Page 9 of 2 Books in One Bundle
‘Thank you for your considered offer, but I’ve heard enough. You can leave now.’
‘That’s where you’re mistaken, Louisa.’
The way he said her name, as if he was in some way mocking her. She gritted her teeth. ‘How am I in any way mistaken?’
‘Thinking that I’m going to leave. I own the house, and I’m moving in.’ He crossed his arms. Mouth a thin, cold line. The ominous grumble of thunder rolled in the distance. ‘Today.’
CHAPTER THREE
MATTEOWOKETOa ferocious wind howling outside, as rain lashed the rattling windows. Even though Easton Hall was made of stone, it was as if the whole house trembled against the storm’s onslaught.
He’d taken the spare room he’d used here as a boy that single summer he’d stayed. Ignoring Louisa’s mutinous glares as he’d brought his bags inside and removalists had come with a small truck to drop off computer equipment. If she refused to move out, then she’d have to get used to him moving in. Living here meant nothing. He had no house in the UK. On the odd occasion he was in the country, he stayed in one of his hotels. This was as good a base as any and the home needed to be assessed. He could use the time to do that, and to convince her to leave in the process.
He had all the time in the world to spare forthatproject.
Matteo tried closing his eyes, but his mind ticked over with work. Sleep had been an elusive state in his life. Owning an international business meant it was always daytime, somewhere. Right now, he had too many ideas crowding inside his head of how to turn this property into the newest jewel in his hotel chain’s crown. Giving his clientele the type of authentic ‘English country house’ experience they’d pay handsomely for.
With those thoughts whirring through his head, he gave up all pretence that he’d get to sleep any time soon, and turned on the bedside lamp, which lit the room with a dim glow, occasionally flickering as the flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder raged outside. Grabbing his mobile phone from the bedside table, he made a note to ask the engineer he’d rebooked to assess the building’s lighting protection system, assuming it had one.
Matteo propped his arm behind his head, and scanned his emails, seeing a report from his chief operating officer about a prospective property in Spain. Through the window ahead of him, flickering blue lights reflected in the glass slicked with rain. He ignored it, but a piercing cry rent the darkness. He sat bolt upright. What was that? A vixen’s cry? Though how could it be? It was the wrong time of the year and most definitely the wrong weather for that.
Matteo strained to listen for the noise again over the wind and rain. In the end, he left the comfort of his bed to investigate, dressed only in his boxer briefs. He raked his hands through his hair and peered outside at the persistent flashing lights close by. An emergency vehicle, he assumed as gusts of wind hurled at the home in a vicious assault. A tree down across the road? An accident? Who could tell? Anything was possible in this weather.
As he watched, a blazing white light burst outside with an instantaneous crack and boom. The lights in the room died. Matteo gripped the window ledge, heart thrashing in his chest. He enjoyed storms, the power of nature, but that had to be a direct strike on the house. Apart from the roar of the wind it was as if an ominous silence fell over Easton Hall, before he heard a creak and groan as if the home itself moaned in protest. All of him stilled. Waiting. For what he didn’t know, a sixth sense filling him with dread.
He turned on his phone torch and went to the door of his room, opened it. Above the noise of the storm there was a faint crackling sound. A taint to the air, like burning plastic. Smoke?
Fire.
Louisa.
He didn’t think as he strode down the hall. The torch app from his phone cast its trembling light in the darkness. He coughed at the thickening acrid scent. Electrical? No flames. In the ceiling?
They had to get out.
‘Louisa!’
Matteo knew from a multitude of fire-safety plans for his hotels that these old buildings were a tinderbox of ancient wood, ready to ignite. If on fire, in no time the whole place could explode over their heads.
‘Louisa!’
The chill air bit his naked skin. Threadbare carpet felt rough under his feet. He tried to remember her door. Which one? Guess. He pounded on the dark oak outside one room. Would she be asleep? Somewhere else in the house?
Movement made him stop. A figure in ghostly white appeared as the door in front of him partially opened. Hand up against the light of the phone torch he’d pointed her way.
‘Matty, what happened?’
She coughed. The air thicker, hazy.
‘Lightning. We need to leave now.’
She froze. Gripping the door as if paralysed.
‘C’mon. We have to go,’ he snapped through gritted teeth as she stared at him with her huge green eyes, wide in what looked like terror. Yet she still didn’t move.
‘Take my hand, Louisa.’ He held out his arm. Hand, palm up. As the wind still rattled the home round them, he willed his breathing to stay calm, measured, as she reached out, paused, drew back.
‘I—I haven’t... M-my things. My art. I can’t.’
