a heavy sigh, she reached for the intercom button and took out some of her frustration by punching it savagely and holding it down longer than was polite. From somewhere in the grounds of the mansion, she heard the howl of what sounded like a very large dog.
Moments later an angry voice boomed through the speaker, “No need to ram it through the fence. State your name and business.”
She bit back a suggestion of her own about where he could ram the intercom and said as sweetly as she could, “I’m Haley Glen from the HomeBody Agency to see Sam Winton about your house sitter.” She was gambling that the voice belonged to Sam himself but something in his tone made her think she was right.
She was. “I’m Winton. What’s wrong with Miranda?”
Miranda was the owner of the HomeBody Agency. Normally she would see a client as important as Sam herself and Winton was obviously well aware of it. “She’s tied up with…” As her annoyance grew, Haley swallowed the rest of her apology for Miranda’s absence. “Do you think we could discuss this face-to-face, Mr. Winton? Or would you rather conduct the entire meeting by intercom?”
A buzz like a swarm of angry bees drowned out his reply as the tall, iron gates swung gracefully inward. Haley got back into her car and drove through. As soon as she had cleared the gates they closed behind her. Common sense told her they were triggered by some kind of sensor mechanism, but she felt an uncomfortable sensation of prison doors clanging shut.
She pulled up outside the imposing Federation-style house and got out but was stopped by a blur of movement she caught out of the corner of her eye. The owner of the Baskerville howl came tearing around the side of the house, churning gravel under its floor mop feet. Haley barely had time to scramble back into the car and pull the door shut, before a dog the size of a small pony threw itself at the window. Her heart pounded as she stared down a throat rimmed by teeth that would have done a shark proud.
“Down, Dougal. Heel.”
The command was given with all the authority of a major general, so Haley wasn’t surprised when the dog bolted away from her car window as if shot. Had the command been directed at her, she would probably have obeyed it, too. She shivered and wondered if it was from reaction to the sudden appearance of the dog—or its master.
Haley was relieved when the dog settled itself meekly at the heels of the man waiting at the foot of the front steps. It was Sam Winton himself, she saw, recognizing him from the photograph on his books. Except that her first sight of him in the flesh destroyed most of her preconceptions in one go.
She didn’t know what she had expected the children’s writer to look like, but it wasn’t this vibrant man who exuded energy the way high-voltage wires hum with power. His skin was burnished with healthy color, and his hair was as black as baby Joel’s only a lot thicker. It curled almost to his collar, it was in a style that reminded her of medieval knights in old movies, though instead of armor this knight was poised in an ivory polo shirt and chinos as black as his hair.
She was used to thinking of him as The Beast, her sister’s nickname for him, but he didn’t look in the least beastly. He was taller than she had imagined, perhaps half a head taller than Haley herself. He was also well built, but not with the showy musculature of an athlete as much as someone who simply took care of himself.
Right now, the most beastly thing about him was the deep vee of a frown that cut a swathe between two of the bluest eyes she had ever seen. His frown deepened as she looked warily at the dog. “You can get out now. He won’t hurt you.”
When she did so, the man reached for her hand and a jolt like electricity surged along her arm, affirming the high-voltage impression she’d already formed. She tried to pull away but his grip was like steel. Alarm shrilled through her. “What are you…”
He offered her hand to Dougal, who sniffed it, making her wonder if the dog’s next move would be to swallow her hand up to the wrist. He looked more than capable of it. But Sam said, “Friend, Dougal. Friend.”
At first the dog’s tail moved listlessly then waved like a banner in a stiff breeze and he gave her hand in Sam’s a mighty lick. Relief coursed through her and she rubbed the dog’s shaggy chest with her free hand. His wiry coat teased her palm and he lowered his great head and butted her gently. She smiled, wondering how she could have been afraid of the shaggy animal for a minute. “Good dog.”
Sam nodded approvingly, obviously noting that she hadn’t made the elementary mistake of trying to pat the dog on the head. “You know dogs?”
“I love them. When I was a child, I had an Australian kelpie called Buddy.” The feel of her hand in his distracted her, making it hard to think straight.
He didn’t seem to notice her discomfort, keeping his fingers threaded through hers as he straightened. “You bolted as soon as Dougal appeared.”
Naturally, he’d seen her undignified scramble back into the car. It put her at a further disadvantage and she drew herself up defensively. “For all I knew, he was a guard dog, trained to eat intruders.” She didn’t add, “like his owner,” but it must have been in her voice.
When he released her hand, she chased away a surprising sensation of disappointment. “Dougal is supposed to be a guard dog, but he’s more likely to lick an intruder to death in his joy at having company.”
A feeling not shared by his owner, she thought, not sure where the certainty came from. “Do you get many intruders?”
“Not with Dougal around. Off you go. Finish your bone.” At the magic word, the dog’s ears twitched and he loped back the way he’d come. Sam gestured toward the steps. “Shall we go inside?”
His sudden switch to a businesslike tone chilled the atmosphere as effectively as a stiff breeze shredding a mist. For a moment she wondered if he could possibly know who she was, then realized that his anger was in response to hers. This would never do if she was to get to know him better. “I’m sorry if I sounded rude down the intercom when I arrived,” she said, biting back any hint of self-justification by reminding herself that Miranda trusted her to behave herself.
“You did,” he agreed, “But you also had a point.”
His response told her it was as close to an apology as she was going to get so she followed him into the rambling old house. He led the way down a wide arched hallway past a double living room furnished with wonderful antique furniture, past the partially open door of a bedroom that looked recently vacated. Had he been sleeping in the middle of the afternoon? she wondered. But then he was a writer. He probably worked unconventional hours.
He pulled the bedroom door shut before she could do more than glimpse a vast four-poster bed covered in rumpled bedclothes that suggested he was either the world’s most restless sleeper or did some of his entertaining in bed.
The thought troubled her, making her wonder why it was harder to think of him as a beast, lonely and unloved, than as a sexual athlete for whom her sister had been one of many conquests. Both images took her into territory she resisted exploring. His personal life had nothing to do with her reason for wanting to meet him.
He opened another door on a vast library with floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books. Many of them were reference books on a wide variety of subjects, she saw when she scanned them with instinctive curiosity. Off the library, another door led to what looked like an office, judging by the computers, printers and other paraphernalia visible through the opening. His work space looked chaotic. Surprising, she thought,
