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Anastazia Proctor finds out that destiny really sucks. Literally.
She's a "fixer," a cool, aloof, carefully controlled lawyer, and has earned her "Ice Queen" nickname. When she takes a dream job working for handsome millionaire, Matthias Hawthorne, life as she knows it changes forever.
With her life in danger, she must learn to put aside her anger at Matthias for years of deception and accept the truth about her past--and her future. But as they are forced to retreat to the safe haven of Yellowstone, can she escape the haunting echoes of her distant past before more tragedy strikes?
Excerpt:
The next evening, Anastazia drove up to the gate at five till seven. It was impossible to see Matthias Hawthorne’s house past the high, vine-covered wall. Before she rolled to a stop, the gate opened. She pulled through and watched it close behind her in the rearview mirror.
Lights glowed in the distance behind a thick stand of trees. The driveway, unpaved gravel but well-maintained and nearly as smooth as asphalt, wound up a slight rise through a small wooded area before emerging in a large field. The house towered over the clearing. Large, but not one of those hideous hotel mansions with fifty rooms.
If Hawthorne had sought to impress her, he failed. It was a little smaller than the house she grew up in. Bianca and Eric Proctor hadn’t believed in keeping up with the Joneses—they’d kept up with the Hiltons. And the Trumps. When they died, Taz couldn’t bear to live in the monstrosity and scaled down to a condo large enough to keep her and Robertson from tripping over each other every time they turned around.
A uniformed valet waited by the front steps and opened her door as soon as she stopped. Albert Thompson met her at the front door. “Good evening, Ms. Proctor.”
“Mr. Thompson.” She looked away from his eyes. Something about him still nagged her. She must have seen him in court before.
“Please follow me.” He led her through the front entrance, which she was relieved to see wasn’t garishly decorated in what she thought of as faux old riche style. The decor was fairly modern, an odd mix that could only be called country Scandinavian. Not sterile, not a fake hunting lodge. Somewhere between home and hotel, striking just the right tone.
They passed a large, formal banquet room and continued toward the back of the house to a small, comfortable dining room which, from the sound and scent, was in close proximity to the kitchen. The round table seated six but was set for two.
“Please have a seat. Mr. Hawthorne will be with you in a moment.”
Thompson disappeared through another door. She caught a glimpse of kitchen cabinets and tile floor as it swung shut behind him. And a whiff of what she hoped was dinner. Something smelled really good.
Turning her attention to the walls, she realized the built-in shelves were filled not with stuffy antique books, but an eclectic assortment of mostly modern paperbacks and hardbacks in a wide variety of topics, from best-selling fiction to nonfiction.
“I hope you don’t have any food allergies.”
Startled, she jumped. She hadn’t heard the kitchen door swing open. Her host, she presumed, stood in the doorway holding a large salad bowl filled with greens. He set it on the table.
“I’m sorry I startled you.” He walked over and extended his hand. “Matthias Hawthorne.”
Her eyes met his. She offered her hand, then blinked to stave off vertigo. He had the deepest, clearest blue eyes she’d ever seen, and felt she could get lost . . .
Not in the eyes!
Searching for safety, she forced her eyes up. His sandy brown hair was lightly sprinkled with grey around the temples. Finally dropping her focus to his hand she took a breath, feeling more than seeing his unwavering gaze. Hawthorne wore a quiet strength, an air of pleasant confidence.
“Nice to meet you. Anastazia Proctor.”
His grip was cool and firm, but not pissing-contest strong. Hesitant to release his hand she eventually did, risking another glance at his face. Something else about his eyes, the way the outer edges down-turned slightly, gave him a careworn expression.
“I’m glad you accepted my invitation.” When he smiled, it softened his strong jaw, removed years from his eyes. Now she couldn’t tell if he was fifty-five or forty.
He motioned to the table. “I’ll be right back. Feel free to dig in.” He had the lightest trace of an accent, from where she couldn’t say. British? Aussie? She’d have to check him out.
He moved quickly, gracefully. His arms looked strong, but not overly muscled. She could tell from the lay of his shirt along his torso he carried maybe an extra ten pounds, if that. He didn’t strike her as a gym rat. She watched him disappear through the kitchen door, noticing how his khakis clung to his firm backside.
Yum.
She shook her head. What? This is an interview, not a date. Good grief, what the hell’s wrong with me?
But her heart fluttered at an unsteady pace. Or was that her stomach? It felt like Hawthorne touched her very soul with those eyes, drawing her in.
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