Love and Brimstone Read online

  She studied him for a moment. He saw more than wariness in her green eyes.

  There was recognition.

  “If you’re going to stare, you might as well tell me your name,” she said.

  He grinned. “Rafael Collins. And you?”

  “Cassandra Croyton.” She stood there, only her flesh from the chin up visible. “Are you going to stare at me all day, or will you let me get out and get my clothes?”

  “Oh, don’t let me stop you from coming out.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  He felt more than a familiar throbbing start between his legs. He felt something blossom within his soul. “I’d love it, my sweet lady.”

  She cautiously watched him. “I’ve never seen you around here before.”

  “I don’t usually travel this far north. I needed to check on a landholding for my cousin. Perhaps you know him? Matthias Hawthorne.”

  Her face changed. Something flashed through her eyes, and she stepped farther back in the water. “You’re one, too, aren’t you?”

  What warmth he’d sensed from her was gone in a flash. As hot as the June day was, he felt a decided chill settle around her. “One what?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not one to speak it.”

  He stood. “Sorry I disturbed your bathing, m’lady.” He turned to go.

  “Wait.”

  Something in her voice stopped him. He turned.

  “But…you’re here, and it’s the middle of the day. The sun’s out,” she said.

  He nodded. “So I see. Do you have a specific reason for that observation?”

  She studied him. As her green eyes traveled his body, he felt himself harden. He wanted her. He wouldn’t force her, and he wouldn’t overtake her.

  But he wanted her. In a way he’d never wanted a woman in his entire life.

  He wanted her for life.

  Cassandra finally spoke again. “Do you have a place to stay for the night? There are highway men between here and your destination. It’s not safe.”

  From the tone of her voice, he knew it was a lie. “You aren’t worried about me. And if anyone should worry, it would be them, believe me.”

  She’d moved a little closer to the bank, but she still crouched deep within the water, concealing the most beautiful parts of her body from his appraising gaze. Finally, “No,” she whispered.

  He stepped down to the water’s edge and watched her. “What do you think I am?” he quietly asked.

  “What do you think I am?” she whispered in reply.

  He smiled, sending out a probe. He watched her eyes, noticed she jumped as she felt his careful mental caress. “I think you’re a very talented, beautiful woman,” he said. “Very powerful. And with a beautiful heart.”

  “You probably have women all over.”

  He shook his head. “No. I have not married yet, not for lack of some wenches trying their best.”

  That coaxed a smile from her lovely, full lips. “Are you calling me a wench, sir?”

  “That would be the last thing I’d call someone as beautiful as you.”

  They stared at each other for another long moment before she stood and stepped from the water. He fought the urge to take her into his arms and lick the drops of water from every inch of her flesh.

  “We all have secrets, don’t we, Rafael?”

  He nodded. “We do.”

  She put her arms around him, kissing him. He carefully folded her against him, his hands skimming down her smooth, damp back to gently cup her cheeks.

  “I’m willing to hold your secrets,” she said, “if you’re willing to hold mine—and me.”

  Chapter Two

  Two pairs of pantyhose sprouting runs, dropping her lipstick business end first on the bathroom floor, and now having to change from her skirt into a pair of slacks because of a coffee spill had to be bad omens for the day.

  And she hadn’t even made it out of the driveway.

  Anastazia Proctor stormed through the condo door into the kitchen. Robertson looked up from his newspaper, surprised at her return. “I thought you’d left, dear.”

  “I did,” she snarled, stomping through the condo to her bedroom. She didn’t bother closing the door behind her. She heard him follow her down the hall to her doorway.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  She ripped off the skirt and threw it at him, grabbing a pair of slacks that would match her shirt and blazer off of a hanger in the closet. “It’s not a good day, and I’m not even out the door yet.”

  He examined the coffee stain. “I’ll run it to the cleaners for you. Would you like me to make you another cup?”

  “Please.”

  He disappeared to the kitchen. She tried to calm herself while changing. Thank God she didn’t have to be in court today. And thank God for Tim Robertson. He was her rock, her sole comfort in this crazy world that, for today, seemed to especially conspire against her.

  Around her height but stocky and robust, his British accent and infectious smile, punctuated by crisp blue eyes, always managed to soothe her. His warm, rounded British accent matched his sturdy frame. He seemed unchanged in the nearly thirty-five years since he came to work for her parents when she was a baby. He had to be somewhere between fifty and sixty.

  She didn’t question it. Especially now that he was the only family she had.

  “Do you need a towel for your seat, dear?” he called from the kitchen.

  Crap. “I don’t think so, but let me take one anyway.” Hopefully the day would turn around for her. She woke up in an irritated state, too early for PMS, but with an unsettled, distracted notion that her world had shifted on its axis. So far, the morning’s events seemed to prove her infallible intuition correct yet again.

  Taz made it back to the kitchen. “Is this okay?” She spun for Robertson. She would never be a runway model, but her confident, long-legged curves easily turned men’s heads.

  He nodded. “You look beautiful, sweetheart.” He handed her a towel, a travel mug of coffee, and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Try to settle down and have a good day.”

  “That doesn’t seem to be in the stars today.”

  He smiled. She tried to ignore her feeling that there was more behind it than he let on. He put his hands on her shoulders.

  “Anastazia Proctor, I can almost guarantee you that today will be a stellar day.”

  * * * *

  She made it to work without getting in a wreck or spilling her second cup of coffee all over herself. Around ten o’clock, the intercom buzzer startled her. “Ms. Proctor, you have a visitor.”

  Anastazia sighed. “Karen, did I have any appointments scheduled this morning?”

  “No. Bob Stanley sent him down.”

  Damn. The most senior of senior partners. What else could happen today? She patted her unruly auburn hair, pulled back in a neat but not-too-severe bun. “Okay. Send him in.”

  She stood as an older man, maybe Robertson’s age, walked in.

  Her visitor, immaculate from his tailored Armani suit and leather briefcase to his Edward Green shoes, had to be wearing well over five grand in clothing. His warm smile belied the perception behind his clear, light blue eyes. She watched him take in the room—and her—with a single glance.

  Her mental alarm buzzed. This was a powerful man, one not to be messed with. Yet he seemed vaguely familiar for some reason.

  “Good afternoon, Mister…?” She held out her hand, and he took it. His grip was politely firm, and before he let go, she had an odd feeling of déjà vu.

  “Thompson. Albert Thompson.” He had a British accent, but where Robertson’s voice was rounded and warm, much like his frame, this man’s silky, cultured drawl matched his tall, lanky stature and angled face, topped by perfectly styled grey-blond hair.

  “Anastazia Proctor.” She indicated a chair in front of her desk. “How can I help you today, Mr. Thompson?” She liked that he waited to sit until after she did. His suit d
idn’t even rumple.

  “I shall get right to the point. My employer, Matthias Hawthorne, is looking for a new in-house attorney. You were highly recommended.”

  “Corporate law is not my specialty, Mr. Thompson. Besides, I’m happy here.”

  “I know.” He reached into his briefcase and removed a thin folder. He handed it to her over the desk. “You are a ‘fixer.’ With quite the reputation. That’s exactly what my employer needs.”

  She reevaluated her visitor as she leaned back in her chair and thumbed through the folder. After skimming the contents, she closed it, tapping the edge on her desk. “This is very interesting. I’m still not sure why you approached me for this position. There are others more qualified.”

  “None with your expertise, shall we say. And contacts.” Thompson fixed her with his eyes, and for a moment she lost her train of thought.

  Her throat went dry. She forced her gaze away from his as she put the file on her desk. “I’m paid very well.”

  “You would be guaranteed much more. My employer would like a chance to meet with you to discuss it in person.”

  “I’ll have to look at my schedule.”

  “Tomorrow evening?”

  She tapped the intercom. “Karen, how does tomorrow evening look?”

  “I’ll check.” Pause. “You’re clear.”

  Her visitor smiled. “He’ll send a car to pick you up.”

  “I’ll drive myself, thank you very much.”

  “But—”

  “Mr. Thompson,” she said, her eyes narrowing, “I am perfectly capable of driving myself. Frankly, I’m really not comfortable with the thought of getting into a car and going somewhere without—”

  “Control?” he finished for her, smiling.

  Annoyingly accurate. She hated when people pegged her like that. Not that it happened very often. “Yes, as a matter of fact.” She tapped the intercom button again. “Karen, please show Mr. Thompson out. Get the information from him about tomorrow night, thank you.” She stood. “I’ll read through the paperwork and consider it.”

  He smiled, tipped his head, and followed Karen out.

  Anastazia had a word or two for Bob Stanley.

  * * * *

  Taz found Bob Stanley, stereotypically, practicing his putting. Considering she had the firm’s highest billable hours for the past nine years running, she’d earned the right to barge in unannounced.

  “Bob, I just had an unusual visitor.” She perched uninvited on his leather sofa while he lined up a shot.

  Bob’s eyes never wavered from the ball. “Albert said he wanted to talk with you.” Putt, score. He looked at her. “And?”

  “What’s the deal with this freaky company? Is it a front for a drug cartel or something?”

  Bob laughed and shook his head, returning the putter to his bag. “No, not quite. They do a lot of things. Matthias Hawthorne took over from his father. Looks just like him, too.” He sat. “You’d be stepping up in the world if you accepted their offer.”

  “So tell me about the company.”

  “I can’t. There’s not a lot I know. They’ve got fingers in a ton of pies. He pays his taxes and does things aboveboard, as best I can tell.”

  “Then why does he want a fixer on the payroll?”

  “Who knows?” He smiled. “You’re the best. You could make Jack the Ripper look like Winnie the Pooh.”

  She smiled despite herself. She had a lot of practice in her field and had learned at the feet of the best of the best. How many times had Robertson gotten her parents out of jams, handled the press, squelched embarrassing stories, kept them from killing each other? All while getting her to school on time and helping her pass algebra.

  “You’re saying you’re tired of me and want me out of here?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m not saying that at all. I’d hate like hell to lose you, Anastazia, but I don’t want to hold you back, either. It’s the kind of opportunity most people would give their left nut for. Just because you were lucky enough to nail an internship in college and sail on through into a cushy job doesn’t mean others can.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean? I worked hard to get where I am.”

  “Yes, you did. You’re the absolute best of the best, and I’ve been damned lucky to have you on my team the last ten years. That’s why when Hawthorne came to me looking for recommendations, I had to put your name in the hat. Because you are the best.”

  She puffed up a little. “Thanks.”

  He smiled. “Now if we’re done, get the hell out.”

  Chapter Three

  The next evening, Anastazia drove up to the gate of Hawthorne’s estate at five till seven. It was impossible to see the house past the high, vine-covered wall. Before she rolled to a stop, the gate opened. She pulled through, watching it close behind her in the rearview mirror.

  In the distance, lights glowed behind a thick stand of trees. The driveway, unpaved gravel but well maintained and nearly as smooth as asphalt, wound up a slight rise through a small wooded area before emerging in a large field. The house towered over the clearing. Large, but not one of those hideous hotel mansions with fifty rooms.

  If Hawthorne sought to impress her, he failed. It was a little smaller than the house she grew up in. Bianca and Eric Proctor didn’t believe in keeping up with the Joneses—they’d kept up with the Hiltons. And the Trumps. When they died, Taz couldn’t bear to live in the monstrosity and scaled down to a condo just large enough to keep her and Robertson from tripping over each other every time they turned around.

  A uniformed valet waited by the front steps and opened her door as soon as she stopped. Albert Thompson met her at the front door. “Good evening, Ms. Proctor.”

  “Mr. Thompson.” She looked away from his eyes. Something still nagged her about him, like she knew him from somewhere. He seemed so familiar. She must have seen him in court before or something.

  Robertson. That was it. He reminded her a lot of Robertson.

  “Please, follow me.” He led her through the front entrance, which she was relieved to see wasn’t garishly decorated in what she thought of as faux old riche style. The decor was fairly modern, an odd mix that could only be called country Scandinavian. Not sterile, not a fake hunting lodge. Somewhere between home and hotel, striking just the right tone.

  They passed a large formal banquet room and continued toward the back of the house to a small, comfortable dining room which, from the sound and scent, lay in close proximity to the kitchen. The round table seated six, but had been set for two.

  “Please, have a seat. Mr. Hawthorne will be with you in a moment.” Thompson disappeared through another door, and she caught a glimpse of kitchen cabinets and tile floors as it swung shut behind him. A whiff of what she hoped was dinner drifted through to her. Something smelled really good.

  Turning her attention to the walls, she realized the built-in shelves were filled not with stuffy antique books, but an eclectic assortment of mostly modern paperbacks and hardbacks in a wide variety of topics from best-selling fiction to nonfiction.

  “I hope you don’t have any food allergies.”

  She started and turned toward the man’s voice. She never heard the kitchen door swing open. Her host, she presumed, stood in the doorway. He held a large salad bowl filled with greens. Stepping forward, he set it on the table.

  “I’m sorry I startled you.” He walked over and extended his hand. “Matthias Hawthorne.”

  Her eyes met his. She offered her hand then blinked to stave off vertigo. He had the deepest, clearest blue eyes she’d ever seen. She felt she could get lost in his…

  Not in the eyes!

  She forced her eyes up, searching for safety. His sandy-brown hair was lightly sprinkled with grey around the temples. Finally dropping her gaze to his hand, she took a breath, feeling more than seeing his unwavering gaze. Hawthorne wore a quiet strength, an air of pleasant confidence.

  “Nice to meet you. Anastazia Pr
octor.”

  His grip felt cool and firm, but not pissing-contest strong. Hesitant to release his hand at first, she eventually did before risking another glance at his face. Something else about his eyes, the way the outer edges downturned slightly, gave him a careworn expression.

  “I’m glad you accepted my invitation.” When he smiled, it softened his strong jaw, removed years from his eyes. Now she couldn’t tell if he was fifty-five or forty.

  He motioned to the table. “I’ll be right back. Feel free to dig in.” He had the lightest trace of an accent, but from where she couldn’t say. Brit? Aussie? She’d have to check him out.

  He moved quickly on his feet, gracefully. His arms looked strong, but not overly muscled. She could tell from the lay of his shirt along his torso he carried maybe an extra ten pounds, if that. He didn’t strike her as a gym rat. She watched him disappear through the kitchen door, noticing how his khakis clung to his firm backside.

  Yum.

  She shook her head. What? This is an interview, not a date. Good grief, what the hell’s wrong with me?

  But her heart fluttered at an unsteady pace. Or was that her stomach? It felt like Hawthorne touched her very soul with those eyes, drawing her in.

  She was pulling out a chair when he reappeared with two more bowls—vegetables—and returned to the kitchen. He returned with a small serving tray and a bowl of bread.

  He’d rolled the sleeves of his chambray shirt up to his elbows, and there was a small spot of something near the third button. Whoops, a little gravy, perhaps?

  “Roast beef. I hope you like it.”

  “You cooked?”

  His eyes twinkled as he reached for her salad bowl and served. “Dinner, yes. Dessert, no. My chef gets credit for that.”

  “Somehow, I didn’t picture you as the domestic type.”

  “How did you picture me?”

  “Frankly, I don’t know. I suppose I didn’t.”

  “I eat plenty of meals on the road, Ms. Proctor.” She liked how he didn’t assume he could use her first name, or any variety thereof. It really pissed her off when someone did. “When I get the chance to stay home and cook, especially for company, I take it. In fact, I have to be on a plane early tomorrow morning for Paris, so I’m afraid our dinner won’t last too late.”