbow on the doorframe, a small, cold smile on his face, the faint smell of cigar smoke clinging to him.
“Well, well, darlin’,” Wade said, his voice smooth as honey and twice as thick. “What in the world are you doing out here?”
Izzy was still breathless. She leaned down, pretending to pat the horse’s neck to hide her shaking hands. “I was riding while Cal was busy with the vet and a sick mare,” she said, forcing asmall, airy laugh. “I kind of got lost. It’s so beautiful out here, but…”
Wade’s eyes moved over her—taking in her flushed face, her messy hair, and the frantic rise and fall of her breast. His smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Well, darlin’, the fresh air sure does agree with you,” he said, his gaze lingering. “But stay out of this area. It’s not safe out here, and I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
Izzy let out a soft, practiced laugh—the one she used in Denver when wealthy clients hit on her, a sound that was all charm and no substance. “I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Hollis.”
Wade nodded once, the window hissed back up, and the Escalade rolled on toward the airstrip.
Grant waited until the silver taillights vanished around the bend before he moved. He took a deep breath, watched until the road was completely clear, then doubled back, vanishing into the side of the ridge as he climbed back up toward Burke and Scout.
34
The Dinner Guests
The stables were quiet by the time Izzy returned. Her hands were finally steady, but her skin felt cold, the memory of Grant’s weight on her and the look in Wade’s eyes still haunting her.
Miller, the stable manager, was waiting by the paddock. “Mr. Cal is in the house, ma’am. He was asking for you.”
Izzy walked toward Cal’s residence, a masterpiece of modern architecture—stone, glass, and cedar that looked like a high-end gallery. Inside, the kitchen was bathed in the warm glow of copper pendant lights. Cal was waiting, leaning against the marble island. He looked effortless, dressed in a crisp white linen shirt that made him look polished and completely put together.
On the counter sat a bottle of red, already decanted into a crystal carafe.
“There she is,” Cal said, his smile bright. He didn’t look like a man with secrets; he looked like a man who had finally found something worth waiting for. He gestured to the wine. “I thought we’d start with this. It’s an award-winning Syrah fromBlackwood Estate. Mabel’s pride and joy. I think you’ll find it’s a bit more refined than the coffee at the Scott farm.”
“It’s lovely, Cal,” Izzy said, leaning against the island. The scent of his sandalwood-and-citrus cologne was clean and soothing, a sharp contrast to the smell of rain and horses she’d been carrying all day.
Cal poured two glasses and handed her one, his fingers lingering against hers. “I wanted a quiet evening with you, Izzy. I’ve been looking forward to it all day.”
She took a sip, the wine velvety and rich, and for a moment, she let herself lean into the comfort of it. Cal was charming; he was attentive, and he wasn’t pushing her away.
* * *
It was 7:15 PM, and they had moved toward the terrace doors when the front door chimed. Cal’s smile faltered, a flash of genuine annoyance crossing his face. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
He stepped out and returned a moment later, his posture noticeably stiffer. Behind him walked Wade Hollis and a younger man who moved with a predatory grace.
Izzy’s breath hitched. She recognized him instantly. The man from the airstrip. The man standing next to the crates.
Wade’s voice boomed through the open-plan room. “Hope you don’t mind a few more plates, son. Vance flew in from Miami, and he was famished. I told him my son has the best chef in the county.”
Cal stepped closer to Izzy, leaning in to whisper against her hair. “I am so sorry about this. I didn’t know they were coming. I wanted tonight to be us.”
“It’s fine,” Izzy whispered back, though her heart was currently trying to hammer its way out of her ribs.
Wade turned his gaze to Izzy, his eyes twinkling with a shark-like charm. “Vance, I don’t believe you’ve had the pleasure. This is Isabella Moreno. The art expert from Denver.”
Vance Varga didn’t smile. He stepped forward, his eyes—cold, dark, and entirely vacant—locking onto hers. He didn’t offer a hand. He looked at her as if he were deciding where to put a price tag.
“Isabella,” Vance said, his voice a low, melodic rasp. “Wade tells me you’ve been spending a lot of time outdoors today. Exploring the property.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” Izzy said, her voice a masterclass in feigned elegance. “I’d like to freshen up before we sit for dinner.”
“Of course, darlin’,” Wade said, gesturing toward the hallway.
