Page 7

The knock that sounded a moment later reverberated through Everett's chest as if the stubborn woman's knuckles had rapped on his ribcage instead of his front door. He ground his molars together, bracing himself to hear her voice again.

He hadn't heard a young woman's voice in over four years.

His housekeeper, Mrs. Potter, was the only female on the property, and she had to be at least fifty.

He hadn't gotten a clear look at the girl on the path, but he'd heard her plenty well.

Arguing. Cajoling. Yelping when Spartacus knocked her down.

The woman had backbone. He'd give her that. Standing up to a man she couldn't see was one thing, but she'd stood her ground with his dog, too. A feat most men failed to accomplish when they found their way onto his property.

The click of the latch signaled that Timens had finally gotten around to opening the door. The fellow never did anything quickly, and for once, Everett was glad. Gave him time to settle his breath so he could eavesdrop on the conversation in the entry hall directly below him.

"Yes?"

Everett bit back a grin. Timens had mastered the art of unwelcoming visitors. Disapproval fairly dripped from that single word.

"Good afternoon."

Everett winced at the feminine answer. Melodic. Educated. Completely unruffled despite the fact she'd encountered two beasts not three minutes ago.

"My name is Callista Rosenfeld of Rosenfeld's Bindery. I'm here to see Mr. Lightfoot."

Rosenfeld's Bindery? That couldn't be right. They'd contracted with a Mr. Mordecai Rosenfeld for the redressing of the library. Not a woman. Never a woman.

"I'm sorry, miss, but the master is not at home to guests. You may address your concerns to him via correspondence."

Good man, Timens! Everett nearly cheered aloud. Stuffy butlers might be annoying, but they had their uses. Especially when it came to sending young women packing. He could picture him easing the door closed even now.

"How fortunate that I'm not here to see your master then. Unless you consider Mr. Lightfoot your master?"

"Lightfoot?" A series of coughs and sputters ensued. "Not likely."

A chuckle filled the entry hall. "She's got you there, old chum. Let the lady in."

No! What was Lightfoot doing?

Everett banged the back of his head against the wall as a growl rumbled in his throat.

"You heard Mr. Griffin. He was quite clear about his wishes."

"I'll handle Griff. Why don't you see to some refreshments for our guest?"

She was not their guest. Argh ! The pain in his head intensified tenfold.

He'd obviously allowed his valet too much leniency over the years.

Valet, man of business, confidant. Lightfoot wore far too many hats and was the closest thing Everett had to a friend out here.

But he was still an employee. One paid to follow his instructions to the letter.

Maybe he needed a reminder of who was in charge around here.

Holding a hand to his pounding head, Everett snuck a glance around the corner of the wall he'd been using as a shield. "Lightfoot." The low roar of his name filtered through the entry hall in clear warning.

Lightfoot—the blackguard—paid him no mind. The brunette's chin tipped up, however, and her eyes widened. Everett jerked back into the shadows. Foul woman, making him scurry into the dark as if he were a blasted cockroach. This was his house. She should be the one scurrying away, not him.

"Let's go into the parlor, Miss Rosenfeld. We can discuss our business there."

There's no business to discuss. Just evict her, already.

Lightfoot ushered Miss Rosenfeld ahead of him, then paused to glance up and shoot Everett a disapproving glare.

The dart hit his chest and punctured his conscience.

Fine. He was behaving like an inhospitable cretin.

He admitted it. But such was his right. His house.

His staff. His rules. Until Lightfoot decided to rebel.

The traitor. They'd have words later. Harsh ones.

As soon as the blacksmith pummeling the anvil inside his skull took a break.

A soft murmur of voices reached him, but he couldn't make out the words as the two players disappeared into the parlor.

Everett clenched his jaw. Normally he would trust Lightfoot to carry out his wishes without a qualm, but the man had no backbone when it came to females.

Too chivalrous by half. If left to his own devices, he might actually offer the woman a room for the night and make Everett a prisoner in his own home.

Unacceptable!

Everett strode down the hall to the bedchamber that occupied the space directly above the parlor.

He marched to the closest window, grabbed hold of the sash with both hands, and jerked it upward.

Not taking a moment to consider the sanity of his actions, he ducked his head and shoulders through the opening, clasped the lip of the windowsill, then swung his legs outside.

Dangling from a second story window wasn't his usual sport of choice, but he'd become a bit of a daredevil since arriving in Texas.

The untamed land inspired him. Dared him to recklessness.

Riding too fast. Climbing too high. Adventuring too far afield.

Easy to take risks when he didn't care if he ended up in a pine box.

The patch he wore over his right eye weakened his depth perception, so it took a moment for him to line up his drop to ensure he didn't bang into the French door he'd left standing open in his hurry to beat Miss Rosenfeld to the house.

Focus, man . Everett shoved aside the pounding in his head and blinked at the objects below him until the door and railing finally settled into position.

Mourning the loss of his face and the identity tied to it had been hard, but losing command of his vision had left a gaping hole in his soul.

What good was an artist with only one eye?

Fairly certain he had all the obstructions mapped properly in his mind, Everett walked his hands down to the edge of the sill, then swung his body away from the door and released his grip.

The balls of his feet landed with a soft thud that he doubted would carry inside the room.

He smiled in predatory satisfaction and stalked closer to the open door.

". . . sorry to hear of your father's injury," Lightfoot was saying.

"Nevertheless, my employer has a strict policy against having young women in his home.

" Perhaps the man wasn't a complete traitor.

"I'm sure you are capable of doing the work, but as you might have ascertained, Mr. Griffin is quite adamant that you be sent away. "

"I assure you that I am equally adamant about remaining."

Stubborn chit. The throbbing in Everett's head worsened.

"We have a signed agreement," she insisted, her voice polite yet firm.

"You contracted Rosenfeld's Bindery to recover 250-300 books.

As a partner in Rosenfeld's Bindery that agreement applies to me as well as my father.

Our business underwent significant expense to purchase materials and equipment to fulfill this contract, not to mention the travel expenses incurred in getting here. "

"I'm sure Mr. Griffin would be happy to reimburse your travel expenses."

If it meant getting rid of her, he'd pay for the entire job.

"But why send me away and delay Mr. Griffin's project when we have everything we need to begin right now? If he dislikes women, he can simply avoid entering the library while I'm working. I'll be no bother to him."

Why wouldn't she just accept defeat and leave? Everett balled his hands into fists and closed his eyes against the sharpening pain in his head. Throbbing gave way to stabbing.

"If he is one of those men who believes a woman's skill to be naturally inferior, I relish the opportunity to prove him wrong. I brought a sample of my work for your inspection." Her voice paused as something rustled softly.

"The embossing on this volume is exquisite," Lightfoot said with enough appreciation coloring his tone to let Everett know it was no overblown compliment.

"You are obviously very talented, but Mr. Griffin intends to oversee this project personally.

He's a bit of an artist himself and has a specific vision for the library. You being a woman complicates matters."

"I'm not afraid of complicated."

That was the problem. She wasn't afraid. Of anything.

He could fix that.

Callista accepted her book back from Mr. Lightfoot, praying he didn't notice the trembling of her fingers.

He must see only a competent professional.

Not a desperate woman on the brink of destitution.

The middle-aged man's kind eyes and friendly manner had helped put her at ease during this interview, but she couldn't afford to mistake his kindness for softness.

He might regret having to send her away, but he'd still do it.

Unless she could convince him to speak to Mr. Griffin on her behalf, get his employer to reconsider his inflexible stance.

"I'm sure we can come up with some kind of system that would allow him to avoid personal contact with me.

" Though it seemed rather ridiculous for a grown man to be so allergic to feminine company he would go to outrageous lengths to avoid it.

At least she wouldn't have to worry about improper advances from that quarter.

"I could lay out the leather samples and tooling patterns for his inspection, perhaps sketch a few designs—"

A roar like that of a wounded bear erupted from outside the room, severing her words and stealing the air from her lungs.

A man barreled through the open French doors, strode straight to where she sat and planted his feet on the rug in front of her.

He towered over her, his tall, muscular frame dwarfing her in an instant, like a grizzly standing over a fawn.

Golden hair hung in wild waves past his shoulders.

A dark scowl twisted his mouth, made all the more terrifying by the long scar that curved from the edge of his full lips upward to disappear behind the black patch covering his right eye.

Other scars littered his face as well. Slashing lines and clusters of puckered skin in varying shades of faded red and purple marred his tanned complexion.

A closely-trimmed beard along his jawline probably hid even more.

"Get out of my house." The monster of a man leaned his face closer to hers as he clipped out each word in a menacing growl.

Callista's heart pounded in her chest, urging her to flee.

She clutched her volume of Jekyll and Hyde to her chest as if it could shield her from his attack.

Barely holding back the whimper that rose in her throat, she leaned as far away from him as her chair would allow.

Slowly, her gaze shifted upward from the man's scars to his piercing eye.

The color took her by surprise. Vivid blue. Unexpected beauty in the wasteland of his rage. The lines around his eye suddenly tightened, as if he'd winced. Could pain be driving his foul temper more than anger?

"Have you lost your mind, Griff?" Mr. Lightfoot leapt from his seat, grabbed hold of Mr. Griffin's arm and pulled him a few steps backward, giving Callista some much needed breathing room. "You're scaring the poor woman half to death."

He smiled—a rather unsettling effect when combined with the predatory gleam in his eye. "She should be scared. It's not safe for her to be here."

Callista rose from her chair and willed her legs not to shake as she met his gaze. It was possible she'd misread that wince, but if, like Aesop's Androcles, she could find a way to remove the thorn from the lion's paw, she just might win this battle of wills.

Mr. Lightfoot's reaction made it clear his employer was acting out of character, fueling her hypothesis.

He was probably used to people being frightened by his scars, especially women.

Perhaps he thought to use that against her.

A desperate act by a desperate man. She understood desperation.

The way it drove a person to do things one wouldn't normally do.

To take foolhardy risks, like standing her ground against a hostile man who had every right to have her forcibly removed from his property.

Without looking away from his face, she lowered her book and laid it on the chair she'd just vacated.

She felt exposed and vulnerable without the literary shield, but only for a moment.

A new strength quickly poured in to fill the void, one she recognized as coming from above, not from within.

She needed no other assurance that she was on the right path.

Curving her lips into a cordial smile, she extended her hand to the man in front of her. "I'm pleased to make your official acquaintance at last, Mr. Griffin. I'm Callista Rosenfeld. Your new book binder."