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“Arghhhhh, what the fucking fuck?”
Those are my first words to the man standing in the shadow of an oak tree. Orhiding,one might say.
He’s tall, with a shock of thick, dark hair, streaked with silver. It’s hard to tell how old he is. His face is cold and stern and so colorless that I think he must be sick—especially since he’s wearing a dressing gown at two o’clock in the afternoon. But the bare chest beneath his robe looks anything but ill.
Old moneyflashes into my head. Only that kind of rich could stand there looking haughty in pajamas. Granted, his velvet robe and embroidered slippers are ten times nicer than anything I own. I’m the sweaty ruffian in a torn shirt, chains puddled around my ankles.
“Trespassing is one of the only crimes they give a shit about around here,” the man informs me calmly. “I think our sheriff might actually squeeze out of his favorite booth atEmma’sto investigate.”
My heart is still hammering my ribs, but I’ve recovered my voice, at least. “You can’t trespass on your own land.”
He raises an eyebrow. That’s the only part of him that’s moved so far. He’s leaning against the trunk of the oak, arms folded loosely over his pale chest.
The sleeves of his robe drape back at the elbows, showing the sleekly masculine shape of his forearms and hands. I don’t want to notice anything appealing about him, but it’s impossible not to. He’s stark and striking, cruel and beautiful. It makes me feel a lot of conflicting emotions, especially when he talks.
“Brilliant observation,” he says dryly. “But we happen to be standing onmyland.”
His confidence is so powerful that I can’t give him the answer I’d planned, which isFuck off, you lunatic.
Instead, I go with the marginally more polite, “And who the hell are you?”
“Dane Covett,” he says. “That’s my house. And all of this….” he gestures on both sides of us, “…is my property.”
Through the trees, I spy the gables of a grandiose mansion in much better condition than the one I just inherited. Every bit of it—gutters, shingles, shutters—is painted midnight blue. The visible parts of the garden look pristine.
I might be a little bit jealous as I snarl, “Congratulations. You still don’t own the road.”
Dane smiles. His teeth are straight and white, but they bring no warmth to his face. Quite the opposite.
“Wrong with conviction. Do you think repeating it makes it true? I own the road and all the land on either side of it. That’s what it means when I put a gate across it and say,Stay the fuck out.But I guess the chains and the padlock were a bit too subtle.”
Wow. It’s been a long time since I’ve hated someone this much on sight.
I wish I had something devastating to say instead of the slightly whiny, “Then how the fuck am I supposed to get up tomyhouse?”
He shifts his position against the tree, frowning slightly. “What house?”
“Right up there…”
I point in the direction of Blackleaf, which you can almost see from where we stand. Really, I’m just pointing at the dark halo of trees around the house.
Dane straightens, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his robe, looking, if anything, as if he now dislikes me even more.
“You’re Rosemary.”
His level of distaste for my given name almost matches my own.
“It’s Remi.”
“And what are you doing here, Remi?”
The way this guy poses his questions is really starting to piss me off.
“I’m trying to get home. But some asshole blocked the road.”
“And now we’re back to that.” He runs a hand through his hair, which makes his robe pull open to show a little more of his hard, pale chest. I hate him and I can’t stop looking at him—like a venomous snake or a poisonous mushroom.
“I blockedmyroad,” he repeats, like a goddamned broken record. “That you don’t have access to use.”
