Chapter 2

　　By the time the doorbell rang, I had convinced myself Damian Ashford would be easy to dismiss.

　　Rich men were predictable. They liked control, admiration, and hearing themselves speak. If Damian had given my mother this house, then I expected arrogance wrapped in expensive cologne.

　　I did not expect him.

　　My mother opened both front doors, and the night seemed to pause.

　　Damian Ashford stood on our doorstep in a black suit that looked made for his body and his body alone. Tall. Broad shoulders. Light brown hair swept back from a face so sharp it should have been illegal. A faint beard darkened his jaw, and his eyes were green with a strange golden edge, intense enough to make me forget every sarcastic comment I had prepared.

　　He looked young.

　　He looked rich.

　　He looked like danger dressed for dinner.

　　Behind him stood another man, a little shorter but still handsome, with dark hair, brown eyes, freckles, and a charming smile. He looked less lethal than Damian. Safer.

　　My mother smiled too brightly. “Damian, welcome. I did not know you were bringing company.”

　　“My apologies,” Damian said. His voice was low and rough, smooth enough to slide over skin. “Sebastian insisted.”

　　Sebastian lifted a hand. “I am the harmless one.”

　　I should have laughed.

　　I did not.

　　Because Damian’s gaze had found me.

　　My mother placed a hand between my shoulder blades and pushed me forward. “This is Eleanor.”

　　I held out my hand because manners mattered, especially when your brain had stopped working.

　　Damian took it.

　　Heat shot through my palm.

　　Not warmth. Not attraction. Something sharper. A current that climbed my arm and struck deep in my chest.

　　I gasped before I could stop myself.

　　His fingers tightened once around mine. His eyes darkened.

　　“Eleanor,” he said, as if my name had weight.

　　I pulled my hand back too quickly. “Damian.”

　　Sebastian greeted me next. His handshake was normal. Friendly. Human.

　　That made everything worse.

　　Why Damian?

　　Why did one touch from him feel like my body had recognized something my mind did not understand?

　　The answer, apparently, was dinner.

　　Or rather, the lack of it.

　　My mother admitted she had not cooked enough for four people. Damian offered to take us out. I immediately considered staying behind and eating whatever food she had made by myself, but Margaret had the expression of a woman who would drag me by the ankle if necessary.

　　“Eleanor will come,” she said.

　　I gave her a look that promised future betrayal.

　　She ignored it.

　　Outside, Sebastian guided my mother toward his Mercedes with a smile that made her blush. I watched them go, horrified by how quickly my mother abandoned me.

　　Damian stopped beside a black SUV and opened the passenger door.

　　“You are riding with me,” he said.

　　It was not a question.

　　“I could walk,” I said.

　　“To the restaurant?”

　　“If I start now, I may arrive by breakfast.”

　　His mouth twitched. “Get in, Eleanor.”

　　The way he said my name made my stomach tighten.

　　I climbed into the SUV because refusing would have required more bravery than I currently possessed. The interior smelled of leather, clean spice, and something darker beneath it. Something wild.

　　Damian got behind the wheel, and silence filled the car before he even started driving.

　　I fastened my seat belt. “Where are we going?”

　　“One of the best restaurants nearby.”

　　“Of course.”

　　His eyes flicked to me. “You disapprove?”

　　“I am hungry. I approve of any place that contains food.”

　　This time he actually smiled.

　　The city unfolded around us in lights and glass, nothing like the small corners of Cornwall I knew. Yorkshire looked elegant at night. Expensive. Secretive.

　　Damian drove with one hand on the wheel, calm and controlled. Too controlled. Every time I glanced over, he was already looking at me.

　　“What did you think I would be like?” he asked.

　　I pressed my lips together.

　　“Honesty,” he said.

　　“I thought you were a dirty old man with too much money.”

　　A laugh escaped him, low and unexpected. “And I thought you would be a child.”

　　I stiffened. “I am not a child.”

　　“No.” His gaze dropped briefly to my dress, then returned to the road. “You are not.”

　　Heat climbed my neck.

　　When we reached the restaurant, the sign outside read La Antorcha. The Torch. The place glowed with warm light and polished wood, elegant enough to make me suddenly aware of every cheap thing I owned.

　　Damian opened my door before I touched the handle.

　　At the entrance, the blonde hostess brightened at the sight of him.

　　“Mr. Ashford,” she purred. “Your usual table?”

　　“No,” he said, cold enough to freeze the smile off her face. “The balcony.”

　　Her gaze slid to me.

　　I lifted my chin.

　　Damian placed his hand at the small of my back, barely touching me.

　　My body reacted anyway.

　　And as he guided me inside, I realized something terrifying.

　　Damian Ashford did not enter rooms.