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He looked very much his father’s son. A ruthless, top-of-the heap predator. And so damn sexy you just didn’t care.
I curled up in my corner, staring out the window—and was thrown back five years to the day we’d met.
It was the summer after my junior year in college. That afternoon, I’d gone hiking in a nearby state park on the Chesapeake Bay. When I lost the path, I wasn’t worried; I’d grown up in these woods. Getting lost in them was my favorite hobby. I simply had to walk toward the bay, then follow the shoreline south to the park entrance.
To the west, the sun had begun its lazy slide down the sky. Keeping it behind me, I headed east for the bay. But when I emerged from the trees, the bay was still a hundred yards away, and I was on the edge of a large, lush garden.
It was like I’d stepped into a dream. I stared around me, entranced by the wild tumble of flowers. Peach-colored roses and sweet-smelling lavender. Spiky blue salvia and magenta coneflowers. Honeysuckle and black-eyed Susan and other flowers I couldn’t name, all touched with gold by the setting sun.
Small stands of trees shaded the winding paths, and in a nearby stream, water flowed around moss-covered boulders. Several hundred feet away, a stone mansion perched on a cliff above the bay like a great gray hawk, its windows glowing faintly through the tall oaks surrounding it.
My breath hitched. I’d heard of Black Oak Manor, of course, but the rich people who owned it didn’t mix much with the locals. The three sons didn’t even attend school—they had tutors instead. I knew their last name was Kral, and that was about it.
But the locals knew to stay away from Black Oak. Come too close, and security would hustle you away with a sharp warning. Nobody was stupid enough to try it a second time.
I’d started inching back into the forest when a movement to my left made me whip around, heart pounding. In the shade beneath a wisteria-draped pergola stood a man dressed all in black from his T-shirt to his close-fitting jeans. Even his hair was as black and shiny as a raven’s wings.
When he stepped out of the shadows and into the slanting gold haze, it seemed like part of the dream.
I caught my breath. He had a face like a fallen angel, seductive, sinful. Later, I’d learn that his dad was Slovak, his mom French Cajun. He had his dad’s high cheekbones and long-lidded eyes, and his mom’s proud, even features. But that sensuous mouth was all his own.
“You’re trespassing,” he said in a voice like dark brown velvet.
“I’m sorry. I got lost and—crap, I’ll just get going.” I inched backwards. “I promise I’ll never come back.”
He put out a hand. “Don’t.”
I stilled. From the roses nearby came the hypnotic hum of bumblebees, and from the Chesapeake came the far-off whine of motorboats crossing the bay.
“Don’t—?”
“Don’t leave.” He strolled closer. In the dusky light, his irises were the same bright green as a new spring leaf. “You like gardens?”
“I like this one.” I waved an arm at the colorful blooms, talking fast and nervously. “It’s like a faerie garden. Something magical—like it exists out of time. You know what I mean?”
He glanced around. “I never really thought about it. Come.” He tipped his head at a path through the flowers. “I’ll show you around.”
I nibbled my lower lip. “I’d better not. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
His smile creased his right cheek. “It’s okay. I live here.”
“You’re not with security?”
“No. It’s my mom’s garden. She’s right inside.” He nodded at the mansion.
“Holy shit.” I’m sure my eyes went round as saucers. “That’syourhouse?”
He held out his hand. “Gabriel Kral.”
I took it. An electric jolt shot up my arm. I blinked. His face didn’t change, but I somehow knew he’d felt it, too.
“Or I can show you the way out of here.” He smirked, but not nastily. No, it was a wicked, dare-you-not-to-run-away smile.
I grinned back. I never could resist a dare. “I’d love to see your gardens. And my name’s Camila, but everyone calls me Mila.”
“Mila.” He repeated my name slowly, as if tasting each syllable. “I like it.”
He reached for my hand again. This time, I was prepared for the jolt. He interlaced his fingers through mine, and proceeded to give me an impromptu tour. By the time he called an Uber to take me home, he knew all about me—that I was an ag major, that I dreamed of someday owning an organic flower farm—and I’d agreed to meet him for coffee that Friday.
