Chapter 4

The heat from his palm burned against the delicate skin of her wrist.

Eleonore yanked her arm back.

He didn't fight her. He let his fingers slide off her skin, dropping his hand to his side.

Eleonore took another step back. Her heart was hammering violently against her ribs.

"I am so sorry," Eleonore stammered. Her voice shook.

The man let out a low, dark sound in the back of his throat. It was a laugh, but it held no humor.

"Is this the new strategy?" he asked. His voice was a deep rumble that vibrated in the quiet garden. "Throwing yourself at me in the dark?"

Eleonore froze. Her eyebrows pulled together in pure confusion.

"What?" she asked, her breathing shallow. "No. I was looking for a pen. I dropped it."

He narrowed his eyes. His gaze slowly dragged down her body, taking in the expensive champagne velvet dress.

His upper lip curled into a sneer.

He took a slow, deliberate step forward.

The sheer size of him sucked the oxygen out of the space between them.

Eleonore stepped back again.

Her shoulder blades hit the cold, hard stone of the garden railing. She was trapped.

He leaned down. His face was inches from hers.

"Which company sent you?" he demanded. The pressure in his voice was crushing.

Eleonore bit down hard on her lower lip. The metallic taste of blood touched her tongue.

"No one sent me," she said, her voice tight. "I am a freelancer. I don't work for anyone."

He raised an eyebrow. He looked at her dress again.

He lifted his hand and tapped the unlit cedar match against the stone railing next to her head.

Click. Click.

"A freelancer," he repeated mockingly. "You want my attention? You have it. But your lies are pathetic."

A hot wave of humiliation crashed over Eleonore. Her ears burned.

She hated being backed into a corner. She hated the arrogant way he looked at her.

She turned her head sharply. Her hand shot out toward the bush beside the railing.

Her fingers closed around the stem of a white rose. She snapped it off, ignoring the thorns scraping her skin.

She turned back to him and shoved the flower directly into the breast pocket of his expensive suit jacket.

He flinched, completely caught off guard by the physical contact. He looked down at the white petals against his dark chest.

"Consider that an apology for bumping into you," Eleonore snapped.

She ducked under his arm and ran.

She didn't look back. Her heels clicked frantically against the stone path as she fled toward the glass doors.

Her hand reached the handle, but before she could pull it open, a loud crack of thunder shook the ground.

Keaton stood perfectly still in the dark.

He watched her run. The irritation in his chest slowly morphed into a sharp, dangerous curiosity.

He lifted his hand. His long fingers brushed against the soft petals of the rose.

He could still feel the faint warmth from her hand on the flower.

He gripped the cedar match. He struck it hard against the stone.

A blue flame flared to life, illuminating the sharp, predatory angles of his face.

He watched the glass doors behind her, still closed.

"Freelancer," he whispered into the dark.