was sensory overload for a designer like her. Light flooded through tall leaded windows in the center hall. Twin iron chandeliers hung above her, with their curving black metal forms arching over the hall like protective birds of prey. The fireplace here was more subdued than in the other room, covered in the same golden marble as the floor and carved with a rose motif. She traced her fingers along the mantel, wondering what stories it could tell.
That’s why she loved old homes so much—each one held a unique story. New homes had “potential,” but she preferred a house with history. Someone had spared no expense a hundred years ago to create this beautiful space. And now it stood empty and smelled of dust and disuse. She absently patted her hand on the roses carved in marble, feeling sympathy for the sad old house.
She heard something that sounded as if it came from inside the house. Footsteps?
“Hello? Mr. Randall?”
There was only silence in reply. It must have been the wind she heard. Or perhaps it was just her overactive imagination kicking into high gear. She shrugged it off and continued exploring. Next to the front door, a stairway wound its way up the inside of the large tower. On the far side of the room, a semicircular glass atrium stretched across the end of the house. The glass was cloudy with age and neglect, and the mosaic floor covered with long-undisturbed dirt, but the atrium had been spectacular at one time.
The sketches she’d sent with her proposal were in black and white, created in a software program specifically for that purpose. They were filled with structural and furniture dimensions, accompanied with detailed lists of required supplies. They were accurate. But she knew now they weren’t enough. Not for this house. Plans for this house needed color and emotion.
Amanda rested her hand on the paneled wall near the atrium, then closed her eyes and tried to get a feel for what the house might have looked like originally. It was a trick she’d used before to get a sense of the older apartments in the city she’d been hired to decorate. If only walls actually could talk. She pictured the atrium sparkling with candlelight, the metalwork along the roof painted bright white and the colorful floors restored. Exotic rugs scattered across the floor of the salon, creating cozy sitting areas by the fireplace and in front of the library. Lush but comfortable furniture filled this room and the living room. Everything she pictured reflected a sense of family and love.
None of that had been reflected in her proposal to Blake Randall. She pulled her ever-present sketchbook out of her bag, along with a fistful of colored pencils. She didn’t have a lot of time, but she had to try to capture the personality of this home.
She lost herself in the drawing process, letting her creative muse take over. Flipping the pages hurriedly, she sketched the salon, then the dining room, which she’d envisioned as a home office. Eventually she went back to the living room, imagining it with touches of modern technology mixed with classic colors and…oh, wouldn’t sailcloth curtains be perfect in here!
She heard another noise, and stopped her frantic sketching. She was sure it came from inside the house. Was it from upstairs, or the room next door? She tucked her sketchbook back into her bag and headed for the open door to the veranda, ready to flee if needed. Her pulse pounded in her ears. Was that a footstep behind her?
“Hey!” The loud male voice stopped her in her tracks.
Panic slammed her heart against her ribs, and her vision blurred. Before she could force her feet to move, a large hand gripped her upper arm and a deep voice growled at her.
“What the hell are you doing in my house?”
Sometimes her panic manifested itself as rage, and she was thankful for that rage right now. It was the only thing keeping her on her feet. Instead of fainting dead away, she yanked her arm free and turned to face the man who’d just sent her panic levels into the stratosphere. Her knees threatened to buckle. Breathing felt like a battle between her lungs and the air she needed.
“Don’t touch me!” she said with a hiss.
He released her immediately, but he was now blocking her exit. He was older than her—maybe midthirties—and tall. She was wearing heels, and still her head barely reached his shoulders. His features were sharp and his jaw strong. His eyes were the color of espresso, and thick black hair curled down the nape of his neck. He was dressed casually, as if he’d been working outside and just walked in.
She swallowed hard and tried to control her pounding pulse. She’d read once that the tiniest animal, when cornered, could become ferocious beyond its physical size. She drew herself to her full height, ignoring the barest hint of a smile that flickered across the man’s face when she pointed her finger and started lecturing.
“You’d better get out of here while you still have the chance, because Blake Randall will be here any minute now to meet me!”
His right brow arched sharply, but instead of leaving, he leaned back against the door frame and folded his arms on his chest, a wide smile on his face.
“Is that right? Blake Randall? Well, that’s interesting. Because my appointment is with a gentleman, not a nosy, trespassing woman.”
Amanda’s mouth fell open. This was Blake Randall. And she was an idiot. She’d just blown any possibility of getting the job that was her last hope. The thought of crawling back to Kansas in defeat made her skin tight and clammy. She stepped back and bumped against the door, stumbling when it swung further open behind her. She hated this feeling of her feet being encased in cement every time she panicked, leaving her clumsy and slow.
“Jesus, relax.” His voice lost some of its growl. “I’m just sick of people trying to sneak into this place like it’s some shrine instead of being private property. What do you want?”
Amanda’s lungs were rapidly constricting. In with the good air, out with the bad. She was having a hard time envisioning anything good in this situation. He ran long fingers through his hair, clearly running out of patience. She blew out another breath and her vision cleared. Her voice only trembled a little.
“You’re Blake Randall?” She did her best not to grimace when he nodded once in reply. “The door was open, Mr. Randall. I assumed you were inside. I’m your ten o’clock appointment.” She knew she should hold her hand out, but her aversion to touch made her avoid handshakes at all costs. Maybe he wouldn’t notice. “I’m Amanda Lowery.”
He barked out a laugh. “Do you think I don’t know who my appointment is with? It’s with—”
“David Franklin of Franklin Interiors. Yes, I know. I used to work with David. I was an associate at the firm. I’m the one who responded to your email.” Someone at the office had taken a little too long closing her email account after she’d left. Randall’s email had seemed like a gift—an answer to her prayers—when it showed up in her inbox a month ago.
“You responded as David Franklin.”
“I responded as a representative of the firm.” What she’d done was beyond unprofessional. Probably illegal. But she’d been desperate. She hadn’t actually signed David’s name to the emails, but she hadn’t signed hers, either. She’d deceived this man. But what choice did she have after David smeared her reputation and left her unemployable?
“So you’re here representing Franklin Interiors and their proposal?”
“Well…um…no. It was my proposal.”
“So
