Page 1 of Forbidden Heat

1

The Rules

The taxi stopsin front of enormous wrought-iron gates just as lightning slashes the sky and an entire Niagara’s worth of water pours down. The driver, cursing, rolls his window down an inch, but before he can try to explain our presence, the gates swing slowly open.

“Sorry for the language, Miss,” he says as we follow a long, curving drive. The trees lining it are dancing wildly, whipped into a frenzy by the wind. I feel like the ill-fated heroine of a Gothic novel.

“It’s all right,” I tell him. “Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

He comes to a halt at the porticoed entrance to the mansion. The double doors open and a man in a dark coat, holding an umbrella, comes out. He’s aimed at the back of the taxi, which he can probably barely see in the storm. The driver jumps out so he can open the trunk; I dig in my purse for my wallet.

When my door opens, the man in the dark coat is standing there, my suitcase in his hand. The driver is back in his seat, so I push a generous stack of bills through the slot. “Thank you for driving out here in this weather.”

He pushes the bills back at me. “The guy already paid me, Miss.” Startled, I glance at the man, but I can’t see his face; the umbrella is blocking the light from the residence.

“Keep it as a tip, then.” I push the bills back through. “You’ve earned it.”

The driver doesn’t argue. “Thanks, Miss. Now I can go home for the night.”

“Good. Drive safely.” I grab my purse and carry-on bag and climb out next to my waiting escort.

“Thank you very much,” I tell him as he keeps the umbrella over my head, shielding me from the worst of the rain. I stick as close to him as I can so he’ll have some protection too. We go up the stairs and through the open doors into a marble-tiled foyer.

A woman waits there, short, her dark hair liberally threaded with gray and pulled back at the nape of her neck. Her eyes are keen, but not unkind. At her feet sits a sleek gray tabby cat, looking at me with unblinking green eyes.

I crouch down. “Hey, kitty.” He comes to my outstretched finger, then rubs himself against my hand. “Good boy.”

When I look up, the woman has a smile in her eyes. “Good evening, Miss Morgan. I trust your trip was uneventful.”

“It was,” I say, standing again. “Thank you.” No need to mention the shouting match with my father before he sent me away, or the angry tears I shed on the plane. “I’m sorry to arrive at such a late hour, and with so little notice.”

“Late hours are not altogether unheard of here. I’m Mrs. Jameson, the housekeeper.” She gestures behind me, where umbrella man must be standing with my suitcase. “And this is Mr. Thorne.”

I whirl. He’s put the umbrella in a stand, his coat on a rack, and my suitcase on the floor. I see now that he’s not a member of the household staff, as I’d assumed, but Cameron Thorne himself. The scion of an old-money family and ridiculously successful hedge-fund manager came out in the rain, personally, to fetch my luggage.

But my astonishment at his actions barely registers, swamped as it is by my visceral response to the man. He doesn’t resemble a financial genius so much as a pirate … the kind who’d like to plunder more than my gold.

He’s tall, dark, and a good twenty years younger than my father —in his thirties, not his fifties. He’s built like a professional quarterback, tall, broad-shouldered, with muscular arms and thighs. A short, neatly-trimmed beard and deep-set eyes that crackle with intelligence do nothing to detract from the aura that surrounds him.

One that signals danger — and heat.

I swallow hard and scrape together some semblance of coherent speech. “Mr. Thorne. Thank you for taking me in so unexpectedly.”

“Welcome to my home, Haley Morgan.” The rich, deep timbre of his voice sends a shiver chasing down my spine. “Your father was a mentor of mine, once upon a time.”

“It’s difficult to imagine you needing … mentoring.” The man before me seems capable of anything. In both senses of that phrase.

A slow smile curls one corner of his mouth, and I get an answering spasm between my legs. It’s a good thing Mrs. Jameson is chaperoning us, because I would like to jump my host right here in the foyer.

Not that he’d be interested. A man like him doubtless has his pick of women; a college girl like me can’t hold a candle to the supermodels he probably dates.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“No, I’m fine, thanks.” In truth, I was too upset to even touch the in-flight meal. I’m hungry now, but I don’t want to be a bad guest.

My stomach chooses that moment to gurgle loudly. Mr. Thorne raises an eyebrow that manages to be both inquisitive and accusatory at the same time. “It’s late,” I say in answer. “I’ve put you all out enough already.”

His eyes narrow. “There are rules, Haley, for you staying here. Not many of them, but those few I have I expect to be obeyed.”

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