help.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Edge.” I offer a pleasant smile which she does not return.
“And you are…?”
“Head groundskeeper.”
Lined brown eyes grow bigger until they almost pop from her head. “You’re Thomas Sinclair?”
“Baily Sinclair. His granddaughter.” That is all this snooty pill will get from me. Edge sure has plenty of guard dogs, the Rottweiler from last night and now a perfectly coiffed French Poodle. Who is this guy?
“Wait here.” She pivots on her heel and sashays to the back of the house. I deliberately refuse to look in the mirror again, not wanting to acknowledge the world of difference between myself and the poodle. At least I’m not a condescending troll in disguise.
“Ms. Sinclair, I presume.”
My heart stutters in my chest at his voice. The man from last night. Slowly, I drag my attention up his body, which is just as broad and solid as I imagined it to be, until I reach his face.
One I recognize from supermarket tabloids. How many times have I stood staring at that same face, believing he couldn’t be half as handsome in person as the magazine portrayed? I was wrong—he’s even better in the flesh, more compelling, those blue eyes piercing, the aquiline nose and perfectly set cheekbones a work of art. His smoothly shaven chin is at odds with the stubble scrape I experienced against my skin last night. And his mouth….
My brain shorts out as I look at his mouth, remembering all the things he did to me last night.
Holly hell, I’m working for Connor Edge, the billionaire playboy!
Enjoy it while it lasts, Snarkarella pipes up.
Chapter Three
I ’m not sure which fact is keeping me frozen. Maybe that the elusive Mr. Edge is a well-known celebrity? Or more likely, that he’s the same man who bent me over the edge of the pool and pleasured me until I came all over his face last night. Thinking about the specifics of that makes my sex squeeze with longing.
“Excuse us, Ms. Dupree. This won’t take long.”
The waif smirks at me knowingly and saunters off. Gripping my elbow, Connor Edge steers me into the nearby parlor and closes the door behind us. Releasing me, he gestures toward an antique beverage service cart. “Care for a drink?”
Despite being named after an Irish whiskey and cream based liqueur, I’m not much of a drinker, but decide I’ll make an exception under the circumstances. “Whatever you’re having.”
He pours a few fingers of amber liquid from a crystal decanter into a snifter and hands it to me. His movements are steady, unhurried, his mood impossible to read. Will he apologize for last night, or get right on with the canning?
I take a whiff of the alcohol, wondering is it’s a sip or slug drink.
“Cognac,” he murmurs, startling me. I didn’t realize he was watching me. “I usually reserve it for after dinner, but I’m not eating until much later.”
“Thank you.” I shift in my seat and bring the glass to my lips. The small sip has a sweet flavor, but burns as it slides down my throat. Okay, I can now scratch sipping brandy off my bucket list.
He sits down in a leather wingback chair directly across from me. It’s hard not to feel grubby in comparison to his perfectly pressed slacks. I take another fortifying sip and wait for the inevitable.
“Ms. Sinclair, I do not like to be kept waiting.”
My gaze flies to his. That’s it? Not a word about last night? “I’m sorry, I had a family emergency.”
The way his blue black hair falls across his forehead, those piercing eyes and the snifter of cognac, his shoes that probably cost more than my truck, all scream Masterpiece Theatre. The Andersons have money, anyone would have to in order to own Rosemont, but their fortune is nothing compared to Connor Edge’s.
“Does this emergency have anything to do with why Thomas Sinclair is nowhere to be found?” His voice is smoother than it was last night, more refined and
“I have an appointment with Mr. Edge.” I offer a pleasant smile which she does not return.
“And you are…?”
“Head groundskeeper.”
Lined brown eyes grow bigger until they almost pop from her head. “You’re Thomas Sinclair?”
“Baily Sinclair. His granddaughter.” That is all this snooty pill will get from me. Edge sure has plenty of guard dogs, the Rottweiler from last night and now a perfectly coiffed French Poodle. Who is this guy?
“Wait here.” She pivots on her heel and sashays to the back of the house. I deliberately refuse to look in the mirror again, not wanting to acknowledge the world of difference between myself and the poodle. At least I’m not a condescending troll in disguise.
“Ms. Sinclair, I presume.”
My heart stutters in my chest at his voice. The man from last night. Slowly, I drag my attention up his body, which is just as broad and solid as I imagined it to be, until I reach his face.
One I recognize from supermarket tabloids. How many times have I stood staring at that same face, believing he couldn’t be half as handsome in person as the magazine portrayed? I was wrong—he’s even better in the flesh, more compelling, those blue eyes piercing, the aquiline nose and perfectly set cheekbones a work of art. His smoothly shaven chin is at odds with the stubble scrape I experienced against my skin last night. And his mouth….
My brain shorts out as I look at his mouth, remembering all the things he did to me last night.
Holly hell, I’m working for Connor Edge, the billionaire playboy!
Enjoy it while it lasts, Snarkarella pipes up.
Chapter Three
I ’m not sure which fact is keeping me frozen. Maybe that the elusive Mr. Edge is a well-known celebrity? Or more likely, that he’s the same man who bent me over the edge of the pool and pleasured me until I came all over his face last night. Thinking about the specifics of that makes my sex squeeze with longing.
“Excuse us, Ms. Dupree. This won’t take long.”
The waif smirks at me knowingly and saunters off. Gripping my elbow, Connor Edge steers me into the nearby parlor and closes the door behind us. Releasing me, he gestures toward an antique beverage service cart. “Care for a drink?”
Despite being named after an Irish whiskey and cream based liqueur, I’m not much of a drinker, but decide I’ll make an exception under the circumstances. “Whatever you’re having.”
He pours a few fingers of amber liquid from a crystal decanter into a snifter and hands it to me. His movements are steady, unhurried, his mood impossible to read. Will he apologize for last night, or get right on with the canning?
I take a whiff of the alcohol, wondering is it’s a sip or slug drink.
“Cognac,” he murmurs, startling me. I didn’t realize he was watching me. “I usually reserve it for after dinner, but I’m not eating until much later.”
“Thank you.” I shift in my seat and bring the glass to my lips. The small sip has a sweet flavor, but burns as it slides down my throat. Okay, I can now scratch sipping brandy off my bucket list.
He sits down in a leather wingback chair directly across from me. It’s hard not to feel grubby in comparison to his perfectly pressed slacks. I take another fortifying sip and wait for the inevitable.
“Ms. Sinclair, I do not like to be kept waiting.”
My gaze flies to his. That’s it? Not a word about last night? “I’m sorry, I had a family emergency.”
The way his blue black hair falls across his forehead, those piercing eyes and the snifter of cognac, his shoes that probably cost more than my truck, all scream Masterpiece Theatre. The Andersons have money, anyone would have to in order to own Rosemont, but their fortune is nothing compared to Connor Edge’s.
“Does this emergency have anything to do with why Thomas Sinclair is nowhere to be found?” His voice is smoother than it was last night, more refined and
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