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The shroud of darkness was accompanied—as always—by a terrifying inevitability. Each excruciating exhalation left her with even less air in her lungs. And while she fought to breathe, he was right there, applying ever more pressure.
His sinister voice promised, “Tonight’s the night you die, Charity.”
No!
The panic and helplessness were familiar companions as she clawed her way back to the light.
Charity awoke with a gasp and immediately kicked off the suffocating, restrictive bedcovers. Her nightgown was soaked through with sweat, her hair drenched, and she shivered uncontrollably. She swallowed down the small, distressed sounds coming from the back of her throat while she fought to regulate her breathing.
“Get yourself together.” She hated the woman she became every time she had this nightmare. “It’s over. You’re okay. You’re safe.”
She counted to ten, first in English, then in French and then—just for the hell of it—in Japanese, until she was sure she had a handle on her emotions. It was an odd quirk of hers; that ability to count to a hundred in several different languages, none of which she could actually speak or truly understand.
“He can’t hurt you,” she told herself. “He can’t hurt you. He’s gone. He can’t hurt you.” Some nights it took longer than others to convince herself of that fact. But it was easier tonight. Perhaps because she hadn’t been asleep very long.
She got out of bed, dragged her nightgown over her head and dumped it on
the hardwood floor, before padding, naked, to the en suite. The sweat dried rapidly as the cold air hit her overheated flesh. She was still shivering uncontrollably as she stepped beneath the punishingly hot spray of her shower.
The nightmare would be back, maybe not tonight or tomorrow, but eventually.
It was inescapable.
Absolute rest.
That was what the doctor had ordered. Which was bullshit. Miles Henry Hollingsworth wasn’t a man who could sit on his arse and do nothing all day long. But his mother and sister had been concerned, and he knew that they would badger him endlessly if he didn’t take that prescribed “mental and physical” break. Miles was a bloody weakling when it came to denying the two most important women in his life.
Which was why he had finished any outstanding business and left his COO,
Bryan Yoshida, in charge of Hollingsworth Holdings Inc. Miles’s younger brother, a recently promoted junior exec, would assist Bryan. Hugh was eager to grow and learn, but Miles had been reluctant to give him more responsibility. Not because the young man was incompetent, but because Miles had a hard time ceding even the slightest control to anyone else. Bryan was Miles’s most trusted friend and colleague. The man would be a patient and wise mentor to Hugh.
Consequently, Miles had boarded the corporate jet and fourteen hours later, here he was, at his isolated holiday home on the Garden Route in the Western Cape of South Africa. It was after three in the morning, pouring with rain and colder than a witch’s tit, but the weather suited his mood. He could have followed the sun and gone to his villa on the Amalfi Coast, but the Western Cape in winter was exactly what he was looking for. He knew the nearby tourist town would be quiet at this time of year, and he would be alone but for the staff he kept on retainer.
The only individuals with whom he would have to interact would be Amos Moloi, the gardener; his driver, George Clark; and the dour live-in housekeeper, Mrs. Cole. The woman had worked and lived there for nearly three years, and nobody knew much about her other than she kept to herself for the most part, got her work done almost as if by magic, and excelled at wish fulfilment. No matter how crazy the request, Mrs. Cole could arrange it.
Recommended by his attorney, the woman was a gem, and Miles guarded her jealously. This house was more hers than his. She lived here full-time, while he visited once or twice—if he was lucky—a year. There really was no need to have her here all year round but for the fact that Miles was afraid he’d lose her to a better position if he offered her only part-time employment. He’d rather pay her handsomely and retain her services full-time than lose her. When he found someone he could trust to do a job the way he wanted it done, he’d move heaven and earth to secure their loyalty.
He had forgotten to let her know he was coming, but he had faith that Mrs. Cole wouldn’t miss a step. The house would be fully stocked and operational in no time at all.
God, he was exhausted.
His arrival to the house was quiet and there was no sign of Mrs. Cole when he disabled the alarm and stepped into the dark kitchen from the basement garage. While Miles thought nothing of waking her, he didn’t feel like interacting with anyone at the moment and wanted to avoid her till morning.
He allowed George to carry his bags to his room before dismissing the man for the rest of the night. He needed a hot shower, some food in his belly, and sleep. Lots of it. Years of it.
About five minutes after George left, Miles made his way down the long passageway from his suite to the huge rustic, country kitchen. He needed a sandwich or something before showering and crawling into bed. He hoped Mrs. Cole had stocked some of the basics. She had her own private wing, complete with a kitchen, a sitting room and study, so her personal grocery supply likely wouldn’t be stocked in this kitchen. Still, he hoped there was something edible at least.
He stopped dead in his tracks when he got to the kitchen and blinked at the sight that met his eyes.
The previously dark room he had walked through a few moments before was now brightly lit. A tall, shapely, unmista
kably feminine figure stood framed—with her back to him—in the door of the large refrigerator. The mystery woman was wearing a pair of loose exercise shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt. She had strong, lean legs, leading to gorgeous firm thighs, and a round shapely bum, the lush fullness of which tapered into a tiny waist, slender back, and narrow shoulders. Her long, long hair cascaded almost to her waist and rippled with every move she made. She hummed softly to herself as she rummaged around in his fridge.
Miles had no idea who this trespasser was or what she was doing there, but she gave him an instant, aching hard-on even before he saw her face, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit. This was not conducive to a peaceful holiday. He didn’t need the distraction of an unwelcome attraction to some intrusive stranger who had no business being in his house. At best, she was related to one of the staff—Mrs. Cole’s daughter, perhaps?—at worst, she was a trespasser. Either way, she was not welcome.
She turned, her slender arms full of ingredients, and shut the fridge door behind her with a cheeky hip thrust. She lifted her head and hissed in shock when she saw him, and he took petty satisfaction in startling her as much as she had stunned him.
She had brown eyes, he noted grimly, so dark and intense it was hard to differentiate between iris and pupil. Those disturbing eyes were set beneath lovely, perfectly arched dark brows and between thick, long lashes. Her face was a delicate oval, with lush, pink lips, a slightly dented chin, and high, perfect cheekbones. The only things marring all that perfection was the slightly crooked nose—but it gave her an appealing approachability—and an oddly shaped scar on her left temple, just beneath her hairline. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, past her breasts, wrapping around her like a cloak, and he marveled at the silken stuff. He’d known a lot of gorgeous women in his lifetime, but he couldn’t remember one ever having hair like hers. It was lovely. A sleek, black cascade that he wanted to wrap his fist in.
There was a lovely dusky brown tone to her velvety looking skin, giving her a Middle Eastern or North African—possibly both? —appearance. She was singularly beautiful.
And familiar. Very familiar. She had to be related to Mrs. Cole. He didn’t usually pay too much attention to his housekeeper. Not enough to notice details about her appearance…but her eyes were unmistakable. This woman had the same striking eyes.
“Who the hell are you?” He finally found his voice, and was pleased to note that it didn’t betray an ounce of his fascination with her. He sounded cold and in control. “Why are you here? What are you doing in my house?”
Charity blinked at the man glowering at her. Why was she here? Why was he here? She had received no word of his arrival. Why had nobody notified her? Warned her that he was coming?
Gosh, he looked awful. He was a trim figure of a man, but had enough depth to his shoulders and definition to his body to make him appear bigger and stronger.
Usually.
Currently he was a husk of his former self. Too thin and also much too pale. It was summer in the UK, why was he so pale? His impeccably tailored suits always fitted him like a glove, yet this one hung from his frame with room to spare.
She looked at her armful of groceries and grimaced, feeling at a disadvantage. She had kissed the notion of sleep goodbye after her nightmare and had been about to make herself a sandwich when her boss had scared her nearly to death. Aware that she looked completely unprofessional, she straightened her shoulders, tilted her chin, and schooled her face into its usual expressionless mask. There was nothing she could do about the way she was dressed but, even though she felt defenseless being seen without her usual armor in place, she did the best with what she had.
“Mr. Hollingsworth, sir, I wasn’t expecting you tonight.” Or at all. “Can I fix you something to eat?”
He scowled at her suspiciously before an expression close to disbelief settled on his face.
“Mrs. Cole?”
