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1
For the life of him, Daniel couldn’t put his finger on the reason he’d chosen this house of all places as his first stop upon returning to America.
Exhausted and bedraggled, with his eight-hundred-dollar hiking boots still crusted with dirt from Machu Picchu, he should have been anywhere but standing in front of one of Manhattan’s most luxurious townhouses. Four stories? Five? Plus, a coveted Riverside Drive address. White exterior with sleek black trim, imposing black iron fence… The townhouse was the public face of a very private world, one that Daniel used to belong to but wasn’t sure if he did anymore, wasn’t even sure if he wanted to belong anymore. Still, nice place. No, not nice. What had Eleanor called it? After a year and a half, he hoped his brain had relinquished that little memory, finally.
Swanky.She’d called Kingsley Edge’s infamous townhouse “swanky.” And he still remembered it.
Annoyed with himself—were scientists ever going to invent a cure for hopeless romanticism?—he passed through the wrought-iron gate and mounted the steps. He rang the doorbell and waited. Not surprisingly, a young woman of shocking beauty opened the door. Dark red hair, wide amber eyes, and ripe red lips…
“May I help you,monsieur?” the girl asked. Her wide eyes looked too innocent to be part of this infamous household.
The girl spoke with an accent, one he recognized all too well. French but not French. The inside of his cheek twitched.
Her eyes flashed at him. “Something funny?”
Prickly little thing. Kingsley always did like his women temperamental—it was more fun to punish them when they’d earned it.
“Nothing at all,” Daniel said. “Sorry. Just amused Monsieur ‘If You Aren’t From Paris, You Aren’t Really French’ picked aQuébécoisefor his doorkeeper.”
She raised her chin and glared at him. “He must have someone standing guard to keep you English Canadians out.”
Smart girl, or a good guess? Either that or his knee-jerk “sorry” must have given him away. Once a Canadian, always a Canadian. Even after twenty years living in the States.
“He won’t mind me,” Daniel said. “Is our Lord of the Underground home?”
“Might be. Might not. Depends on who you are. And from the looks of you, I would say…non, the master isn’t home.”
The looks of him? Ah, Miss Quebec might have had a point there. From South America, he’d flown straight to New York City. Yesterday he’d been in Peru. Today, Manhattan. He was wearing faded jeans to match his battered boots, a khaki long-sleeved t-shirt, and scratched wraparound Ray-Bans—the same clothes he’d had on yesterday. Add on two days of stubble, a weather-beaten tan, and sun-faded hair badly in need of a cut, and he knew he looked nothing like the usual type who knocked on this door.
“Would you mind checking?S’il vous plait?” he added, hoping the French didn’t sound too sarcastic. He was going for “just sarcastic enough.”
The girl exhaled dramatically. “If he is home, whom shall I say is calling?”
“Just tell him it’s Daniel. He knows me.”
The girl raised her eyebrow and regarded him coldly. She nodded at the front steps. “You waithere…Daniel.”
The girl closed the door in his face and Daniel almost laughed. Gone for only a day, and he already missed South America and its complete dearth of ill-tempered red-headed doorkeepers.
The door opened once more. The girl gave him a look of such disgust that he forgot for a moment she wasn’t actually French.
“You can come in,” she said as she stepped back and let him inside the house. “But wipe your boots. Or better, take them off. Then burn them.”
Daniel started to brush past her but paused mid-step. Something, some of the old mischief stopped him. And that rudeness of hers demanded a little punishment.
He faced the girl, pushed his sunglasses on top of his head, and gave her a hard blue-eyed stare, the stare his late wife had called The Ouch. Maggie knew when he looked at her like that, gave her The Ouch, she’d have trouble walking the next day…
His grumpy little doorkeeper returned The Ouch with a vicious glare of her own. But Daniel knew a sub when he saw one. In Kingsley’s household, one found only three types of people: dominants, submissives, and the rare, elusive switch. Her little pale blue sailor dress and lace-trimmed ankle socks did not scream “dominatrix” to him. Their staring contest was no contest. The Ouch won every time. After a few seconds, she lowered her eyes to the floor. He took a step forward. She took a step back. Her cheeks flushed and her lips reddened. If he wasn’t mistaken, even her breathing quickened.
“That’s better,” he said softly. “Do you have a name?”
She raised her eyes, smiled, undefeated. “Yes.”
“And it is?”
She leaned in close and whispered, “Celine Dion.”
Before he could reply, he heard another voice. He turned around.
