swear words in his head. It had been too long since he’d gotten laid if a handshake had the power to get him hot.
Especially a handshake from this particular woman.
Maybe it’s genetic?
He bit back a sound of disgust at that thought. He would never use that as an excuse. He was in control of his own actions. If he sinned, it was because he’d chosen it. And at least he was man enough to admit it. Unlike his father. Damien Grey hadn’t been much of a role model in that respect.
Yes, she was beautiful, but mostly just fragile-looking with her delicate frame and pale skin. As if she didn’t get outside enough. Everything about her was pale. White-blond hair, large, robin’s-egg-blue eyes with long, thick lashes, darkened with the aid of makeup. She was like a porcelain doll, one that might break if handled too roughly.
The deep-red lipstick she was wearing was likely intended to give her more color, but all it did was show just how washed out the rest of her was. Pale and drawn, shadows beneath luminous blue eyes.
Even so, she was arresting. Her beauty was almost other-worldly.
She reminded him so much of her mother. That cold, self-possessed allure that made a man ache to see what was beneath all that control. The kind of woman who led men around on leashes, had them begging simply to be in her presence.
She had all of that, plus an air of vulnerability her mother hadn’t had. It only added to her appeal. It made a man want to do more than simply possess. It made him want to protect.
“Nice to meet you,” she mumbled, pulling her hand away.
He was relieved by the break in contact. “I don’t think you really mean that.”
She smiled, an expression that didn’t reflect in her eyes. “No. You’re right, but I’m too polite to say otherwise.”
“I’m glad for your manners then,” he said dryly.
“How is it I’ve misunderstood your motives, Mr. Grey?”
“I’m not planning on moving into your house.”
She arched an eyebrow. “No?”
“No. I plan on expanding the house and making it a hotel property.”
“What?”
She was small, maybe a foot shorter than his own height of six foot three. But there was nothing small about her presence. Even in her pale, diminished state she exuded a kind of force that demanded all eyes rest on her. Another similarity to her mother. At least from what he remembered of the woman. He’d been young the times he’d seen her, lingering near the gates to his childhood home, his father sneaking out to be with her like an adolescent boy. Leaving his wife and son behind so he could indulge in his forbidden passion.
Ethan clenched his hands into fists and forced his mind back to the present. He’d been over the past. Over and over it. Now was the time for action and he couldn’t afford to be distracted. Not when the key to his plan was standing right in front of him.
“How can you do that?” she asked, not waiting for him to answer. “This house is two hundred years old. It’s … it’s a marvel of architecture and … and … it’s my home.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
He knew that this was the only home in her name. He wasn’t sure what had happened to the penthouse in mid-town Manhattan, or the townhouse in Paris. When the sprawling estate had come up as a home in foreclosure he’d acted immediately. It was opportunistic on his part, more than a carefully planned-out maneuver. But from the moment he’d walked in, he knew he’d made the right move.
Strange how largely she and her mother had factored into his life, while she seemed to have no clue who he was. He hadn’t seen even a hint of recognition in her eyes, either on sight or at the sound of his name.
She was probably too dazzled by the brilliance of her own sparkle to look around and see anyone other than herself.
“I’m not planning on demolishing it, Noelle, merely expanding it. Adding a pool, maybe.”
She flinched when he said that. It bothered her, him talking about changing the house. She was attached to it, that much was obvious. And that would prove useful to him.
“Great, well, I don’t really want to be involved in the blueprint for this, so maybe I should leave and let you poke around for a while?”
“I don’t believe I need to spend any time poking around. My mind is made up. It’s a good investment and from where I’m standing it doesn’t appear that I’ll take a loss on it.”
The expression in her eyes changed again. Anger, pure and real, joined the anguish. So much emotion in her. He couldn’t summon up a single feeling in response. Too many years of shoving them aside. Of strangling the life out of his emotions whenever possible so he could move forward.
“So you can just buy it then? Like that? Without even stopping to consider what it might do to your … to your monthly budget or anything like that?”
He laughed. It was only a sound. It didn’t really express any of the things laughter usually did. “Not my main concern, no.”
He could see the struggle in her, the emotions that made her body tremble even as she kept her face set into a firm, determined expression. She wasn’t exactly what he’d imagined she might be. Pampered, yes. Clear prima donna tendencies, yes. But she was strong too. He was certain that beneath that brittle, fragile exterior was a backbone of steel. That only made her more interesting.
“Why is the house so important?” He was hoping it was important. Everything depended on it.
Because it all depended on her. On getting her to agree to his proposition. Revenge was sweet, but she would give it the bitter edge that he craved. That he needed in order to have satisfaction.
“Why? Why do you think?” she asked, her voice breaking again. “It’s the only home I have. When the bank takes it, I won’t get any money from the sale. I’ll have nothing. Less than nothing. I have nowhere to go.”
“Most single women don’t live by themselves in a mansion that could easily house ten other families,” he said.
Noelle fought to keep her cool, to keep from breaking down. From showing any weakness. She had been trained to look calm on the surface no matter what. If her mother tore into her before a show, telling her she wasn’t beautiful anymore, that it was her fault ticket sales were down, she still had to go on stage. And she would keep every emotion locked in her, letting it escape through her fingertips. In the sound of the piano.
Her emotion didn’t seem able to escape that way anymore. Now when she played it was dry, stilted. There was nothing behind it. Nothing but empty, technical skill.
She took a breath. “It’s not a matter of downsizing, although that would have helped the electric bill.” A bill she had done her very best to scale back. No lights during the day, no heat, the only source of warmth the fireplace in her bedroom so she didn’t freeze at night. “I don’t have anything,” she said, shame creeping over her.
He arched one dark eyebrow, his expression cool, blank
