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He stares for a long moment but doesn’t give his name.
“Then the children who went to school here were not orphans?” I press record on my phone and hold it so the microphone with pick up anything he says.
He glances at it, then back at me. “I didn’t say that.” Pushing away from the doorjamb, he steps toward me. “You shouldn’t let your tea get cold.” His voice has the slightest oddity, as if he might have come from New England.
“Is that a Maine accent I hear?”
His stare sharpens and takes my breath away. “My origins are none of your business, Miss Daniels. I didn’t invite you here. I’m willing to provide tea so that you will not perish on your way back down the driveway and out of my life.”
“Are you asking me to leave?” It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been thrown out of a place for asking one too many questions. “Is your name a big secret?”
“Oliver Becket is my name.” He holds his hand out.
As soon as I take it, a cold spark runs up my arm and sends a vibration through me. I pull my hand back. “Oliver Becket was one of the names on a list I was given, of little boys who disappeared from orphanages all over the country.”
He looks at his hand as if he felt the strange sensation too. “Where did you get this list, Miss Daniels?”
“It was on my desk in an unmarked envelope. I don’t know how it got there. There was a list of names in the envelope. At the top of the list, it says Scrim Hall and nothing else.” My phone is still recording, but I’ve pulled my hands back to keep from touching him in any way.
Stepping back, he gestures to the forest-green velvet settee. “Please sit. Drink your tea.”
I sit. “Will you be joining me for tea?”
He steps to a Queen Anne chair with its flowered cushion and sits. “I’ll sit with you. I don’t drink tea. Do you have the list with you?”
“Mr. Becket, I seem to be the only one sharing information. I’m happy to show you the list, but I have a story to write and an editor who thinks this is a waste of time. He’d prefer me to run after some college kids who host a drunk fest on Thursdays.”
“You look young enough to fit right in with that crowd.” His smirk fades to a scowl.
It would be smart to say nothing, but men are all the same. Show some boobs and get the story. That’s what they all expect. “I’m five years out of college and have no intention of spending my entire career on useless stories dictated by stupid men.”
One dark brow rises on his forehead. “I’ve hit a nerve. I apologize. Your editor likely thought you a good choice for that story because the students would be quite willing to give you all the information you could possibly want, but I can see where that would be offensive to you. I’m sorry to disappoint you, however. There are no orphans here. The house was left to me and several other alumni. We come and go as we please. At the moment, I am the only one in residence.”
“If I show you the list, will you tell me how you came to live at this school?” I can’t go back empty-handed.
“That is a very long story, one I don’t know you well enough to share.” His back is straight, and he leans against the chair as if in slow motion. Never taking his gaze from my face, he stretches his legs out in front of him and crosses the ankles. He reminds me of a predator sizing up his prey.
My heart beats faster, and it’s hard to think with him studying me so intently. “Maybe we can start smaller.”
“What do you suggest?” The timbre of his voice lowers.
Swallowing my nerves, I say, “Tell me what Scrim Hall means.”
He nods. “Show me the list, Miss Daniels.”
Oddly torn between running out the front door and never looking back, and giving him the list and anything else he might ask for, I take a long shaky breath. “You can call me Britta.”
That tugs at his lips, and they are magnificent full lips. He lowers his head as if in a bow. “Oliver.”
He’s the strangest, most attractive person I’ve ever met. I can’t seem to drag myself away from him and yet, I’m a little afraid. He’s an enigma, and I want to know why. In fact, knowing more about this man is like an addiction I didn’t know I had.
ChapterTwo
Oliver
No one this lovely has ever stepped into Scrim Hall before, of that I’m certain. Her scent is soft, lilac and vanilla. I was already woozy from the scent in the driveway, and now I’m drunk on her. Beneath her intoxicating fragrance, I sense her fear.
People being terrified of me is nothing new. It’s human nature to fear what I am, even when I look normal. Still, she didn’t run away.
