Love and Brimstone

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 Proctor.”

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.”

She strangled the unexpected pang of disappointment that announcement dredged up in her. “Business?”

“Yes. Unfortunately.” His face clouded for a moment, and then it passed. “What did you think of our offer?”

“We haven’t discussed numbers yet.” The roast tasted delicious.

“Ah, yes.” He took a bite. “What’s your salary requirement?”

“I’m not used to doing business like this, Mr. Hawthorne.”

“Call me Matthias, please.”

“Mr. Hawthorne, if I take this job, and I’m not saying I will, I prefer to keep it professional. And I’m still not exactly sure what my duties would be. The paperwork Mr. Thompson left was just vague enough to be interesting without answering any of my questions.”

She took a bite of mashed potatoes. Obviously homemade and delicious, the perfect texture and flavor.

“In my business,” he explained, “it’s not uncommon to run into situations where I need someone with discretion to take care of issues that arise.”

She could have made at least three dirty jokes off the top of her head, but she kept them to herself. “I don’t know how much you discussed with Bob Stanley, but I will not cover up illegal activities.”

“And I would never ask that of you. Our corporation is involved in a wide variety of businesses all over the globe. All of them legal, I assure you. However, as you are well aware, sometimes embarrassing situations occur.”

“Such as?”

He shrugged, and she felt her heart take off again, out of control. What was it about him that got to her? This was totally not like her.

Stop that, she thought. Idiot. Don’t blow this.

But I’d like to blow—

Argh!

The trace of a smile crossed his face again. “For example, a vice president of one of my software firms got his secretary pregnant. She was of legal age, no worries, but he was married. And the mistress wanted support. We were able to help work out an amicable, as well as confidential, settlement that satisfied everyone and kept it out of court and the papers.”

“What happened to that person?” she asked. “The fixer you used?”

He looked at his plate. “Retired. But if you choose to take the job, you will have Albert at your full disposal.”

“Why can’t he take the job?”

“He’s a wonderful employee. Unfortunately I need an attorney, and he’s not.”

She took a few more bites. The food tasted really good. Nearly as good as Robertson’s cooking. If Hawthorne could cook like this, he would make a great husband if he wasn’t married already. No ring on either hand—

Focus, Taz!

“Don’t you have corporate attorneys on your payroll already?”

“I do. However, as you know, everyone specializes. I have tax attorneys and real estate attorneys and labor law attorneys, and on and on. But I need someone to work close by my side, whom I can fully confide in, who has contacts and certain specialized skill sets that can only be learned on the job, as it were. Someone flexible. I don’t have time to train. I also need someone who, at this time in their life, isn’t tied down by family commitments.”

That was a polite way of saying someone single.

It also set off her bullshit buzzer. “Why is that?”

“It’s a rigorous schedule, for starters. At first, at least. I have a wide variety of projects scheduled over the next six months, so whoever takes the job will live out of a suitcase quite a bit of the time. Sometimes travelling with me, sometimes alone.”

Travel with you? Let’s go…

“And I need someone I can trust. I do extensive research, Ms. Proctor. Among all of the potential candidates we’ve screened, only you have all the qualities I’m looking for.”

She tried to clear her head. It was hard to listen to him and not be distracted by his beautiful blue eyes. “You still haven’t told me exactly what I’d be doing.”

He put his fork down. “Legal work. Beyond that, I can’t be sure. You of all people know how unpredictable life can be.”

She knew that was a way of not answering a question he had the answer to. “You still haven’t mentioned money, Mr. Hawthorne.”

And there was that half smile. Again.

Be still, my friggin’ heart. Take me, I’m yours.

“One million the first year, one-five the second, and two million the third. After that, we can negotiate.”

She managed not to react. That was more than she was expecting.

Way more. “Plus expenses?”

He nodded. “Of course. You would also receive a discretionary operating budget. You would have a power of attorney for me, so you can see why I need someone very capable, trustworthy, and discreet in this position.”

“That’s a very large responsibility, to just take over like that.”

“As I said, Albert will be completely at your disposal, especially during the first few months. But as you saw he is getting along in years. The easier he can make your transition, the sooner he can retire.”

“I’m not saying I’ll take the job.” She was already thinking she might.

“I’ve talked with Bob Stanley. He has agreed to let you take it on a trial basis for six months to see if it’s a fit. If it doesn’t work, you’re free to resume your duties at his firm.”

Sneaks. Both of them. It pissed her off. While she had seriously considered saying yes, she changed her mind.

“I won’t give you an answer tonight.”

“Fair enough. For now, let’s enjoy dinner.”

They talked until nearly ten. On a personal level, Taz liked Hawthorne. She found him to be articulate, charming, and his dry sense of humor came through without being obnoxious. He was someone she thought she could easily work with.

She knew from experience the mask a man put on while trying to woo someone, be it client or employee or lover, was often far different than their real self. And there was the fact that every time his eyes met hers she lost her train of thought. He wasn’t underwear-model gorgeous. He was real-world, come-to-momma, would-love-to-take-him-home-to-momma handsome.

Which was another problem. She found herself really attracted to him, and that wasn’t a problem she normally had. It was always the other way around, guys coming on to her at work, forcing her to maintain a cool aloofness that earned her the “Ice Queen” label. Yet Hawthorne was different.

She wanted him.

After dinner, he walked her to the front door where Albert Thompson waited. Hawthorne turned to her, and for a moment she hoped he’d reach out to her, take her into his arms and—

“Albert will keep in touch.” Hawthorne extended his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Ms. Proctor.”

She met his eyes as they shook hands and felt the electricity course through her again. She was no stranger to love and lust, but as much as she felt drawn to him, she didn’t need complications in her life right now. Especially a rich guy who probably had women stashed all over the place. She didn’t get a gay vibe from him, one of her weird intuitions that had never been wrong in the past. That meant he had to have at least one woman. How could he not?

Unless he’s a weird psycho.

He was easy on the eyes, for sure.

“Thank you, Mr. Hawthorne.”

Albert walked her down the steps to where the valet had her car waiting. It had been washed and detailed, inside and out.

Talk about being a good host. She felt spoiled.

“Ms. Proctor, when is a good time to follow up with you?”

She studied Albert. She couldn’t get over how something about him reminded her a lot of Robertson. “Friday morning.”

He nodded. “Very good. I’ll call you then.”