by Jane Henry
“Do you know this man?”
I swallowed the food I was chewing and stood to get myself a glass of juice, intentionally walking away from him as I answered. “Yes, I know him.” Fucking Gavin.
“Do you?” he asked, pulling at his beard thoughtfully as I sat back down at the table. “You see, this man seems to have taken a certain interest in me and my pursuits. He and his staff set up cameras and the like outside the perimeter of my house today, all within city property so I could not have them removed for trespassing. And shortly after they did so, this little video clip went live.”
He tapped a button on his phone and immediately, the dining hall filled with the sound of Gavin’s pompous voice.
“Ladies and gentleman of Whitby, we gather here today to unearth the truth behind Sawyer Gryffin’s notorious presence.”
I stopped chewing, the quiche in my mouth dry and unpalatable.
“And today,” he continued. “I bring to you to most pressing information of all. It seems, dear citizens that only ten years ago today, Sawyer Gryffin was put on trial for the murder of his fiancée, Samantha McGovern, but when it was time to convict him, he was acquitted on grounds of insufficient evidence. The townspeople of Whitby never accepted this verdict, however, and now, we have new evidence that might condemn him.”
Gryffin frowned, his countenance darkening, as he shut his phone off and placed it down on the table. “What do you know about him?”
“Why do you ask?”
His hands clenched so that his knuckles whitened but his face remained impassive. “Why do you answer a question with a question, Annabelle?”
“I think we could keep this up all day, no?” I tossed back at him. But then my conscience pricked me. Why did I feel the sudden need to defend Sawyer Gryffin? What if what Gavin said was true? Did they have evidence to convict him?
His eyes twinkled, just a bit, like glittering obsidian. “Could we?” he asked.
I took a sip of my juice and shrugged. “I suppose we could, yes, but I will answer your question. I know him, yes. He’s a pompous reporter who fancies himself my fiancé. I’ve never given him so much as a breath of encouragement to kiss me, much less wed me, but the man thinks only of himself.”
He nodded, his eyes leaving mine and trailing over my shoulder. His lips turned down in a frown. “This is as I thought, then,” he said. “He’s caught wind of your being here, and has sought to attack me by spreading rumors through the media.” He got to his feet and shrugged. “They’ll either believe I killed her, or they won’t.” He tossed his napkin down on the table and stalked to the exit, his legs so long that in three strides, he’d almost left the room. “Finish your breakfast. Leave the plates. Do whatever you need to, then be back here in an hour’s time.” Then, predictably, “Don’t be late.”
I forked the remaining berry on my plate with so much force, the tines of the fork scraped along the plate like nails on a chalkboard. I bit down furiously and ate the berry, biting my tongue in the process.
“Oh son of a —” I mumbled under my breath, my eyes watering, but then I caught myself. I swallowed what remained of my juice and raised a hand to the shadow of a servant standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
“Coffee, please?” I asked, my voice wobbling a little as I recovered from the pain. “Strong, dark,” and handsome, my mind supplied.
I closed my eyes briefly.
This was a business arrangement.
Nothing more.
Chapter Eight
Sawyer
I knew the minute I heard the footage the son-of-a-bitch reporter plastered all over the fucking internet that the bastard was motivated by revenge.
The townspeople had almost forgotten who I was, the beast who dwelt in his own form of prison, up on the cliffside overlooking the stormy sea. Now, thanks to the dumbass reporter, they’d once again think me a murderer.
The truth was, however, though I would have thrown myself off the cliff before hurting her, I was still responsible for Samantha’s death.
I should have paid more attention. I should have known that she was eaten up inside, and that she was prepared to take her own life.
But instead, I’d been married to my work.
When she died, and the locals whipped up the rumor that I’d pushed her over the cliff, I wanted to leave, wanted to erase the memory of Whitby and the cliffs outside my home, but I could not.
Murderer, they said, even though I’d been acquitted. I was bound to stay during the investigation, but now, I would not leave even if allowed. I could not. I was bound here.
And now, my bitter past was coming back, just when I’d hoped to redeem my name in the media.
I stormed to my office, yanked open the door, and slammed it shut behind me. I glanced at the clock, glaring at it, hoping the sweet innocent I’d tricked into staying with me would be late so I’d have a fitting excuse to spank her ass.
I poured myself two fingers of bourbon to ease the pain, and welcomed the burn as I tipped the glass back. Good-quality, expensive Four Roses Single Barrel bourbon was my drink.
Who could blame me for wanting an early morning cocktail?
Everyone could.
My fingers curled around the tumbler before I reared back and whipped it into the fireplace, the glass shattering upon impact, a million crystal shards sprinkling into a beautiful pile. Broken, shattered, yet reflecting light like stars in the night sky, it seemed sort of symbolic.
But there was nothing bright about me, no good that remained. I sat heavily on the couch, noting with chagrin that no one came to hear the commotion or to see what had broken. My staff knew I was given to temper, and they stayed far, far away. I would never hurt them, but I was better left alone when in a rage. My elbows on my knees, I buried my face in my hands and closed my eyes, wishing I could buy a liquor strong enough not only to numb the pain but erase my memories.
Every night when I went to bed I’d hear her screams echoing on the cliffs below as she plummeted to her death.
It had become my lullaby…my nightmare…my torture.
I pushed myself to standing and walked to where I kept my favorite Cubans, Bolivar Belicoso, the best figurados on the market. I cut it, then walked over to my balcony, pushing the glass doors open. Below this balcony lay the cliffs. If I sat back on the little bench, I could look out over the crashing waves, losing myself in the rhythmic sound. I inhaled deeply, the aromatic smoke filling my senses and lungs. Closing my eyes briefly, I enjoyed the cool breeze off the water, the smell and feel of the cigar in my hand, the satisfying sizzle when I inhaled and the paper burned. When I opened my eyes, a flash of blue caught my attention.
Narrowing my eyes, I saw Annabelle out near the cliff.
What was she doing?
I furrowed my brows as I watched her, leaning back lest she see me here. I wanted to watch her without her knowing I did. I felt no guilt for spying. This was my house, and she roamed where she wanted to.
God, she was beautiful, her thick brown hair hanging in waves over her creamy shoulders, cascading down her back. She had a phone up to her ear, her right arm tucked under the left, as if keeping herself warm, or protecting herself. Her back was to me, her gaze over the ocean as she walked slowly, barefoot upon the grassy knoll that led to the cliff’s edge. But as she continued to walk to the edge, my heart rate accelerated, my pulse quickening in my veins. Didn’t she know she was nearing the edge?
I took another pull on my cigar. I needed another whiskey. I would reek of smoke and alcohol when the stylist came later today, but I did not care. Annabelle would learn this was me, this was who I was.
She stooped down and plucked a stray dandelion from the grass, holding it up to her nose as she walked along. I smiled to myself. Silly girl. Dandelions didn’t have a scent. I would get her flowers that did. As I watched, her brows knit together and she crumpled the stem in her hand, then tossed it to the ground as her hand gestured wildly. I guessed she was talking to her sister.
For one brief moment, I considered finding a way to listen in, to tap her phone, but as quickly as I thought of doing so I dismissed the idea.
Why wouldn’t I give the girl at least a little privacy?
I took another drag from my cigar, slowly exhaling as the smoke curled from my lips in wispy, fragrant tendrils.
She didn’t like me, of that I had no doubt. But I would at least attempt occasional civility.
She turned from my house and walked quicker now, rapidly approaching the edge of the cliff. With rising panic, I got to my feet, my cigar hanging limply from my hands, forgotten.
Oh, God.
I watched in growing horror as her footsteps neared the edge, her eyes skyward as she continued her animated conversation, hand gesturing to the air. She wasn’t paying attention. She was going to fall right off the edge, and I was too far away to snatch her back to safety.
I broke through the panic that gripped my chest and screamed as loudly as I could so my voice would carry over the winds that whipped about the cliffs. “Annabelle!” My deep, loud bellow reverberated around me, but she did not turn. Taking in another breath, I tried again, this time more insistent, this time louder, even deeper so that I roared, “Annabelle!”
She turned then, one foot at the very edge of the cliff. Her whole body faced me as my heart stuttered, I crushed the remains of the cigar between my fingers, and my eyes met hers across the distance.
I wanted to pull her into my chest, to hold her close, and keep her safe.
Then I would pull her over my knee, pull that dress up around her neck, and spank her ass red.
Annabelle looked at me and shrugged a shoulder, glancing quickly behind her again at the cliffs below. She spoke into her phone, then pulled it away from her ear and slipped it into her pocket, her eyes never leaving mine.
“Get away from the edge!” I hollered, still loud against the wind, but she seemed to hear me. She glanced casually behind her and went closer to the edge still, now both feet on the very precipice, toes practically dangling.
“No!” I screamed, which got her attention again. She turned her head back to me, staring at me a good long while before she turned from the edge and walked back to the house, whistling.
The little brat.
I needed to calm my temper before I spanked her ass.
I walked through the house, glancing at the time on my watch, while I went to find her. I would find her, and when I did, she’d learn that safety was nothing to be trifled with. God. Maybe I’d take my belt to her ass. Maybe if she felt the sting of leather she’d learn to listen.
I marched down the hallway and stalked through each room. The dining room was empty, as was the three-season porch, the library, and the second study downstairs that we kept for guests. As I stormed through my house, I thought once again what a stupid thing it was to have this many rooms for only me and the servants who resided here. It was ostentatious and I hated it, the thick carpet beneath my feet, the crystal chandeliers that hung in the entertaining rooms, the Tiffany lamps on every hand-hewn table, the hand-dyed Oriental rugs that graced the wooden floors. Every step I took spoke of opulence and wealth, and what the fuck good did money do?
She was nowhere to be found inside. The only room I hadn’t yet looked into was the kitchen. My anger mounting with every step I took, I made my way to the large kitchen adjacent to the dining area. I pushed through the swinging double-doors that led to the kitchen, noting that as I did, the chatter came to a grinding halt.
“Mister Gryffin,” Beatrice, the head cook said, with a deep curtsy, her white hat keeping stray hair out of her eyes. “Didn’t expect you here today, sir.” Of course she didn’t expect me here today. I hadn’t set foot inside the kitchen in a full decade, maybe longer. I had no use for cooking or baking, and barely knew the staff that worked for me.
“Beatrice,” I said with a nod. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I was merely looking for —”
I saw her then, elbows-deep in a huge floury bowl. Her eyes met mine, challenging. Twinkling.
“Hello, Mister Gryffin,” Annabelle murmured. “Were you looking for me?”
Her gaze told me she knew damn well I was looking for her, and that she enjoyed making me go on a wild goose chase.
I leaned against the marble counter-top and crossed my arms on my chest. “Why there you are,” I said. “I am so glad I found you. I had been meaning to speak to you privately, and was unable to find you in any of the rooms. Coming here was a last resort. Why the kitchen?”
The kitchen was damn near on the other side of the house. She had to have run there.
I tried to keep my voice calm, but I knew that she could tell I was not happy. I cleared my throat, watching her work the dough, kneading it between her fingers before approaching me once again.
“Oh, I’m sorry you weren’t able to find me, Mister Gryffin.” Her eyes met mine, flirting. She wasn’t sorry at all.
She would be.
My patience grew thin. “Finish what you are doing. You and I need to speak privately.”
I could already play it in my mind’s eye, the way I’d firmly escort her to my study, push her over my desk, and unbuckle my belt. Would she protest?
I hoped so.
She lifted the soft dough from the bowl and patted it down on the floured surface in front of her. “Just a minute, Mister Gryffin,” she said, focusing now on Beatrice. “So you see, after proofing, the dough is soft and pliable. Give it a good pat, and after releasing the air bubbles, simply form and allow it to rise before baking.”
Beatrice looked at me sheepishly, her eyes twinkling from behind her round spectacles. “Isn’t she a love?” she said with her faint English accept, wiping her hands on her apron. “Showing me how to make bread in an hour. Me mum would be clutching her pearls, that she would, setting bread to rise so soon!” She clucked her tongue and spoke to Annabelle as I turned to leave.
“Quickly, Annabelle,” I commanded. She would learn to come when bidden.
I heard her turning on the faucet and bowls clinking into the sink as I left the room, waiting for her in the hallway. We would have a talk about her safety.
I turned when I heard her exiting the kitchen, noting how adorable and domestic she looked with flour dotting her nose, untying the apron at her back.
“How did you come in so quickly after being outside?” I demanded. “You were at the edge of the cliffs that overlooked the waters, and the next thing I knew, I find you in my kitchen donning an apron as if you’d been there all morning.”
She laughed then, her eyes wrinkling around the edges, her laugh light and childlike. “Do you think I can bilocate, Mister Gryffin?” she asked. Suddenly I wondered if the way she’d flirted with danger had been all in my mind. Was she innocent after all?
“The apron was waiting for me by the entrance,” she explained, folding her arms across her chest. “I merely stepped outside to take a call from my sister, and as soon as the timer beeped, I came straight inside and plunged right into the dough.”
“Right,” I said, feeling oddly foolish. “Yes, of course. That makes sense.” I frowned, suddenly not wanting to look at her.
“What did you need, sir?” she asked, and when I glanced back her way, her eyes were wide and innocent.
I was crazy.
“I want to warn you not to go to the edge of the cliff,” I stated stupidly. She blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“You were far too close to the edge for comfort,” I said, trying to be stern but staring at her flour-covered nose, and failing terribly. “Come here,” I muttered under my breath, nabbing the end of her apron and swiping at her nose. “You have flour all over yourself.”
She stood stock still as I wiped her clean, her eyes never leaving mine. “Thank you.” Her eyes held mine for a brief moment before she glanced away. “I am sorry I walked so close to the edge. It was so beautiful out there, so peaceful yet invigorating.” She clasped her hands in front of her and her eyes me
t mine once more. “I…sometimes like to flirt with danger,” she confessed, her voice dropping as if she were revealing her innermost secrets. “It…excites me to be at the very edge of something strong and powerful…something that could…” She paused and her voice lowered. “Something that could hurt me but won’t.” I watched her swallow, and as her words sunk in, I felt my cock twitch in my trousers. Was she saying what I thought she was?
I took a step closer and leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Behave yourself, young lady.” I watched her reaction. Her pupils dilated, her chest rose and fell rapidly, and the very tips of the fingers on her right hand grazed her collarbone. “If you misbehave, Daddy may have to punish you.”
“Yes,” she murmured, her eyes now closed and her voice hoarse. “Of course.”
“Mister Gryffin?” The intimacy of the moment was lost at the sound of my name. I looked up to find Worthington staring at us.
“The stylist awaits, sir.”
I took Annabelle by the elbow. “Very good,” I said. “We are on our way.” She would walk with me. And later, I would get her alone.
Chapter Nine
Annabelle
I looked at the choices before me, and felt a little dizzy. Slacks and jeans and shorts, capris, skirts and dresses, button-down blouses and peasant-style tunic tops, in every style and color imaginable lay before us on the couch. We were in Sawyer’s study. “It’s the largest room in the house,” he’d said. “Plenty of room to spread out.” He’d had a full-length mirror set up in front of the shelf where the globe sat and to the right of that, a tri-fold dressing screen so I could change behind it. But I knew the real reason he’d come here, as I watched him sitting apart from us, a cup of coffee nestled in his hands. He wanted to see every single thing that transpired between me and my stylist.
Lisa was about my mother’s age, on the shorter side, with curly dark hair and blue eyes hidden behind narrow spectacles. Her haircut was short and trendy, her accessories alone likely worth my entire wardrobe at home. She wore dark red lipstick and smelled heavily of perfume. And she was a genius.