Starlight (46 page)

“You presume to know what sort of man I am, Miss Christie?”

“I presume nothing, but I do expect an answer.”

A tic along his jaw brought her attention to the deep hollows beneath high, sharp cheekbones. His golden stubble glittered as the rising sun washed across his face. Yes, he was intimidating and gruff.

He was also a singularly handsome man.

She chose to focus on his lack of cooperation.

“You’ll be on your way no matter what.”

“Not unless you can demonstrate its viability as a business.”

Mr. Palmer flipped an ash-covered finger under a tuft of lace adorning the shoulder of her gown. “What would you know about that? Coming here in such frippery?”

“Kindly keep your hands to yourself, sir.”

He did not.

One of the galling side effects of being the youngest Christie was her family’s loving yet stifling tendency to treat her like a porcelain doll. Such vulnerability,
however, would give Mr. Palmer permission to tread all over her for the duration of her stay.

She swatted his fingers away, and made a show of rubbing the ash marring her gloves.

“I’ve done my research, Mr. Palmer. I know your creditors are out of patience. They will assume control of this vineyard next year when your loan comes due.”

She could ensure his cooperation by telling him about the million-dollar prize she stood to earn. But later. His behavior was not worth a crust of bread, let alone such an incentive.

“Christie Holdings needs no such dead weight dragging down its profit margins,” she continued. “The land will be sold at auction.”

“I told you to keep your mouth shut.”

“No, you said to keep my voice down. I’ve been practically whispering.”

Forcing a smile, she turned to hand the driver a crown. “I appreciate the ride. Good day.”

“You’re staying?” The driver kept his words hushed.

“I am.”

Heavy coats and a fur hat gave him the silhouette of a bear. “Your funeral. Just try to keep on his good side.”

“Was that his good side?”

His caution did not ease. “You’re still alive, miss.”

The carriage jerked to a start. Matched black horses snorted hot breath into the cold morning air.

Haggard workers trailed in from the fields. Their clothes blackened with soot, they appeared as a regiment of sleepwalkers. Curious glances toward Gwen
were to be expected. Only one woman, with lush dark hair and a little girl by her side, skewered Gwen with a chilling stare.

“So tell me, Mr. Palmer,” she said despite a tiny bout of nerves. “Where shall I keep accommodations?”

“You assume I’ll give you a room.”

“If not, I assume I’ll claim one.”

“You think you’re quite the grand lady.”

She quirked a smile. “More like, people often make the mistake of believing I’m just a pretty face.”

The ferocity in his expression did not ease. Poking a circus tiger would be safer. “We have no need for pretty faces.”

She interlaced her fingers over the handle of her parasol. “If your creditors appeared right now, demanding their money, would you be able to fend them off? Looking and behaving as you do?”

She held his hostile stare, although the sweat-slicked notch at the base of his thick throat kept tempting her to stray. Perhaps rumors were true, that he was born of criminal stock. If so, more unsavory rumors might hold merit as well. She was quite proud of herself for holding her own against a purported murderer.

“Come with me,” he said at last. He flicked his attention toward the stack of luggage. “But carry your own damn bags.”

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