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Beauty And Her Boss
Jennifer Faye


An innocent beauty, a scarred hero…Could she be the one to open up his heart?Handsome but guarded former Hollywood star Deacon Santoro prefers the confines of his mansion since an accident left him scarred both inside and out. But he has promised to protect sparky beauty Gabrielle Dupré, his new PA. Can Gabrielle convince Deacon that love will give them the fairytale ending they deserve?







An innocent beauty, a scarred hero...

Could she be the one to open up his heart?

Handsome but guarded former Hollywood star Deacon Santoro prefers the confines of his mansion since an accident left him scarred both inside and out. But he promised to protect sparky beauty Gabrielle Dupré, his new PA. Can Gabrielle convince Deacon that love will give them the fairy-tale ending they deserve?


Award-winning author JENNIFER FAYE pens fun, heart-warming, contemporary romances with rugged cowboys, sexy billionaires and enchanting royalty. Internationally published, with books translated into nine languages, she is a two-time winner of the RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Award. She has also won the CataRomance Reviewers’ Choice Award, been named a TOP PICK author, and been nominated for numerous other awards.


Also by Jennifer Faye (#ulink_9c9faf9b-5c4f-5e6d-b040-f4b10a1656e2)

Her Festive Baby BombshellSnowbound with an Heiress

Mirraccino Marriages miniseries

The Millionaire’s Royal Rescue

Married for His Secret Heir

Once Upon a Fairytale miniseries

Beauty and Her Boss

And look out for the next book

Miss White and the Seventh Heir Available June 2018

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


Beauty and Her Boss

Jennifer Faye






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-07736-1

BEAUTY AND HER BOSS

© 2018 Jennifer F. Stroka

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Contents

Cover (#ude8494b9-1c2b-50a2-bf56-27ddbbbf610c)

Back Cover Text (#u1573aefa-7f20-5ccb-ae68-675585209646)

About the Author (#ucb515fc9-4cbd-5ea7-95e8-cab52007d52e)

Booklist (#u1c5f3644-a82d-5136-9227-c96749792785)

Title Page (#u1ab038ab-4eaa-5038-a700-ce917028f8cf)

Copyright (#uc2dd8e57-2e66-53d5-9665-18931fe97fdf)

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)


PROLOGUE (#ulink_0e4a886b-9bc4-57e6-b3f6-2a14bd934ebd)

“THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING.”

Gabrielle Dupré frowned as she perched on the edge of a hard, black plastic chair. The room was small with gray walls. Outside the little room, there was the buzz of voices and phones ringing. But inside the room, a tense silence hung in the air like a dense fog. This was a place she’d never been in her life—a police station. How had things spiraled so far out of control? Her head pounded and her stomach churned.

After being here for more than two hours, the situation wasn’t looking good. Not good at all. She’d just played her final card and she’d been praying ever since that it would pay off.

“Don’t worry, daughter.” Her father stared at her from across a black nondescript table. “Everything will be all right.”

“All right?” She struggled not to shout in frustration. “Things are so far from all right.” With each word, her voice crept up in volume. Realizing that losing her cool right now would not help their cause, she paused and swallowed hard. “Father, do you know how much trouble you’re in?”

“Gaby, don’t you understand? If I got word out about that monster, then it was worth it.” His voice was filled with conviction. “Sometimes a man has to do what he has to do.”

“And sometimes he needs to think before he acts,” she said in a heated whisper. Anger pulsed through her veins, but it wasn’t her father that she was upset with—it was herself.

Her father reached out and patted her hand. “You’ll see. This will all work out.”

She blamed herself for not being there to reason with her father. And to stop him from acting rashly. For the past six months, she’d been working two jobs to pay their outstanding bills but she was still losing financial ground. Things were so bad she was considering taking on a third job. With her father’s health declining and him now in a wheelchair, it was up to her to make ends meet.

And through it all, she’d made sure to be there for her father every single day. He had been grieving ever since her aunt’s deadly car accident almost four months ago. And it didn’t help that the police had failed to release the truth about the accident. Although, that didn’t stop the gossip sites from pointing fingers, including the magazine she’d recently started doing an admin job for, QTR. By way of some unnamed source, they were accusing an award-winning movie star, Deacon Santoro, of being at fault.

Gaby was still trying to figure out the how and why of her father’s actions. “So you’ve been sneaking off to Deacon Santoro’s estate all week?”

His gaze narrowed. “I wasn’t sneaking. I didn’t want to bother you so I took the bus.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “I thought you had a girlfriend that you weren’t ready to tell me about. If I’d have known what you were up to, I would have stopped you.”

With her father’s elbows resting on the table, he leaned toward her. His bloodshot eyes pleaded with her. “Don’t you want the truth?”

“Of course I do. How could you question that? I loved her, too. She was like a second mother to me. But there are better ways to get to the truth. You shouldn’t have staged a loud, disruptive protest in front of the man’s house and accosted his staff.”

Her father expelled a heavy sigh as he leaned back in his wheelchair. “Nothing else has worked. I’ve made phone call after phone call to the authorities. All I get is the runaround. They keep saying the accident report will be released as soon as the investigation has been completed.”

Gaby couldn’t believe what she was about to say, but someone had to reason with her father. With her mother and now her aunt gone, the responsibility landed squarely on Gabrielle’s straining shoulders.

“Do you even realize how much power Mr. Santoro wields?”

Her father’s bushy, gray eyebrows drew together. “Why do you think I went there? The police aren’t helping us get the truth because he bought them off.”

Gaby shushed her father. “Don’t say those things.”

“So I thought the media might help. After all, they’d do anything for a big headline.”

“You certainly got their attention.” Sadly, she didn’t think this tactic was going to work, but she sure hoped she was wrong because the not knowing was eating at her, too. “There were so many reporters standing outside the police station that I had to be escorted through the back entrance.”

Her father’s tired face, with its two days’ worth of stubble, lifted into a satisfied smile. “It’s working. You’ll see.”

Her father had a bad habit of acting first and thinking later. And she was left with the task of cleaning up his messes. But this was his first and, if she had any say in it, his last arrest. “And is it worth you going to jail or paying a stiff fine that will financially wipe us out?”

Before her father could answer, the door swung open. A tall police officer with salt-and-pepper hair stepped just inside the room. “We’ve contacted the complainant.”

“And...” Gaby knew this was the time for restraint but there was so much on the line.

The officer shook his head. “He refused to meet with you.”

That was not what she’d wanted to hear. She was hoping to plead with the man and hopefully get him to drop the charges. Her father was not physically well and punishing him would not help anyone, least of all Deacon Santoro. “Surely there has to be some way I can speak with him.”

The officer cleared his throat. “I was about to tell you that he’s on the phone. You may speak with him at my desk.”

That was all the invitation she needed. In a heartbeat, she was on her feet and rushing out the door. She didn’t so much as pause to assure her father that she’d straighten out this mess—because in all honesty, she wasn’t sure she could fix things this time. But she was willing to do anything to protect her father—even from his own misguided sense of justice.

The police officer led her to his desk, where he handed over the receiver. Before she got a word out, the officer was called away to help with an unruly arrestee, who appeared intoxicated and quite belligerent.

Turning her back to the scene, Gaby said, “Hello.”

“I am not dropping the charges.” Deacon Santoro didn’t even so much as utter a greeting, friendly or otherwise.

And yet his voice caught her attention. It was deep and rich, like a fine bourbon. She didn’t need to verify who she was speaking to. After watching each and every one of his movies countless times, she would recognize Deacon’s voice anywhere.

“I would really appreciate if we could talk this out.”

“I’ve done all of the talking that I intend to do.” His sexy voice was short and clipped. “Now, I’ve spoken to you. That is all I agreed to. I must go—”

“Wait!”

“This is a waste of time. Your father is guilty. He will have to take it up with the judge.”

With each syllable the man spoke, her body betrayed her by being drawn in by the deep timbre of his voice. Logic dictated that he was the absolute last person she should be fantasizing about, but there was another more primal part of her that wanted to hear his voice again.

Gaby gave herself a swift mental jerk. She had to stay on point. Her father’s future was depending on her getting this right.

“But he didn’t do anything serious—”

“I’d call stalking a serious charge.”

“Stalking?” This was the first she’d heard of this allegation. She couldn’t help but wonder what else her father had failed to tell her.

“Yes. He’s been making harassing phone calls, skulking outside my residence with binoculars and hounding my entire staff.”

“I’m sorry. He hasn’t been himself lately. He wouldn’t hurt a soul. If you knew him—”

“I don’t. And I don’t plan to. None of this is my problem.”

Mr. Santoro was right on that point, but would it hurt him to be a little generous? Perhaps she needed to explain the situation better. “My father, he isn’t young. And his health is failing.”

“Again, not my problem.”

This man wasn’t going to give an inch. His stirring voice ceased to affect her as she went into protective mode. “Listen, Mr. Santoro, I am sorry for the trouble my father has caused you, but pressing charges against him won’t fix anything. Surely there has to be another way to work this out.”

“Your father should have thought of all of this before he decided to cause trouble for me.”

Why did this man have to act as though he was the innocent party here? If it weren’t for his actions on that fateful night, her father wouldn’t have bothered him. Angry accusations bubbled up within her and hovered at the back of her throat. It would be so easy to lose her cool—to tell this man exactly what she thought of him, which wasn’t much.

What good would that do her? Yes, it’d temporarily make her feel better.

But in the long term, would it do anything to help her father? Definitely not.

Gaby’s jaw muscles clenched. Her back teeth ground together.

“If that’s all, I must go.”

“It’s not all.” He wasn’t getting off that easy. “My father was doing what he thought was best for my aunt.”

“What does your aunt have to do with this? Or was she one of those misguided people that he coerced into shouting lies and throwing garbage onto my property?”

Gaby wasn’t going to let this man go on about her father and aunt. Did he really not know who her father was? “My aunt wasn’t outside your house. She—she died in the car accident.”

There was a swift intake of breath as though at last he understood the gravity of the situation. A long silence ensued. Was it possible she’d finally gotten through to him?

Still, she didn’t breathe easy—not yet. In just the short period of time that she’d spoken with this man, she’d learned that he didn’t change his mind easily. And yet, she couldn’t give up.

* * *

Every muscle in his body tensed.

Deacon Santoro didn’t utter a word as he processed this new piece of information. How was this the first he’d heard of the woman in the accident having a family?

He searched his impaired memory for an answer. And then he latched on to the vital information. The police had said the woman had no family—no living parents, no ex-spouses and no children. Just a surviving brother. Deacon had never thought to ask about nieces and nephews.

Deacon swallowed hard. “You’re her niece?”

“Yes. My name’s Gaby.”

“As in Gabrielle?”

“Yes. My aunt was the only one who called me Gabrielle.”

Take care of Gabrielle.

Those words haunted him each night in his short and troubled sleep. Until now, he’d never understood what they meant. He didn’t know anyone named Gabrielle. But suddenly a jagged piece of a memory from the accident came back to him. It wasn’t an image but rather a voice. The woman from the accident had told him to take care of her niece.

And it was his chance to make sure the woman’s final words were fulfilled. The need to help Gabrielle was overwhelming. But how? He needed time to absorb this revelation—to form a viable plan.

Deacon cleared his throat. “I didn’t know she was your aunt. No one told me.”

“Now you can understand my father’s actions. He’s grieving for his younger sister. He isn’t thinking clearly.”

“But that still doesn’t make up for what he’s cost me.” Thanks to her father, another in a string of employees had quit. And thanks to the negative publicity, associates were shying away from doing business with him.

“I will do whatever I can to make this right.”

He applauded her for trying to clean up a mess that wasn’t hers. “How much are you talking about?”

“You want money?” Her voice took on a note of distress.

No. He had enough of his own, but he didn’t want this conversation to end—not until he knew a bit more about this woman. “You did offer to make things right and I lost a lot of money when two promising business ventures fell through thanks to your father’s actions.”

“I—I don’t have any money. Please believe me. I work two jobs to keep us afloat.”

“Us?” The word rolled off his tongue before he could stop it. Suddenly he pictured this woman with a husband and children—her own support system.

“Yes. Me and my father.”

At this point, Deacon should just hang up, but he couldn’t do it. The father may have stepped over the line, but the daughter hadn’t. And those words kept haunting him—take care of Gabrielle.

“What do you have in mind?” he asked.

“I could go outside and talk to the media. I could explain my father’s actions—”

“Don’t. The less said the better.” All the while, he was considering how best to help this woman, who obviously had too much on her plate.

“So if my father and I agree not to say another word, you will see that the charges are dropped?”

“No. Not only has my name been slandered in the news, but my assistant was coming back from lunch when your father’s protest was at its height. She was verbally assaulted and had things thrown at her. She has quit. And the temp agency doesn’t want to send anyone else.”

“Oh.” Gabrielle paused. “I don’t know what you want me to do to make this right.”

“You don’t need to do anything. You did not cause this mess.” Something told him this wasn’t Gabrielle’s first time cleaning up after her father. Perhaps taking care of Gabrielle meant freeing her from being constantly at her father’s beck and call. “Your father must face up to what he’s done.”

“But he’s in no physical condition to go through the legal process—”

“This isn’t your first time fixing things for your father, is it?”

“No.” She quickly added, “But he needs me.”

“Your father, can he cook for himself?”

“Yes, but—”

“Do his own laundry and shopping?”

“Yes, but—”

“You do most everything for him, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. I’m his daughter. Now tell me what I can do to remedy things.”

In that moment, Deacon knew what needed to be done. Without giving himself a chance to back out, he said, “There is one thing and it’s nonnegotiable.”

“Name it.”

“Come work for me.”


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_f1cb686e-2711-55b1-b932-0cc235126ba4)

Two days later...

WHAT EXACTLY HAD she agreed to?

Gabrielle Dupré’s heart beat faster as she turned into the gated drive of the Santoro estate. Her gaze shifted to the clock on the dash. The drive from Bakersfield had taken more than four hours. She definitely wouldn’t want to deal with that long commute each day. Thankfully Newton, an old friend from the neighborhood, had recently moved back to town and was renting a room from her father and had agreed to keep an eye on him while she worked here at the estate. Newton had changed since she’d last seen him, but he was happy to be there for her father, and they seemed to get on.

Deacon had offered her more money to work here than both of her jobs combined. It also included free room and board. Under different circumstances, she’d be excited about the opportunity. But with her father convinced that Mr. Santoro was the reason her aunt had died, being here felt uncomfortable to say the least.

She swallowed hard and reached out the driver’s side window, pressing a finger to a button on the intercom. She waited for someone to speak to her. However, without a word the gate swept open. She had to admit she was curious to see what awaited her on the other side of the wall. She’d done an internet search, but it hadn’t turned up any pictures of the estate.

Gabrielle eased her father’s vintage red convertible onto the overgrown grounds. It certainly wasn’t the grand estate that she’d been anticipating. Perhaps at one time this place might have been beautiful, but now it was woefully neglected. The grass appeared not to have been cut in ages. The bushes were overgrown and gangly. The flower gardens were overrun with weeds that were strangling out the few remaining flowers.

The internet sites said that Deacon Santoro had become a recluse since he’d been involved in the deadly accident. Apparently for once, the paparazzi hadn’t been totally wrong. There was definitely something amiss on this estate.

The Malibu beach house was a stunning piece of midcentury architecture. Gabrielle slowed the car to a stop to have a better look around. Feeling as though someone was staring at her, she glanced up at the massive white mansion. There was no one standing in any of the windows. But there was a window on the top floor where the sheers moved. Cold fingertips inched down her spine.

Stop it. You’re just being melodramatic. It’s not like this is a haunted mansion.

No matter what she told herself, she couldn’t shake her uneasiness. If it wasn’t for her father, she’d turn around and leave. But a deal was a deal.

When she’d handed in her immediate resignation at the library, they’d refused to accept it. The staff was small and they were all close, like a family. So, she was on sabbatical leave until her deal with Deacon was concluded. She was so grateful to have a job to return to. It was one less thing she had to worry about.

However, when she’d resigned at the tabloid, she’d made the mistake of letting Deacon Santoro’s name cross her lips. That spiked everyone’s interest. She’d been passed up the chain of management until she’d been sitting across from the managing editor. And when the whole sordid truth came tumbling out, the editor had assured her that she didn’t need to quit. In fact, they’d increased her pay.

The editor was putting Gaby on an assignment. The money was most welcome as her father’s mounting medical expense were beyond her means. She had been shocked until it became clear that they wanted her to feed them every bit of dirt she could dig up on Deacon Santoro. She’d initially refused. Finding out the truth about her aunt’s death was one thing. Digging up information about his private life just for sensational headlines was something else.

In the end, they’d all agreed that she would remain on the payroll and submit a daily report with information regarding the deadly accident. After all, if the legal system wouldn’t do anything about it, someone had to seek justice in whatever way possible. And so Gaby had come here not only to protect her father, but also to uncover the truth about the accident and to expose Deacon’s actions to the world.

At the time, the plan had seemed so easy. She’d play along as his assistant and befriend the man, which from the looks of the desolate place wouldn’t be hard. Then she’d get him to open up about the accident. She would prove that he was responsible for her aunt’s death. At last the world would know the truth, just like her father had wanted for so long. And then she could return to her life—a life that was temporarily on pause.

Gabrielle wheeled the car into a parking spot next to a late model gray sedan. She’d arrived early this morning as she’d wanted to make a good impression on Mr. Santoro. She didn’t want to give him any reason to go back on his agreement to drop the charges against her father, and that included keeping her connection with QTR magazine hush-hush.

She climbed out of the car and lifted her head to the blue sky. There was a gusty breeze. The forecasters said there was a storm brewing over the Pacific, although it hadn’t reached them yet. But there was an ominous tension in the air.

She turned to head inside, but she wasn’t sure where to go. There was yet another fence surrounding the building. There were numerous gates but no signs indicating where each led.

A movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. Her gaze strayed across the outline of a figure in the distance.

“Excuse me,” Gabrielle called out as she rushed forward.

The man’s back was to her.

She called out again.

The man straightened from where he was bent over a rosebush. He was wearing jeans, a black long-sleeved shirt and a ball cap. He didn’t turn around. Did he hear her?

“Hey, could you tell me where to go?” Not about to continue screaming across the grounds, she started down to a set of stained concrete steps leading to the garden.

By the time she reached the bottom step, the man was gone. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her. He could still be around here somewhere. She started walking around in hopes of spotting him again. However, he was nowhere to be found. How was that possible? He was just here a second ago. She turned around in a circle. Where had he gone so quickly?

She sighed and was about to walk away when she paused to take in her surroundings. She stood on the edge of an expansive rose garden with a winding footpath. Unlike the rest of the overgrown yard, this section was neat and tidy. She found this shocking. What made this garden so special? It was just one more question that she had for Mr. Santoro.

Gaby headed back up the steps to the parking area. If worse came to worse, she would try all the gates and open all of the doors she encountered until she found where she belonged. You really would think Mr. Santoro would greet her or at the very least call her.

Time was getting away from her. If she didn’t hurry, she was going to start off this arrangement by being late. Talk about making a bad situation worse. She picked up her pace.

At the top of the steps, she glanced around. On both sides of the parking area were doors. There was the large main house and there were six garage doors with what appeared to be a guesthouse atop them. Would he have put the office in the guesthouse?

Her gaze moved back and forth between the two structures as she tried to make up her mind. Just as she decided to try the main house, a gate swung open. At last, Mr. Santoro had come to greet her.

She rushed toward the door, but she came to a halt when an older woman with white hair and a round, rosy face came hurrying out. The woman was muttering something under her breath and shaking her head, but Gaby wasn’t able to make out what she was saying.

When the woman’s gaze met hers, a smile softened the woman’s face. She had kind eyes and a warm smile. “Ah...hello, dearie. You must be Mr. Santoro’s new assistant.”

Gaby smiled back at the woman. “I am. My name’s Gaby Dupré.”

“Welcome Ms. Dupré. And you can call me Mrs. Kupps. Mr. Santoro, he likes formality.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Kupps.” Gaby held out her hand to the woman. “But please feel free to call me Gaby.”

The woman giggled and placed her hand in Gaby’s for a brief shake. “I’m pleased to meet you, too,” she whispered, “Gaby.”

“Will you be showing me what I need to do?”

The woman shook her head. “Not me, dearie. I wouldn’t have a clue. I’m the housekeeper and cook.”

Gaby was disappointed. Working with Mrs. Kupps would have certainly made her workday interesting. “Do you know who will be showing me what I need to do?”

“I assume that would be Mr. Santoro.”

“Oh, will he be out soon?”

The woman clucked her tongue. “Mr. Santoro does not get out much these days.”

“Not even on his own estate?”

The woman shook her head as a serious look came over her face. “He prefers to stay in his suite of rooms.”

This arrangement was getting stranger by the minute.

“But how will I be able to work with him?”

“He will phone you.”

And then Mrs. Kupps pointed out the way to the office. Gaby made it there with ease. Once inside, she glanced around the office, taking in the white walls and two desks that faced each other from across the room. They were both sparsely set up, but the one to her left looked a bit haphazard, as though the person had been in a rush to get out the door.

The room was adorned with beach decorations and a couple of prints of the ocean. It was pretty, but there was nothing of the man that owned this spacious estate. There were no movie posters, no snapshots of Mr. Santoro with costars and no awards. It was though he’d purposely removed himself from the room. But why?

Gaby moved to one of the desks and placed her purse as well as her pink-and-white tote on the desk chair. Her gaze scanned the desk as she searched for any instructions of what was expected of her or a number that she was supposed to call upon arrival.

Then the phone rang.

* * *

He should have never agreed to bring Gabrielle here.

The decision had been made in haste.

And it was a mistake.

Deacon paced back and forth in his private study. This woman with the honeyed voice was dangerous, as she was poised to be a distraction from the stark reality of his situation. She would make him think about all of the damage that had been done. If only he could remember the accident—remember if he was at fault.

He would need to be on constant guard around her. With her being the niece of the woman who had died in his arms, she would be out to finish what her father started—destroying him.

And then he’d almost been caught by Gabrielle while he was in the rose garden.

It was his oasis. His chance to feel like a normal person, not a man hunted and hounded for the truth—something he didn’t possess. How exactly had she missed the sign that explicitly said Do Not Enter?

Luckily he’d had enough time to make a clean escape. But as her sweet voice called out to him, he’d hesitated. An overwhelming urge came over him to capture a glimpse of the face that went with such a melodious voice.

In the shadows, he paused and turned back. He’d been awestruck. He didn’t know how long he’d stood there in the shadows watching her move about the garden searching for him. Her long hair had bounced around her slim shoulders. Her face—it was captivating. It wasn’t the type of beauty that was created with powder and makeup. No. Hers was a natural, undeniable beauty.

Her creamy complexion was flawless. He was too far away to catch the color of her eyes. He imagined they would be blue. His gaze strayed down past her pert nose and paused on her lush, rosy lips. Oh, she was definitely going to be a big distraction.

He jerked his meandering thoughts to an immediate halt. What was done, was done, as his mother would say. Now he had to deal with the consequences.

Deacon Santoro gripped the phone in his good hand and pressed the number for the office. He lifted the receiver to his ear. Two rings later, Gabrielle answered. The tone of her voice was a sweet blend of vanilla and caramel with a touch of honey.

He did not have time to get caught up in such nonsense.

Focus.

Deacon resumed pacing. “I see you decided to abide by our agreement.”

“I don’t see how I had any choice?”

“Everybody has choices—”

“Not in this case.”

“And you were able to find someone to check in on your father?” He didn’t know why he’d asked except that when he’d first made this proposal, Gabrielle had been quite hesitant to leave her father.

“I have a friend staying with him. Newton just moved back to the area and my father had a spare room. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“I take it you’ve since changed your mind about this Newton.”

Gabrielle hesitated. “Let’s just say I’ve gotten to know him better and he’s not the same as I remembered.”

“I see.” Deacon’s curiosity spiked, but he forced himself to drop the Newton subject. “At least you won’t have to worry about your father.”

Deacon was impressed by her allegiance to her father, but that wouldn’t be enough to sway him to concede. Her father had cost him more than just bad press, a mess in his yard and upset employees—her father had stirred up the paparazzi. Once again, there were news reports on television and the internet. His phone—with its private number—was now receiving calls from journalists wanting “the truth.”

The little sleep he did get was once again riddled with nightmares—fiery, jagged dreams. But when he woke up, the images blurred and the memories receded to the back of his mind. With each dream, he hoped he’d be able to latch on to the elusive truth of what happened on that deadly night. But try as he might, his memory had holes the size of craters and images blurred as if in a dense fog.

The doctors had warned him that the memories might never come back to him. That was not the answer he’d wanted to hear. He needed the truth—even if it meant he was responsible for taking another person’s life. Trying to live with the unknown was a torture that had him knotted up inside.

“If you would just tell me where to meet you, we can sit down and go over what is expected of me.” Gabrielle’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Of course it is.”

He could hear the confusion in her voice. She wasn’t the first assistant that had been uncomfortable with his distant style of management, but it was the way it had to be. He didn’t need anyone eyeing him with pity. He didn’t deserve anyone feeling sorry for him. It was best for him to keep to the shadows. The accident had left permanent scars on him both inside and out. His career as an actor was over. And he was now struggling to find a new position for himself in the background of Hollywood.

He cleared his throat. “All of your instructions are on your computer. The password is capital B-e-a-c-h.”

“Will you be stopping by the office later?”

“No.”

“I don’t understand—”

“We will conduct our business via the phone or preferably by email.”

“But what if I have papers for you to sign? Or mail. I’m assuming that I’ll be receiving your business correspondence.”

“You will. And if you check next to the interior door, there is a mail slot. Drop whatever correspondence needs my attention in there and I’ll get to it.”

“But that doesn’t seem very efficient. I don’t mind bringing it to you—”

“No!” His voice vibrated with emotion. He clenched his jaw and swallowed hard. He didn’t want to have to explain himself. After all, he was the boss. In a calmer voice, he said, “This is the arrangement. If you don’t like it, you are free to leave. Our deal will be null and void.”

“And my father?”

“He will face the judge and pay for the trouble he caused.”

“No. I can do this.” Her words were right, but her voice lacked conviction.

In all honesty, if she quit, he didn’t know what he’d do for help. The temp agencies had blacklisted him after he’d gone through a dozen temps in the past couple of months. But he’d make do, one way or the other. He always had in the past. “You’re sure?”

“I am.”

“Then I will let you review the document that I’ve emailed you. It should explain everything including the fact that I work late into the night, but I don’t expect you to. However, I will have work waiting for you each morning.” When sleep evaded him, he found it best to keep his mind busy. It kept the frustration and worries of the unknown at bay.

“Does anyone else work in the office?” she asked.

“No.”

She didn’t immediately respond.

He hadn’t considered that she wouldn’t like working alone. It had been one of his requirements through the temp agencies, but Gabrielle hadn’t given him time to get in to specifics when they’d spoken on the phone. Maybe this was his way out—even if the voice inside his head kept saying that he needed to watch out for her.

He cleared his throat. “If working alone is going to be a problem, we could end this now.”

The silence on her end continued. He really wished he could look into her eyes. For the first time, he found communicating via the phone frustrating.

“No. It won’t be a problem.” Her voice sounded confident. “But I have a stipulation of my own.”

“And that would be?”

“I need to speak with my father at least once a day—”

“That’s fine.”

“Would you reconsider letting me visit him? He will miss me.”

This separation was to punish her father—not her. He’d cost Deacon and now the man had to pay a price—even if it wasn’t dictated by a judge. Her father would learn not to take Gabrielle for granted.

“He should have thought of that before he allowed you to pay the price for his actions. Our arrangement will hold. You will stay here and work for three months.”

Deacon knew what it was like to be alone. Both of his parents had passed on and he had no siblings. Other than Mrs. Kupps, the housekeeper, he was alone in this big rambling estate—except now Gabrielle was here. And somehow her mere presence seemed to make this place a little more appealing and less like a prison.

“My father didn’t make me do anything. I volunteered.” Her indignation came through loud and clear.

“Now that everything is settled, I’ll let you get to work.” Deacon disconnected the call.

Something told him this was going to be a very, very long three months. But it definitely wouldn’t be boring.


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_334a2610-5159-5a85-a9f1-aebe638d54a7)

THIS DEFINITELY WASN’T her best first day on the job.

In fact, it ranked right up there as one of the worst.

And the day wasn’t over yet.

A loud crack of thunder shook the windows at the same time as lightning lit up the sky around the guesthouse. Gabrielle rushed to close the French doors. Somehow the weather seemed rather fitting.

She had one more piece of business before she curled up with a book and escaped from reality. She had to file her first report with QTR.

Gaby sat down at the granite kitchen bar and opened her laptop. She stared at a blank screen with the cursor blinking at her...mocking her. What would she say? She didn’t even know what format to use. Did they expect her to tell a story or stick to bullet points?

Sure, she’d earned a bachelor’s degree in journalism, but with a downturn in the economy, she hadn’t been able to land a position in publishing, so she’d returned to school. She’d gone on to get a second degree in library science. Books had always been her first love.

And as much as she loved words, right now they wouldn’t come to her. She typed a couple of words, but they didn’t sound right. She deleted them.

This is ridiculous. It’s not an article for the public to read. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just needs to be the facts. So start writing.

The man has closed himself completely off from others. Is it the result of guilt? Or something else?

As she pressed Enter to begin the next point, the landline rang. That was odd. She hadn’t given anyone that phone number. Her father had her cell phone number.

She picked up the phone. “Hello.”

“Did you find everything you need?” Not a greeting. Just straight to the point.

“Yes, I did.”

“I wasn’t sure what you like to eat, so I had Mrs. Kupps prepare you a plate of pasta, a tossed salad and some fresh baked bread. You will find it in your kitchen.”

Outside the storm raged on with thunder and howling wind. Gaby did her best to ignore it. “Thank you.” Had he called purely out of courtesy? Or was this his way of checking up on her? Perhaps this was her opportunity to flush him out of the shadows. “Will you be joining me?”

“No.” His voice was firm and without hesitation. He was certainly a stubborn man. “In the future, you can let Mrs. Kupps know what you eat and don’t eat, so that she can plan the menu appropriately.”

“I—I can do that.” She hesitated. “The guesthouse is nice.” There was some sort of grunt on his end of the phone. She wasn’t sure what it was supposed to mean, so she ignored it. “What time would you like to get started in the morning?”

“I start before the sun is up. You can start by eight. Will that be a problem?”

“No. Not at all.” She was used to opening the library at eight each morning. “I have a few things that I’d like to go over with you. Shall we meet in my office?”

“I thought you understood that this arrangement is to be by phone or email. I don’t do one-on-one meetings—”

“But—”

“There are no exceptions. Good night.”

And with that terse conclusion, he’d hung up on her. She stared at the phone. She could not believe that this man was so stubborn. Working for him was going to be difficult, but trying to get information about the accident from him was going to be downright impossible—unless she could get past this wall between them. And she hadn’t come this far to give up.

Gaby hung up the phone and turned her attention back to the report for QTR. She’d lost her concentration after speaking with Deacon. She was back to staring at the blinking cursor and wondering what she should write.

QTR had assured her that before anything was published, they would get her approval. She wouldn’t have agreed to the arrangement otherwise. After all, she didn’t want them getting the facts wrong.

Although at this point, there wouldn’t be much to write about the elusive Mr. Santoro. Giving herself the freedom to write about anything she’d learned so far, she resumed typing.

His estate in in disarray with overgrown vegetation. Was it always this way?

He’s run off multiple assistants. What has happened? Has he fired them? If so, for what?

Locked door between the office and the rest of the house. What is he hiding?

The man lacks social niceties. Has he always been this way? Or is this a new thing?

It certainly wasn’t a stellar first report. Would they be upset that it contained more questions than answers? Or would they appreciate her train of thought and look forward to the answers?

Accepting that it was the best she could do now, she proofread the email. Gabrielle pressed Send and closed her personal laptop.

She moved to the French doors and stared at the sky—the storm had now moved away. She opened the doors, enjoying the fresh scent of rain in the air. In the distance, the lightning provided a beautiful show. Was Mr. Santoro staring at the sky, too? She instinctively glanced in the direction of the main house, but she couldn’t see it as it sat farther back than the guesthouse.

Still, she couldn’t stop thinking about her mysterious boss. There had to be a way to break through the man’s wall. She would find it, one way or the other.


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_a1f96d64-e150-541c-b038-e58cdb9ee7b7)

TWO DAYS...

Forty-eight hours...

Two thousand, eight hundred and eighty minutes...

One hundred seventy-two thousand and eight hundred seconds...

No matter how Gaby stated it, that was how long she’d been at the Santoro estate and how long she’d gone without laying eyes on her new boss. It was weird. Beyond weird. What would that be? Bizarre?

Gaby sighed. Whatever you called it, she wasn’t comfortable with this arrangement. Not that her accommodations weren’t comfortable. In fact, they were quite luxurious. And unlike the estate’s grounds, the guest suite was immaculate, thanks to Mr. Santoro’s housekeeper, Mrs. Kupps. The woman had even written her a note, welcoming her.

Gaby glanced at her bedside table and realized that she’d slept in. She only had five minutes until she was due at the office. She had to get a move on. She slipped on a plain black skirt to go with a gray cap-sleeve blouse. There was a jacket that went with the outfit, but she rejected it. It was a warm day and she was more comfortable without the jacket. After all, it wasn’t as if she had any business meetings. When Mr. Santoro said that he would limit their interactions to strictly email with the rare phone call, he hadn’t been exaggerating.

She stepped in front of the full-length mirror and slipped on her black stilettos. With her height of only five foot two, the extra inches added to her confidence.

A knock sounded at the door, startling Gaby. She knew who it was without even opening the door. It would be Mrs. Kupps trying to lure her into eating breakfast. Gaby already explained that she didn’t eat much in the mornings. In all honesty, she loved breakfast but never had time for it. She’d grown used to her liquid diet of coffee, with sugar and milk. It was easy to grab when she was on the run. Upon learning this, Mrs. Kupps had clucked her tongue and told her that she would end up with an ulcer if she didn’t take better care of herself.

Gaby rushed to the door. “Good morning.”

Mrs. Kupps stood there with a bright smile, a tray full of food and a carafe of coffee. “Good morning to you, too. I just brought you a little something to eat.” Mrs. Kupps rushed past her and entered the small kitchen, placing the tray on the bar area. “I know you’re in a hurry, but I’m determined to find something you can eat quickly.”

“Mrs. Kupps, you don’t have to do that.” And then, because she really didn’t want to hurt the woman’s feelings, she added, “But it is really sweet of you. And the food looks amazing.”

Mrs. Kupps beamed. “Oh, it’s nothing, dearie. I enjoy having someone around here to spoil. Lord knows Mr. Santoro doesn’t let anyone fuss over him since the accident. He’s like a big old bear with a thorn in his paw.”

“So he wasn’t always so standoffish?”

Mrs. Kupps began setting out the food. “Goodness, no. He was always gracious and friendly. Perhaps he was a bit wrapped up in his acting career, but that’s to be expected with his huge success. But now, he lurks about all alone in that big mansion. He doesn’t see guests and rarely takes phone calls. I cook all his favorites, but his appetite isn’t what it used to be. I’m really worried about him.”

“Do you know what’s wrong with him?” Gaby couldn’t help but wonder if the guilt over the accident was gnawing at him.

Mrs. Kupps shrugged. “I don’t know. And I really shouldn’t have said anything. I just don’t want you to leave. We need someone young and spirited around here. Lord knows, we’ve gone through assistant after assistant. He’s even tried to run me off but it’s not going to happen.” The woman smiled at her. “You’re a breath of fresh air. I have a good feeling about you.”

Mrs. Kupps checked that everything was as it should be and then made a quick exit. It wasn’t until the door shut that Gaby thought of a question for the very kind woman. Why did she stay here? Mr. Santoro was not the easiest person to work for. In fact, he was demanding and expected nothing but perfection with everything that Gaby did. And when she messed up, there was a terse note telling her to fix said error. And he didn’t spare the exclamation points.

Still, she had agreed to this arrangement to save her father—a father who was now more eager to know what dirt she had dug up on her boss than worrying about how she was making out in such strained circumstances. It was all he’d wanted to talk about on the phone. His full attention was on making Mr. Santoro pay for the accident.

Gaby’s gaze scanned over the croissant and steaming coffee. There was also a dish of strawberries. Okay. So maybe she had enough time to enjoy a few bites. Her stomach rumbled its approval. Perhaps some nourishment would help her deal with the stress of the day.

She couldn’t help but wonder if this would be the day that Mr. Santoro revealed himself to her. He couldn’t hide from her forever.

* * *

Deacon awoke with a jerk. His gaze sought out the clock above the door. He’d slept for more than two hours without waking. That was a new record for him, but it had come at a cost. He’d had another nightmare and, even worse, he was late.

It’d been another night spent in his office. He preferred it to staring into the dark waiting for sleep to claim him. Because with the sleep came the nightmares.

A couple of months after the accident, his nightmares had started to subside. But then Gabrielle’s father had staged his protest with a megaphone, and he’d shouted horrible accusations. It was then that the nightmares had resumed. Sometimes Deacon remembered bits and pieces. There were brutal images of fire, blood and carnage. He had to wonder how much was real and how much had been a figment of his imagination.

Other times, he was left with a blank memory but a deep, dark feeling that dogged him throughout the day. It’d gotten so bad that he dreaded falling asleep. That’s when his insomnia had set in with a vengeance. After spending one sleepless night after the next, he’d given up sleeping in his bed. In fact, he’d given up on sleep and only dozed when utter exhaustion claimed him.

It’d helped to keep his mind busy. And so he’d become a workaholic. Knowing the movie industry inside and out, he was working on starting his own production business. But being the man behind the curtain meant he had to find people he could rely on to do the legwork for him. That was proving to be a challenging task.

He’d just sat down to read over the lengthy letter that Gabrielle had typed up for him. It had been late in the night or early in the morning, depending on how you looked at it. He’d made it to the last page when his eyes just wouldn’t focus anymore. Blinking hadn’t helped. Rubbing them hadn’t made a difference. And so he’d closed them just for a moment.

He jumped to his feet and gathered up the papers that he’d reviewed. If he didn’t get these on Gabrielle’s desk before she arrived, it would have to wait until lunchtime. Because the mail drop in the wall only went one way. There was no way for him to deliver any documents anonymously for his assistant. He would have to see about rectifying that, but for now, he had to beat Gabrielle to the office.

He strode toward the door. When he reached out his hand for the doorknob, he couldn’t help but notice the webbed scars on the back of his hand. They were a constant reminder of the horror he might have caused that impacted so many lives—especially Gabrielle’s.

It was no secret that he’d liked his cars fast and he’d driven them like he was on a racetrack. He couldn’t remember the details of that fateful night, but it wouldn’t surprise him if he’d been speeding. If only the police would just release their findings. Gabrielle’s father wasn’t the only one anxious for that report.

His attorney had told him there were a number of complications. There had been an intense fire that destroyed evidence followed by a torrential downpour. Deacon didn’t care about any of it. He just needed to know—was he responsible for taking a life?

Deacon moved through the darkened hallway, past the dust-covered statues and the cobwebs lurking in the corners. He didn’t care. It wasn’t like there was anyone in the house but him. Not even Mrs. Kupps was allowed in this part of the house. She kept to the kitchen and the office suite.

He descended the stairs in rushed steps. When he reached the locked door that led to the office area, he paused. There was no light visible from under the door and no sounds coming from within. He hated sneaking around his own home, but he didn’t have any other choice. He didn’t want to startle her with his appearance.

He recalled what had happened when his friends, or rather the people he’d considered friends, had visited him in the hospital right after his accident. They were unable to hide their repulsion at seeing the scars on his face, neck and arms. And then he’d held up a mirror to see for himself. The damage was horrific. After numerous rounds of plastic surgery, his plastic surgeon insisted the swelling and red angry scars would fade. Deacon didn’t believe him. He’d already witnessed the devastating damage that had been done. It was so bad that he’d removed all the mirrors in the house as well as any reminders of how he used to look.

Deacon banished the troublesome thoughts. What was done, was done. He moved into the office and placed the stack of papers on Gabrielle’s desk. That would definitely keep her busy today and probably some of tomorrow.

He noticed that her desk was tidy. However, there were no pictures or anything to tell him a little about her. It was though she wasn’t planning to be here one minute longer than necessary to repay her father’s debt. Not that Deacon could blame her—no one wanted to be here, including him. But he couldn’t go out in the world—not until the accident was resolved and answers were provided.

Without tarrying too long, he turned to leave. He was almost to the door when he heard a key scrape in the lock. For a moment, he wondered what it would be like to linger in the office and have a face-to-face conversation with Gabrielle. In that moment, he realized how much he missed human contact. Maybe if he were to stay—maybe it would be different this time. Maybe she wouldn’t look at him like he was a monster—a monster that killed her aunt.

He gave himself a mental shake. It was just a bunch of wishful thinking. He moved with lightning speed to the other door. He grasped the doorknob and, without slowing down, he gave it a yank, slipped into the outer hallway and kept moving. He needed distance from the woman who made him think about how one night—one moment—had ruined things for so many people.


CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_4601924a-2c1f-5d78-83a1-0ad799a44999)

DIDN’T THIS MAN SLEEP?

It was almost lunchtime and Gaby hadn’t even scratched the surface of all the tasks her boss had left for her. It didn’t help that the phone rang constantly. Most calls were from reporters wanting to speak with Deacon. She had been left strict instructions to tell them “no comment” and hang up. With business associates, she was left with explaining that Deacon didn’t take phone calls. When she explained that they would have to deal with her, it didn’t go over well. Still, Gaby persisted. She had a job to do.

With a sigh, Gaby pressed Send on an email requesting the script for a film that Deacon was considering backing. But from what she could gather from prior correspondence and the files in the office, he had requested a lot of screenplays, but had yet to back one. She wanted to ask him how he decided which would be worth his money and which wouldn’t.

Gaby got up to place the mail in the allotted slot for Mr. Santoro. When she approached the mail slot, she noticed the connecting door was slightly ajar. She slipped the papers into the slot and then turned back to the door. It beckoned to her.

What would it hurt to go see what was on the other side?

She knew if Mr. Santoro caught her, he would not be happy. In fact, it could very well blow up their whole deal. But if she didn’t take a chance now, would she ever find out what he was hiding?

And to be fair, she was never told that she couldn’t enter the house—only that mail was to go in the slot and communication would be phone or email. She had a hard time believing that he was as bad off as Mrs. Kupps had let on. This place wasn’t exactly a dungeon by any means. He probably was just avoiding all the unanswered questions about the accident. And it was high time he stopped hiding from the truth and faced up to what had happened.

With a renewed determination, Gaby placed her hand on the doorknob and pulled the door open. It moved easily and soundlessly. There were no lights on in the hallway, but a window toward the back of the house let in some sunshine, lighting her way.

She didn’t know what she expected when she crossed the threshold—an enraged Deacon Santoro, or a dark, dank house?—but she found neither. The house was done up in mainly white walls and marble floors. What she did notice was all of the empty spaces on the walls. There were mounted lights as though to illuminate a work of art or a framed photo, but there was nothing below any of the lights, as though even the hangings had been removed. How odd. The oddity was beginning to become a theme where Mr. Santoro was concerned.

The first set of doors she came to had frosted-glass inserts. One door stood ajar. She peered inside, wondering if at last she’d come face-to-face with Deacon Santoro, the larger-than-life legend. But the room appeared to be empty—except for all of the books lining the bookshelves.

Her eyes widened as she took in what must be thousands of titles. She stepped farther into the room, finding the bookcases rose up at least two stories. Like a bee to honey, she was drawn to the remarkable library. There was a ladder that glided along a set of rails to reach the top shelves. And a spiral staircase for the second floor of shelves with yet another ladder. It was truly remarkable.

She didn’t know whether she had walked onto the set of My Fair Lady or the library of Beauty and the Beast. She’d never seen anything so magnificent. She moved to the closest bookshelf and found an entire row of leather-bound classics. It was then that she noticed the thick layer of dust and the sunshine illuminating a spiderweb in the corner. Who would neglect such a marvelous place?

Gaby ignored the dust and lifted a volume from the shelf. She opened the cover to find that it was a first edition—a signed first edition. It was probably priceless or at least worth more than she could ever pay.

And then she realized that if it was so valuable, she shouldn’t be holding it in her bare hands. When she reached out to return it to the shelf, she heard footsteps behind her. She paused, not sure what to do. She moved the book behind her back. The time had come to face Mr. Santoro and suddenly she was assailed with nerves. It probably wouldn’t help her case to be found hiding a collector’s item. Her hand trembled and she almost dropped the book, but with determination, she gently placed it back on the shelf.

She leveled her shoulders, preparing for a hostile confrontation, and turned. The man had just entered the library and caught sight of her at the same time she had spotted him. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, which struck her as odd considering it was warm outside. And then she realized he was the man she spotted the first day that she’d arrived. He was the mysterious man from the rose garden.

“Who—who are you?” She didn’t take her eyes off him.

His dark eyes narrowed. “I’m the one who should be asking questions here.”

The voice, it was familiar. Was it possible that this was Deacon Santoro? She peered closely at him, trying to make up her mind. She supposed that it could be him. But it was his hair that surprised her. It was a longer style, if you could call it a style. The dark strands brushed down over his collar and hung down in his face.

She’d never seen him wear his hair that long in any of the movies he’d played in and yes, she’d seen them all. At one point, she’d have been proud of that fact, but after the accident, she’d wondered what she’d ever seen in the man.

When her gaze returned to his face, she had to tilt her chin upward. He was tall, well north of six feet.

And by the downturn of his mouth, he was not happy to find her in here. Her heart picked up its pace. She should turn away, but she couldn’t. She needed to size up the man—all of him. She swallowed hard and jerked her gaze from his mouth. She really had to get a grip on herself. After all, he was the enemy, not some sexy movie star... Okay maybe he was that, too.

Ugh! This is getting complicated.

Her gaze took in the full, thick beard. It covered a large portion of his face. Between the beard and his longer hair, his face was hidden from view, for the most part. Except for his eyes. Those dark mysterious eyes stared directly at her, but they didn’t give away a thing.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was deep and vibrated with agitation.

“I was looking for you.” She refused to let on that his presence unnerved her. She clasped her hands together to keep from fidgeting. “I thought it was time we met.” She stepped forward and held out her hand. “Hello, Mr. Santoro.”

His eyebrows drew together and he frowned as he gazed at her hand, but he made no move to shake it. “I told you I don’t do face-to-face meetings. And you may call me Deacon.”

Gaby recalled what Mrs. Kupps had said about him preferring formality and was surprised he’d suggest she call him by his given name. Perhaps he wasn’t as stuck in his ways as she’d originally thought.

“And I don’t like to be kept isolated.” Ignoring the quiver of her stomach, Gaby withdrew her hand. “If I am going to work with a person, they need to have the decency to meet with me—to talk one-on-one with me.”

“You’ve seen me. Now go!”

She crossed her arms, refusing to budge. It was time someone called him out on his ridiculous behavior. “Does everyone jump when you growl?”

“I don’t growl.”

She arched a disbelieving eyebrow at him.

“I don’t.” He averted his gaze.

“You might want to be a little nicer to the people who work for you.” And then she decided that pushing him too far would not help her cause, and said, “I have a request that just came in today for you to make an appearance at the upcoming awards show to present an award—”

“No.”

“No? As in you don’t want to attend? Or no, as in you won’t be a presenter?”

“No, as in I’m not leaving this house. And no, I’m not presenting any awards. Have you looked at me? No one would want me in front of a camera.”

The fact that he’d dismissed the idea so quickly surprised her. For some reason, she thought he would enjoy being in the spotlight. Isn’t that what all movie stars craved?

Deciding it might be best to change the subject, she said, “You have an amazing library.”

At first, he didn’t say a word. She could feel his gaze following her as she made her way around the room, impressed that the books were placed in the Library of Congress classification system. Was it possible Mr. Santoro...erm, Deacon loved books as much as her?

“I see you have your books cataloged.” She turned back to him. “Do you also have a digital catalog?”

He nodded. “The computer that houses the database is over there.”

She followed the line of his finger to a small wooden desk next to the door she’d entered. “This place is amazing. I’ve never known anyone with such an elaborate private library.”

His dark eyebrows rose behind his shaggy hair. “You like books?”

“I love them. I’m a librarian and...” Realizing that she was about to reveal that she was an aspiring journalist would only make him more wary of her.

“And what?”

“I was going to say that I read every chance I get.” She turned back to him. “I take it you read, too.”

He shrugged. “I used to. These days my reading is all work-related.”

“That’s a shame, because books are the key to the imagination. You can travel the world between the pages of a book. Or visit another time period. Anything is possible in a book.”

“What is your favorite genre?”

“I have two—suspense and romance. And cozy mysteries. And some biographies.” She couldn’t help but laugh at herself. “I have a lot of favorites. It depends on my mood.” Perhaps this conversation was her chance to get past his gruff exterior. “How about you?”

“Mysteries and thrillers.” He turned toward the door but paused. Over his shoulder, he said, “You—you may make use of the library while you are here.” Then his voice dropped to the gravelly tone. “But do not wander anywhere else. The rest of the house is off-limits.”




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