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I eye the edge of the cliff, the sharp drop-off. The dark beach lies sequestered at the bottom. The coroner’s report had included suspicions of suicide. But with witnesses testifying that Simon had imbibed far too much at a local bar before insisting he could walk home himself during a rainstorm, it had officially been ruled an accident. The life insurance, a mere twenty-five thousand dollars taken out four weeks before his death, had been bequeathed to his only child. A child who had disappeared off the face of the earth for the next four years, until she’d reappeared as Juliette Grey at a university in Missouri renowned for its journalism program.
When I first read the report, sympathy snuck in. I know what’s it like to lose a parent as a child. Juliette had been six years older than I was when my mother passed. But still a child, one who had lost a mother at the age of five and then her father less than a decade after that.
Had she gone to live with family? Been put into the foster system? I hadn’t dug too deep on that score. It had been irrelevant to my initial goals. But now the questions poked me. I’d learned so much about her in the past two days. The missing gaps added to the mystery of the woman who dared to spar with me, who had driven me to a level of sexual frustration I hadn’t experienced in...well, ever.
Yet there is still so much I don’t know. I had respected her for years as a reporter, then loathed her for the exact same reason. She is a paradox.
And that, I remind myself as I take one last look at the sea, is what I need to keep in mind. There’s nothing special about her. When she says yes to my proposal, we’ll spend time together as needed. But there will be no more intimate settings that threaten my control. No more near-kisses that torment me. Gradually, the mystery of Juliette will give way to familiarity, which will lead to indifference and apathy. The traditional cycle of many a relationship.
Awareness prickles over my skin. I glance to my left and she’s there at the gate. I wondered if she would show up early, perhaps even be lying in wait on the porch.
My thoughts dissipate as a gust of wind catches the long dark hair she normally wears in a bun and pulls tendrils over her face. She doesn’t brush them aside. No, she simply stands there, strong and impervious, watching me.
My gaze slides over her. It’s not just the hair that’s different. She’s wearing a dress underneath a tan shawl, a long-sleeved burgundy gown that hugs her slender torso. With a heart-shaped neckline and little buttons between her breasts, it softens her, makes her look both fierce and feminine.
A combination I respond to as my body tightens. A warning whispers in my mind. The attraction that surged between us in the grotto was unexpected. So, too, is this side of her I’ve never seen.
But then I remember the late-night call from a buyer after her article went live. The frantic flurry of emails from my public relations department. The sidelong glance cast my way by an investor. All of my hard work threatened by a few words from this woman.
My lips tilt up. Not only will my proposal solve multiple problems, it will also be incredibly satisfying. I can handle an aggravating attraction if it means her silence with a side of retribution.
“Good morning, Miss Grey,” I call out.
“It would be a better one if you weren’t here.”
I can’t help the smile that crosses my face.
“Tell me how you really feel.”
She cocks her head to one side. “You know.”
“I do.”
She doesn’t reply, simply watches me.
“Are you keeping your distance so you don’t give in to the urge to strangle me?”
“This is your land. I don’t want to trespass.”
She states it matter-of-factly. So succinctly I nearly miss the glint in her eyes, the edge to her words.
“It used to be yours.”
“Used to. Now it’s not.”
Her gaze shifts to the right. Longing flits across her face. Even as I experience the quick thrill of knowing my proposal will be an easy sell, I can’t dismiss the uncomfortable sensation of empathy. I know what it’s like to be within reach of what you want. To see it day after day, thinking that perhaps tomorrow you will finally have it within your grasp.
I can give Juliette what she wants. I’m good at giving people what they want. A talent born from being denied what I wanted for so long. I cling to that thought and dismiss the sliver of guilt that’s slipped beneath my skin and rests there, small but sharp.
“You went after my father because of what he did to yours.”
“Initially.” One eyebrow quirks up. “He provided more than enough reasons for me to keep an eye on him.”
Satisfied at hearing her confirm my suspicions, I move toward her with measured steps. She doesn’t back down. No, instead she squares her shoulders, her body tensing as if bracing for me to push her away from the gate.
“He set you on the path to becoming a reporter.”
Her face darkens.