“Fat chance the police will have any luck,” Emily muttered to herself as she pulled up to the gate that blocked the road to the peninsula. Paul had disappeared as though he had never existed. The police had investigated, but had very little information. Paul probably wasn’t even his real name, and he had done this several times before without being caught—if the similar incidents were done by the same man.
Swallowing hard, she stared at the massive metal gate in front of her, wondering how she was going to actually get through it, when the decorative doors started to swing open soundlessly.
It’s not locked or guarded. It’s motion operated.
Okay. That surprised her. In fact, it took her a moment to even give the truck some gas to enter through the open gate. When she finally came out of her perplexed trance, she gunned the engine, making the back end of the truck fishtail on her bald tires. She straightened her vehicle up and kept going. The snow was coming down heavier, a sloppy, wet snow with high winds that signaled an incoming nor’easter.
What did I expect? A guarded fortress?
But yeah, actually, she had assumed there would be some sort of barrier between the ultrarich Sinclair family and the rest of the world. Even though the peninsula wasn’t that large, the Sinclairs owned the entire cape, and the road was private. To be allowed to enter just by driving up to the gate was a surprise. When she was a child, the projecting mass of land had sat empty, and she had ignored the No Trespassing signs more times than she could remember to sit out on one of the shorelines, her very favorite spot on the headland.
My favorite place is in the exact same spot where Grady Sinclair built his house.
Emily couldn’t see well, but she squinted into the swirling snow and pushed her glasses back up onto the bridge of her nose. Passing several private driveways, she kept on going, knowing Grady’s home was the very last one.
The road ended at his house, and Emily forged ahead, parking her truck in the circular driveway and turning off the engine.
I must be insane!
Before she had time to think about what she was doing and leave, Emily grabbed her purse and slammed the door of the truck closed. Glad she was dressed in a sweater and jeans for the weather, she just wished she were also wearing a pair of boots, her sneakers slipping and sliding in the fresh, wet snow.
The house was massive, and she gaped at the heavy oak doors in front of her, wanting to run away as fast as her slippery shoes would take her.
“What kind of single guy owns a house this humungous?” she whispered in awe.
Answering herself, she said, “A man who has enough money to donate to the Youth Center.”
With that thought in mind, she strode determinedly forward and pressed the doorbell harder than she needed to, causing her feet to slide out from under her and her body to land ungracefully in a heap on Grady Sinclair’s doorstep.
That was a fabulous and graceful entrance, Emily. Impress him with your professionalism.
Disgusted with herself, she scrambled for purchase on the icy stone porch, hastily trying to get to her feet before he answered the door, but she slid again and landed flat on her rear end, flinching as her tailbone hit the unyielding surface. “Damn!”
Abruptly, the door swung open, and Emily Sinclair got her first look at the beast from an undignified position on her frozen ass.
Her glasses were wet and foggy, but he looked like no beast she had ever seen. He did, however, look pretty fierce, dark, and dangerous. Without saying a word, Grady Sinclair stuck his hand out as though he completely expected her to take it. She did, grasping his hand as he pulled her to her feet like she was as light as a feather. Trying to straighten up quickly to regain some modicum of dignity, she gawked up at him. She was tall for a woman, but he dwarfed her, towering over her menacingly. He was dressed informally in a tan thermal shirt that stretched across rippling muscles and a massive chest. He was sporting a pair of jeans that looked worn, and he filled them out in a way she’d never seen a man wear a pair of jeans before.
Holy crap! Grady Sinclair was hot. Scorching hot. His dark hair was mussed, and he had a just-rolled-out-of-bed look that made her want to drag him back to a bedroom. Any bedroom. He looked like he hadn’t shaved today, and the dark, masculine stubble on his jaw just added to the testosterone waves she swore she could almost feel pulsating from his magnificent body and entering hers, making her squirm just a little at her body’s reaction to him.
She drew in a deep breath as his gray-eyed stare seemed to assess her, and finally came to rest on her face. “Hi,” she said weakly, unable to form any intelligent words right at that moment. Her brain was mush and her cheeks flushed pink with mortification. This just wasn’t the businesslike, graceful entrance she had hoped for, and her lustful reaction to Grady Sinclair had her uncharacteristically flustered.
I need to get it together. I’m acting like an idiot. I need this donation.
He grabbed a fistful of her jacket and tugged her inside, closing the door behind her. Plucking the glasses from her face, he used his shirt to clean them before he handed them back to her. “You don’t look like one of my brother Jared’s usual women,” he said gruffly. “Bedroom is upstairs.” He pointed his thumb toward the spiral staircase on the far side of the enormous front room.
Emily stared at him blankly for a moment, and then slanted her gaze toward the living room to try to clear her head. She certainly couldn’t seem to think straight when she was looking directly at him.
Bedroom? What the hell is he talking about? Jared’s women?
“I think you have me mistaken for someone else. I don’t know you, and I’m not acquainted with Jared. I came to ask a favor.” Who does he think I am?
“And you’re offering your favors for a favor, right?” he asked grimly, his graveled baritone almost disapproving.
Her head jerked back to his face. “What? No. What kind of favor?” she replied suspiciously.
“My brother Jared told me I needed to get laid, which generally is followed by a woman arriving here at my house. I usually just send the women away with a check. But I’ve decided I’ll take you,” he said huskily.
Emily gulped. “Someone sends you women . . . as in prostitutes?” Good God, the last thing Grady Sinclair needed was a hooker. She couldn’t think of one single woman who would actually turn him down. “Do I look like a whore?” she asked irritably, suddenly offended by the fact that he’d thought she was for sale. But she felt a shiver of need slide down her spine and land right between her thighs at the thought that he actually wanted her, and what he might do to her if she were actually a woman for hire. She wasn’t beautiful and she was curvy, her ample figure a little more than most men found attractive.