from the bank.”
He stepped past her and into the house, his eyes sweeping the room, and her, in a dismissive manner. “Not exactly.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I came in lieu of the assessor. I’m interesting in making an offer on the property.”
“It’s in foreclosure.”
“I know. And I’m considering purchasing it before it goes to auction. I need to take a look and let the bank know what I intend to pay for it.”
“Really? Why didn’t I think of that? I would have given them … well, I think I might have five dollars in my bag over there.” She gestured to the red purse hanging on its hook by the door. “Think they’d go for it?”
“Not likely.” His answer was clipped, annoyed. Why was he annoyed? She hadn’t barged into his home early on a Saturday morning. She was the one who got to be annoyed. It was her right.
“Too bad,” she said, fighting to keep her tone light, flippant. Unaffected.
“From what I’ve seen of your loan information, you’ve been delinquent for months.”
Delinquent. She hated that term. Like she was a criminal or something because she didn’t have any money. Like she wouldn’t have paid the mortgage if her bank balance ever managed to exceed double digits.
“I’m aware of why you’re here—or, at least, I’m aware of what I did to make the bank take my house back.” The words stuck in her throat. “I don’t need a rundown from you.”
“Good. Because I’m not here to give it.”
“No. You’re here to find out if you want to move into my home before the bank has even thrown me out onto the streets,” she bit out. She never would have spoken to anyone that way a year ago. She would have been gracious, smiled, been faultless in every way. But that veneer had started eroding over the past year. She just felt angry now. Battered. Like she was dying slowly inside as life chipped away at her very last foothold.
She’d been trained never to show strain or fatigue, never, ever to give the tabloid media a reason to gossip about her. But the past year had been like hell on earth. A constant barrage of blows that never seemed to end. Every time she tried to stand up and dust herself off, something else would hit. And this seemed like the knock-out punch. Because what would she do without this last piece of security? Without this last link to everything she used to be?
Everything she would never be again.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Noelle,” he said, his dark eyes locked with hers. She felt like he could see her—not just that he was looking at her, but that he truly saw into her, beneath her polished veneer to the cluttered mess beyond.
She wanted to hide. Not just from him, but from everything.
Isn’t that what you’ve been doing for more than a year now?
Yes. Head down, trying to survive. Trying not to draw media attention. Too defeated to try and track her mother down. Because, as the lawyer she hadn’t been able to afford had pointed out, the money had all been in her mother’s name, so the battle would be long and expensive. It would devour the fortune that she was trying to win back. And if she didn’t win … it would mean the kind of debt she could never crawl out of. It all seemed impossibly hopeless.
“Then do enlighten me, Mr …?”
“Grey.” He extended his hand and she accepted the offer, his strong, masculine fingers curling around her slender, pale hand, engulfing it. Making her feel warm, too warm. “Ethan Grey.”
Ethan felt a flash of attraction, of pure, raw need, race through him when his hand touched Noelle’s soft skin. He ran through a litany of his very favorite 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
