Taming The Billionaire

Let him make of that what he wanted.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured. Even in the shadows, there was no mistaking the intricate designs on the furniture and fabrics.

His gruff command grated on her nerves. “Don’t get too attached. We will discuss this situation in the morning.”

“Really? We’re still not over that, are we?” She wasn’t sure what gave her the gumption to say it, but as she stood there shivering with cold, she was over his attitude.

He raised those dark brows again. “I may require more patience than you possess.”

There was almost a literary quality to his pronunciation that sharpened the edge of his words.

Maybe he was right, but... “I have more patience than you could imagine. After all, I teach history to eighteen-year-old freshmen who think being at college gives them the freedom to do whatever they want.”

Her response seemed to surprise him, lightening his expression a little. “The fearlessness to enter a dark house, the patience of a saint... Is there anything else Murdoch didn’t tell me about you?”

I’m attracted to tall, dark and mysterious men? “Um...a classroom of eighty of those monsters has made me efficient, organized and slightly entertaining?”

“Do you really call them monsters?”

This time she didn’t hold back a cheeky grin. “To their faces—with the utmost of affection, I assure you.”

“Then I can only imagine what you’d call me.”

Before she could come up with a clever response, he was at the door. “Good night,” he said as he left the room, closing the door behind him.

At least he didn’t lock me in.

Willow half grinned, half whimpered at the thought. Her sisters would take away her modern-woman card if they knew she’d been seriously attracted to the dark brooding man in the darkened house on the isolated island. Somehow she’d been cast in her very own Gothic mystery with a leading man who would fit right in with Hollywood’s most gorgeous heartthrobs.

But she had a feeling he saw her more as a nuisance than a leading lady. She’d do well to remember that.

Despite wanting to get out of her damp clothes and shoes, Willow took a moment to slowly turn around in the middle of the room. This place was incredible. The furniture she’d seen in the other rooms had been antique, too, but this was an incredibly high-quality fairy-tale look that she’d seen only in photographs.

The bedroom was fit for a royal prince, even if Murdoch had only been the hired help. Willow jumped as lightning flashed through the sheer window coverings, then giggled as she glanced around. The dark furniture was offset by the creamy color of the bed draperies that almost matched the ivory walls. There was a heavy chifforobe, a dresser with an oval mirror hanging above it that reflected the light from the large silver candelabra and matching bedside tables. A large navy carpet mimicked the pattern of the drapes. It looked so soft, Willow couldn’t wait to dig in her cold toes.

Conscious of how damp she was, she glanced in the chifforobe for anything to cover herself with, but it was empty. Well, she wasn’t going back out in this weather for her suitcase, and Tate hadn’t offered. She would just have to make do.

At least her current dilemma took her mind off the man sleeping in the suite at the end of the hall.

She flipped the cream-colored duvet down to the end of the bed, grateful to find another blanket beneath it. As she removed her jeans and wet shoes, she tried to think of ways she could convince Tate to let her stay. This was a short-term gig. Murdoch had chosen her personally. She could prove she was good at the job...if Tate would just give her the chance to show him.

She blew out all the candles except a couple right beside her bed. The urge to search out the dark corners of the room still irked her. But even crawling under the warm blanket didn’t relax her. Exhaustion lurked just below the surface, but her overactive brain wouldn’t let it take over.

Maybe she could make him her special French toast for breakfast? They said food was the way to a man’s heart. Maybe showcasing her cooking skills would at least soften his.

As she reached for her phone to set an alarm, a noise caught her attention. The deep creak of old wood sounded above her, reminding her of her mission and renewing her courage. She needed this job. She needed to find out the secrets her great-grandmother had hinted at in her journals.

Just remember that, little miss!

More creaking, then a thud overhead had Willow sitting up. That sounded like more than just an old house settling in. Had Tate gone upstairs before going to bed? She hadn’t heard any footsteps, but—

Bam!

Willow tucked herself down in the bed, instincts insisting those few inches would save her. But when nothing else happened, she giggled a little. Boy, tonight’s atmospheric adventures were sure affecting her.

Drip. Drip.

Willow bent over to inspect the water droplet that had landed on her now-bare calf. Where was that coming from? She glanced up at the material above her. The heavy drapes were gathered in the middle, creating myriad folds that revealed nothing. The lack of light wasn’t helping. Curiosity getting the better of her, she lifted up onto her knees for a better vantage point. That might be water droplets hanging from the fabric. Maybe?

Then the world went dark as the creak became a crash.

* * *

Tate debated whether to go back to work or give it up for the night. He’d been moving along at a fast clip when he’d heard Willow downstairs. But the conflicting emotions of the last hour had left him growlier than a grizzly bear. He usually didn’t write well in that state. Working out would be better, but with the electricity off he’d better not be wandering around in the basement.

Also he probably needed to keep an ear peeled for his houseguest for a little while. Something told him she needed supervision. A feeling that had nothing to do with wanting to get his hands on her again. Absolutely nothing.

Suddenly he could feel the approaching crash on the final lap of his adrenaline rush. Yeah, writing would be impossible in a matter of minutes. His brain would fog over and the words simply wouldn’t be able to break through. Better to rest now and write tomorrow—after he’d dealt with the problem lurking in Murdoch’s bedroom in the form of one sexy redhead.

Tate strolled into the office to shut off the battery-operated lantern he’d left in there earlier. Before he cut off the light, he paused, staring at the shutters closed tightly over the windows. Heavy rain beat against the house, but here the sound was muffled. The last thing Tate had wanted to see was the choppy waves of the sea below, stirred up by the storm.

Haunting memories rose despite his mental protest. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight, after all.

As he flipped the switch on the lantern, another noise joined the rest. It was so faint he almost missed it. Moving back toward the hall, he wondered if his guest had come to find him. He hoped not. He had willpower like a suit of armor, but she seemed to be able to find every weak point.

Then he heard the booming crash. He hurried down the empty hall until he reached her room. A commotion was in progress behind the door. What the hell?

He swung the door open, then froze. The door slammed against the wall. Before him...he wasn’t even sure what was happening. A writhing mass of wet bedclothes, splintered pieces of wood and dripping water occupied the bed...instead of the slightly damp housekeeper he’d left here thirty minutes before.

For a moment, the scene captured his artistic imagination. Despite the urge to rush in, he had to catalog it for future reference. And frankly, he was enjoying the show.

The frantic wiggling granted him glimpses of nicely rounded calves. He should help untangle her, he really should. Then she froze. He could just hear the quick intake of breath before she screamed, “Help me!”

That galvanized him into action. He struggled to find an opening as she thrashed about. “Be still,” he snapped.

His low command seemed to make it through to her because she paused long enough for him to snag the edge of the fabric. With a heavy tug, he divested her of the soggy bed curtains.

Then had the immediate urge to cover her back up.

As her bare calves had warned him, she’d taken off her jeans. And her bra. She now crouched, breathing hard, in the middle of the bed wearing nothing but a wet T-shirt and panties. Her wild auburn hair flew in every direction, including over her lightly freckled face. If he’d had twinges of attraction earlier, they were nothing compared with now.

Finally she reached up and tossed her hair back from her face. Tate quickly directed his gaze up to the ceiling. Whoa. Leaning over, he got a better angle to see what had happened. The substantial hole over her bed revealed only the darkened room above and the steady drip of water that he suspected came from dislodged tiles on the roof.

Straightening, he then let his gaze track back to the woman in the middle of the mess. “Don’t guess you will be sleeping here tonight. There must be some damage to the roof. In this part of the house, there’s only the one floor above you. It was fine during the last inspection, but something might have hit it or the wind must have ripped something loose.”

Reaching out, he plucked her from the bed. Her squeal echoed around the room. The distinctly feminine sound jump-started his heart. He hadn’t heard someone make a sound like that since he was a teenager. The women he met now didn’t squeal. They wouldn’t consider it sexy.

“Let’s get you settled somewhere else,” he said.