Taming The Billionaire

When she didn’t speak further, he figured he needed to spell it out. “Well, Willow, since I’m not what you wanted. And you aren’t what I...”

He caught the lift of one eyebrow. Somehow he could read the warning for him to choose his words carefully. The fact that he understood that unspoken communication, and the earlier joy that had streaked through his body as he’d been pressed against her softness, convinced him she definitely had to go.

Joy was the last thing he deserved...and having her in this house would be nothing more than a temptation.

He continued carefully, “You aren’t what I expected, so I think it would be best if we called this whole thing off. Don’t you?”

He wasn’t certain, but he thought she mumbled Are you sure about that? under her breath. The sound of the rain doubling down outside made it hard to tell.

“Obviously Murdoch made a mistake,” he said.

“Nooo,” she countered, shaking her head. “No, he didn’t. He was very specific in his instructions. And after all this time, he knew I would follow them to the letter.”

Tate tried to squelch his curiosity, but the words slipped out anyway. “How long have you known Murdoch?”

He could see her muscles loosen a little, softening her stance. “We met early last year. He’s such a sweet man, once he lets you get to know him.”

That’s exactly how Tate would describe the man who’d been with him through the last twenty years of self-imposed exile from most of the world. Murdoch had been with him through the death of both his parents, the sale of his first book, but mostly he’d been there for Tate as he dealt with the grief that seemed never-ending. Murdoch had mentioned on more than one occasion that Tate’s lifestyle wasn’t healthy, but that simple opinion wouldn’t change the choices Tate had made.

Couldn’t change them.

Then Murdoch had said he was leaving...and now here Tate was facing the only woman to be in this house since his mother died.

“Look,” she said, taking a step closer. “Murdoch would never forgive me if I walked away after all of the trouble he went through to make sure this place was taken care of while he was gone. Please. Just give me a chance.”

Tate let his eyelids slide shut. The first thing that came to mind weren’t words, as was often the case, but the memory of her body against his. The close heat. The sweet scent. The softness of curves.

Nope. Bad idea. He crossed his arms over his chest, knowing full well his bulk could be intimidating.

Probably reading the rejection in his stance, Willow continued, “Besides, how will you hire someone else? Phone calls. Interviews. How many will it take before you find the right person?”

“No.”

No more intrusion. Anger rose as Tate tried to think, quickly. This woman was way too smart, and well-armed with info. Uneasiness slithered through him as he wondered what else Murdoch might have told her.

But the aggression in his tone didn’t seem to faze her. “Or you could just accept the inevitable,” she continued.

“And that is?”

“Without me, you’re gonna have a ton of people tromping all through this place. From what Murdoch said, that’s not something you would enjoy.”

“Or I could settle for just you?”

He caught her sneaky smile on the outer edge of his flashlight glow. Then she asked, “Besides, have you driven in this stuff recently?” She flicked the flashlight toward one of the massive windows behind him. “I thought I was going to die trying to get here. I have no desire to go back out into this weather.”

“A little melodramatic, aren’t you?” Even he cringed at his condescending tone. Defensiveness didn’t sit well on him.

But on her... The way she stiffened her spine put other attributes on display. Tate tried not to notice.

“Are you kidding me?” she demanded. “You obviously haven’t tried driving a tiny car over that bridge in fifty-mile-an-hour wind gusts. Have you?”

Tate felt himself automatically shut down. No, he hadn’t driven in this kind of weather...not for many, many years. And he never would. Certainly not over the narrow bridge that connected the island to the mainland.

“I made a lot of effort to get here. It’s at least common courtesy to let me try to do the job.”

Tate clenched his jaw, frustration tightening his tone. “If you stay, you won’t find courtesy to be one of my strong points.”

This time she didn’t respond, but adopted a stance that mimicked his own. In that moment, Tate recognized her.

Oh, he’d never met her before, but he’d described her type over and over in his work. She was the embodiment of the heroines he wrote about in his horror stories. Women with grit, determination and smarts who made it out alive when lesser mortals rarely survived.

That tingling awareness he’d been doing his best to ignore multiplied. All the more reason to get her out of here.

A flash of white lit the room as lightning suddenly streaked across the night sky. Tate saw her jaw clench and shoulders straighten as she braced herself. Admirable. It was a little clue that told him a lot about her. Heck, the fact that she’d made it here in the first place in this weather signified a strength and determination some people never displayed in their lifetime.

The flash was followed closely by a hard clap of thunder. The storm was picking up again. But it was just starting for Tate.

Somehow he knew giving in on this point meant he would lose this battle...and lose the war. But she was right. As a long roll of thunder shook the house, he knew he couldn’t send her back out in this weather. His own feelings about her presence aside, he refused to make an impulsive decision that cost someone their life.

Again.

“Let me show you to a room, then.”

Two (#uaf29149e-ccf7-505c-b22d-47c96151c2b0)

At least he had let her stay instead of forcing her back out into the weather.

The consolation was mild as her overactive brain was assaulted with emotions. First the drive and the storm, then the dark house, and now being led up this magnificent staircase by a tall, brooding man carrying an old-fashioned lantern. If she wanted atmosphere, she’d received it in abundance.

Actually, more than she’d hoped for.

She shivered, though she couldn’t tell if it was because of her still-damp shirt or the continued uncertainty of this entire situation.

Tate led her only a short way down the hall before pausing beside a closed door. As with the ones she’d seen downstairs, there were intricate carvings, swirls and maybe leaves and vines that gave the wood dimension. Even in the gloom it was gorgeous. “This will be your room for the night.”

So, he still wouldn’t concede that she was right?

“Where’s yours?” she asked, only to clamp her lips together in regret.

In the light of the lantern she watched one thick, dark brow rise. “I’m in a suite at the end of the hall,” he answered simply.

Right.

The darkened room beyond slowly came to life as Tate lit candles from a fireplace match. Willow stared in awe as the historical setting came to life. A large silver candelabrum on the dresser provided most of the light, with smaller candlesticks dotted around the room. As Tate’s big body moved through the shadows, fear and fascination mingled inside of her.

A four-poster bed with drapes and some kind of fabric topper dominated the space, the white fabric with navy filigree pattern lending to the old-fashioned feel of the room. Add in the tall man with shoulder-length disheveled hair and she had the makings of a regular Wuthering Heights on her hands. The thought sent another shiver over her.

As he turned to look at her, she became all too conscious of her body’s reaction. She’d love to blame it on the cold, but she feared the tightening of her nipples had more to do with the man standing before her than the temperature. She quickly crossed her arms over her chest.