Taming The Beast. Amy Fetzer J.

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      “Didn’t you learn diplomacy in the State Department?”

      “Yes, but this is not foreign soil, and you can’t claim diplomatic immunity.”

      Fighting a smile, Richard leaned his head back into the leather chair. “What do you want?”

      “Aah, the negotiation stage,” she said with relish. “Now, unless that rather bland pile of groceries in the fridge and freezer is your idea of a balanced diet, I think I need to do the menu planning.”

      “Fine. Order whatever you like.”

      Laura sighed and let her head loll forward. What a difficult man. She jiggled the tray, letting the beautiful china clink. “Hear that? It’s dishes, with food on them,” she said enticingly.

      “Leave it at the door.”

      She blinked. “Excuse me?”

      “Surely you heard, Miss Cambridge, the door is not that thick.”

      “Apparently your head is,” she muttered.

      “Set it on the floor and leave.”

      Laura set it down, and when she straightened, she glared at the wood, determined to get him out of that cave. “We are going to have a real hard time at this, Mr. Blackthorne.”

      “Only if you break the rules.”

      “And they are?”

      “I will e-mail them to you on your computer.”

      “My, how positively sterile.”

      “It’s the only way,” he said softly when he heard her footsteps on the staircase.

      Richard rubbed his forehead, his fingertips grazing the scars, and he cursed, thrust out of his chair and began pacing. Grinding his teeth, he wondered how he was going to survive with that gorgeous mouthy fantasy strutting around his house.

      Laura did the dishes with a vengeance. She shouldn’t be so upset. What was it to her if he stayed in his sanctuary and brooded? But Kelly would come into this. She couldn’t let a child who was expecting to see her daddy, feel the instant exclusion Richard Blackthorne dealt with a few choice words. He wanted no contact whatsoever.

      We will just see about that, she thought, throwing a load of laundry in the washer and deciding to investigate the house. Her sneakers squeaked as she walked down the wide hallways, decorated with medieval furnishings. A suit of armor, shields and at least three swords. This guy went all out, she thought, sparing only a brief glance in the other rooms, noticing a painting, an antique settee and a vase so delicate she thought looking at it too hard would crush it.

      She walked into the living room. Or was it the parlor or study? She’d passed a couple of locked rooms and figured Mr. Blackthorne didn’t want anyone in there and wondered idly if one of them was the dungeon. Well, there were enough nooks and crannies that it would take days to discover them all. And she already surmised that the top floor was off-limits. She threw open the patio doors, and the warm, moist wind hit her face like a gentle, frothy caress. She breathed deeply, tasting salt in the air, and closing the doors behind her, she took off down the beach. It was a pleasure she couldn’t resist. Her feet dug into the sand as she pushed her muscles, then she threw her arms out and laughed. Oh, this isn’t so bad, she thought, folding over to catch her breath. Of course, she should be in better shape. Straightening, she looked back at the house, the castle on the hill. A little hitch caught in her chest. It was the place of dreams, she thought. And evidently, a place for Richard Blackthorne to hide.

      No wonder he was feared, whispered about. The mansion towered over the village like a landed lord, high on a green mound of earth and surrounded by a seven-foot-tall stone wall, the sea as its moat. And from her room at least, it possessed a magnificent view of the river and the islands beyond. Flawlessly peaceful. She lifted her hand and shielded her eyes, staring at the house, at the tallest tower peaking the mansion. For a second she saw a figure at the window, the stark white of his shirt against the dark curtains, then he was gone, receding into his cave of stone.

      A lonely dragon-prince, she thought, who did not want to be rescued.

      Two

      She should have just called in the grocery order, Laura thought, and kept filling the shopping cart, ignoring the people staring at her, the young men, much younger than she would ever consider dating, leering at her. Yes, she decided, that one was definitely a leer. She smiled sweetly, the parade smile, she thought with a sadistic little chuckle. A couple of the men were fishermen, covered in fish guts and wearing rubber boots. Stunning.

      She checked her list, then headed to checkout. Here it comes, she thought, noticing how everyone in the immediate area approached slowly, like stalking cats. A teenage boy swept his broom a little nearer. The cashier looked eager despite the crowd of people waiting. Customers stared openly. No wonder Blackthorne never came out of his home. Whatever happened to southern hospitality?

      “You’re new here,” said the cashier, a blonde wearing too-big earrings and sporting a mouthful of gum that was well beyond ladylike.

      “Yes. This is a lovely island.” Make them prod, she thought.

      “You stayin’ at the castle on the point?”

      Like there was another house designed like a castle on the island? “I’m Mr. Blackthorne’s nanny.”

      “Nanny!” several people exclaimed at once.

      Laura glanced around, making eye contact with each person. “Mr. Blackthorne is expecting his daughter to arrive, and I am here to care for her.”

      “Oh, the poor child,” an elderly woman said, her accent heavy and drawn.

      “Why?” Laura asked, yet knew the answer.

      “To have such a horrible man for a father.”

      “You’ve met Mr. Blackthorne, then?”

      “Not exactly.”

      She hoped her expression was slathered in innocence. “Then how could you possibly know what he’s like?”

      “He doesn’t leave that place,” the cashier said. “He hasn’t shown his face in four years, even Dewey hasn’t seen him up close and he lives there.”

      Dewey, she assumed, was the groundskeeper she’d yet to meet.

      “He’s—he’s mangled,” the young man bagging her groceries stammered.

      “And if you’ve never seen him, then how do you know that?”

      The kid shrugged as if it was common knowledge. Yet no one had seen Blackthorne.

      “I fail to see where looks matter.” She tried controlling her temper, hating that appearances were such a priority. She understood, for she’d experienced reactions to her own appearance, albeit the complete opposite. Women refusing to befriend her, believing she was a snob and thought she was better than them. Or men tripping all over themselves to impress her, each trying to get her into their bed or something as superficial as СКАЧАТЬ