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Her jaw dropped.
“That was a joke.”
“Mean.” She glared at him. “I didn’t realize you had an evil streak.”
“Yes, Ms. Malloy. I do believe we’d already settled that.” The lazy reminder in his tone sent flares up and down her spine.
The road ahead was canopied by dozens and dozens of Southern live oak trees, blocking the sun and sky, making it dark. Judging by their size, they had to be hundreds of years old. It created privacy and mystique, a separation from her ordinary world.
The asphalt twisted and turned, and not long after they emerged into the cloudless daylight, a magnificent plantation home stood in the distance. “Oh my God.”
“It’s spectacular, isn’t it?”
The white home was a mansion, with contrasting black shutters, a porch across the front with tall white rocking chairs. The second-floor gallery was adorned with black wrought-iron railing. The home appeared to have wings on each side. The most breathtaking feature, though, were the ten Grecian-style columns, complete with curlicues at the top of each. “Easy to see why it’s called the Parthenon.”
“The plantation was once called One Hundred Oaks. The original owner was Ian, a second-generation British gentleman. He spared no expense with the architecture. Construction took over eight years because his wife, Julie, continually asked for changes from the architect. Her husband wanted a happy wife, so he indulged her every whim.”
“Smart man.”
He grinned in response. “Agreed. I think history has proven her intuition correct. The home is timeless. She had many innovations in the house. After Mr. and Mrs. Kirby passed, none of their children had an interest in the property, so they sold it off. Forty or fifty years later, it changed hands again. When the owner could no longer afford the upkeep, the Zetas purchased the house and lands. Descendants of members who contributed more than ten thousand dollars now pay substantially reduced dues.”
“When was that?”
“Around eighteen seventy.”
That was a lot of money back then. “So, your great-great-however-many-greats-grandfather voted to save One Hundred Oaks?”
“And contributed around fifty thousand dollars, yes. My family has always had an interest in preservation.”
The grounds in front of the house were perfectly manicured. The lawn was bright green and larger than any she’d ever seen. To one side was an arched trellis covered with bougainvillea. The center of the lawn was dominated by a seven-tier water fountain and an attached oblong reflecting pond. A white-painted swing hung from a branch of a live oak. “It’s postcard perfect.” She reached for her cell phone. “Do you mind stopping so I can take a picture?”
“I’m afraid that’s not permitted.”
“Are you serious?” Was that his rule? Or a Titans rule?
“We’re a secret society, remember?” His voice held traces of humor, mixed with a droll obviousness.
“Oh.” The reminder left her feeling a bit foolish. In the article she’d read, the descriptions of the house had been vague, and the accompanying picture, perhaps from a drone, showed the flat roof and not much else. She dropped her phone back into her purse.
Rafe pulled to a stop beneath the porte cochère attached to the side of the house.
Valets in crisp white shirts, black bow ties, and black slacks opened the car doors, and the gentleman on Rafe’s side greeted him. “Welcome back, Mr. Sterling. May we take your car and luggage?”
He thanked the man before coming around the hood of the vehicle to claim her elbow. “After we get your pass, we’ll settle in. I think I’ll take Ms. Malloy through the front door. We’ll see ourselves in.”
“Excellent, sir,” the valet responded, and he keyed a microphone attached to his shirt front.
“You’ll see why,” Rafe told her. He guided her up the outside steps and around the corner.
Heat and humidity clung to her, making her glad she’d taken Rafe’s suggestion to wear a sleeveless dress. Though it shouldn’t be possible, the air hung heavier than it had in Houston. She associated this kind of oppressiveness with midsummer rather than spring, and she wished for an old-fashioned fan to wave in front of her face.
