Of Wings and Wolves Page 4
He extended his hand, and she edged away as though his fingers were venomous snakes.
But then Summer thought back to his lonely perch on the balcony. She had been confident that he wasn’t a dangerous man in that moment, and she could still feel the lingering urge to save him, like a knot of warmth in her chest.
Plus, it wasn’t like he could know that she had been the wolf in his garden.
Biting her bottom lip, Summer took his hand. Mr. Adamson’s fingers curled around hers.
The touch of his skin was a lightning bolt straight to her core, making her abs clench and her body flood with heat. Her knees buckled. She would have fallen if Mr. Adamson hadn’t supported her against his side.
She realized that her makeshift dress had slipped to expose the side of her breast. Summer flushed and tugged the cloth in place again.
“Watch your step,” he said, as serene and emotionless as the surface of the lake.
She glanced over her shoulder at the party as he led her away. There was safety in that public space, with the laughter drifting through the air and the sweet cry of the violin, and he was taking her away from it into a dark world of the unknown.
A pair of men with flashlights intercepted them on their way across the lawn.
“We can’t find the wolf,” said the first after giving the CEO a brief salute. He had a bushy mustache and a fancy badge on his chest, which said Head of Security Dale Carr. Well, la di da.
The second man, whose badge only said “Lewis,” was staring at Summer like she was an hors d’oeuvres at the cocktail party. His eyes roved down her bare shoulder to the place her hip peeked out of the drape. Her cheeks grew hot.
Carr went on. “I recommend we evacuate the gazebo and perform a full sweep of the property. It can’t have gone far.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Mr. Adamson said. He wasn’t looking at Carr. He was glaring furiously at Lewis, who had yet to notice.
“Sir—”
Mr. Adamson released Summer’s arm, but only to grip Lewis’s collar. The guard’s gaze snapped away from her long legs. “You’re fired,” he said, just as calmly as before. He dropped Lewis. “Carr, show him out.”
All of the color drained from Lewis’s face as he spluttered.
Carr looked like he wanted to protest, but he swallowed it down. The look of disapproval made his mustache twist. “I’ll take care of it, sir,” he said.
Mr. Adamson took Summer’s arm again and walked her up the path toward the grand doors of the main house. She hesitated on the steps. It felt like she was wandering into a bear cave hidden at the bottom of a ravine again. She stood on the brink of darkness, knowing that something waited for her, and she was helpless to back away.
He continued walking and refused to release her hand.
Summer had gotten lucky after stumbling upon that bear’s cave, since Gran had known that her kids were up to something and followed them to the ravine. By force of luck or the blessing of a higher power, she had also thought to bring her shotgun. It was the only time that Summer watched her grandmother shoot something, and the first time she watched something die. Summer had walked out of the cave with a few quickly-healing scrapes and a deep sense of shame.
But this time, the bear wasn’t trying to maul Summer. He was dragging her deeper into his cave, and Gran was nowhere to be seen with her shotgun.
Mr. Adamson pushed her up the stairs.
Summer swallowed her fears and followed him inside.
Mr. Adamson’s entryway was just as grand as the gardens, but Summer was too scared to appreciate the fancy rugs, wainscoting, and sculptures. They were met at the door by a maid wearing a plain black dress. “Find clothing and then deliver her to my office, Margaret,” he said.
He released her, and Summer discovered that she had been leaning on him harder than she realized. It was all she could do to stay standing, and she felt cold in the absence of his touch.
The CEO vanished up the stairs.
“This way,” said Margaret. She was just as stony-faced as Mr. Adamson, although it looked more likely that she had been wheeled out of a family cemetery than hewn from marble. And she walked fast for such a little old lady. Summer had trouble keeping up with her.
“I think there’s been some kind of mistake,” Summer said. “I’m not supposed to be here. I was just leaving.”
The maid ignored her and stepped into the hallway.
There was enough space for a hundred bedrooms in what looked like an endless corridor, but Margaret stopped at a small room just off the foyer. She unlocked the door with a brass key as thick as her finger. The hinges whined in protest as they entered.
The room on the other side was a modest bedroom with a narrow bed and tall wardrobe, which a second key unlocked.
“Size eight, I should think,” Margaret said. Considering her wooden expression and stiff motions, her voice was surprisingly gentle.
Summer looked down at her hips, still barely covered in her stolen drape. “Sorry, I’m more like a ten. My brother’s been making me do squats with him and I can’t shake the bacon addiction. Everything goes straight to my ass.”
A tiny smile. “Never apologize for your curves. They’re a woman’s deadliest natural weapon.”
Actually, Summer was pretty sure that her giant wolf fangs and razor-sharp claws were her deadliest natural weapon, but she appreciated the sentiment.
Margaret produced a blue dress from the wardrobe and held it in front of Summer, as though mentally sizing it. Summer opened her mouth to protest the frills, but before she could speak, the maid shook her head.
“No, no. Not that one. He likes gold.”
“Excuse me?”
The maid dropped the dress and pushed through the hangers until she found a shimmering gold gown. She pushed it into Summer’s free arm. “This will do. Shoes are in the bottom drawer. I’ll wait for you outside.”
“Wait,” Summer said. “What’s going on?”
There was something mischievous in the twitch of the Margaret’s left eyebrow, though she wasn’t smiling anymore. “Mr. Adamson wants to see you in his office. The only women to have seen that room are among his staff. It’s a special occasion—you should look good for it.”
And with that befuddling pronouncement, she slipped out of the room.
Summer quickly inspected the room for security cameras, but found nothing. She was still reluctant to let the red silk puddle to her feet. It left her naked, vulnerable, and seriously out of her comfort zone in some zillionaire’s house.
She lifted the gown to study it. Margaret had a good eye. It was cut generously below the waist and would flow from her ample hips like torrents of sunlight, while the fitted blouse would complement her modest breasts. The short sleeves would show off her upper arms, too—the best part of her body, in her humble opinion.
A quick glance through the wardrobe showed her that most of the dresses would complement her figure well. And all of them were in sizes ranging from eight to twelve.
Why did Mr. Adamson, richest man in the world, have a wardrobe filled with dresses that looked like they had been made for Summer? And why in the world should seeing him in his office be a special occasion?
Considering that the only alternative to wearing the dress was making a break for it in her birthday suit, she decided that it was probably better not to ask too many questions.
Summer dressed before searching through the drawer of shoes. None of them fit her. Though her wolf paws were relatively dainty, Abram had once said that her human feet belonged on a basketball player. The biggest size in the drawer wasn’t even long enough to reach her heel.
Picking at her hair with her nails, she attempted to tug the unruly mass into something decent. There wasn’t much she could do about the knotted curls, but she removed a few leaves and a caterpillar. The idea of Mr. Adamson seeing her like that made her intestines writhe with embarrassment.
When Summer emerged, she found Margaret waiting right o
utside the door, just as promised. And better yet, she had a wide-toothed comb.
“Turn around,” Margaret said.
Summer offered her back to the maid, who zipped the dress. “Thank you, Margaret, truly. Your kindness means so much to me.”
The maid was wooden-faced again and didn’t acknowledge that she had spoken. “This way.”
Margaret headed up the stairs. Summer picked at the worst knots in her hair and hurried to follow.
“How long have you worked here?” she asked. The wood floors were cold and hard under her bare toes. It felt strange to be among such grandeur without real shoes.
“My entire life,” Margaret said.
Her hands stilled on her hair. “Like, child slavery?”
“Not at all. My mother and grandmother were in Mr. Adamson’s employ as well. I grew up here, just as my mother did, and my family has been paid well for our loyalty.”
“You mean, your grandma was in the employ of the Adamson family,” Summer said. There was no way Mr. Adamson was old enough to have known this woman’s grandmother.
“Mr. Adamson has no family,” Margaret said, stopping in front of a grand door carved of heavy oak. Summer hurried to tug the comb through her hair one last time. “He doesn’t appreciate being touched. Don’t probe him about his past. Keep your eyes to the floor if you have good sense. But don’t be afraid to flash a little leg—it will be good for him.”
With a flash of a wink, the maid plucked the comb from her hand and shoved Summer inside the office.
Summer whirled to grab the giant brass handle, but it felt like the other side was being held in place. She jiggled it hard.
“Don’t break my door.”
The smell of bonfires on the beach. Burning pine needles. Heat radiating off of sunbaked soil.
Mr. Adamson was already there.
She counted to five before turning around.
In comparison to the antiquities populating the rest of the house, Mr. Adamson’s home office was modest and functional. The oldest things in the room were the books on his floor-to-ceiling shelves. The desk was modern and minimalistic, without as much as a stray sticky note marring its surface. He didn’t even have a computer.
And on the other side of the desk stood Mr. Adamson himself.
Some part of her was disappointed to see that he had put on clothing. More than just the white shirt he had been wearing when he found her in the bushes, he was wearing a jacket, loafers, and…were those cufflinks? Who wore cufflinks in his own house?
Her gaze trailed from his wrists up his muscular arms to his broad shoulders and square jaw. When she reached his eyes, she realized that he was giving her the once-over, too. But it was impossible to tell what he thought of what he saw. She was pretty sure that her approval wasn’t quite so subtle.
Margaret had said, Keep your eyes to the floor if you have good sense. The maid probably knew best, but Summer could tear her gaze from him as easily as she could choose to stop breathing.
“You’re early,” he said.
It took a moment for her to realize what he meant, and once it sunk in, her cheeks burned even hotter.
He recognized her as the intern. Of course he recognized her. He had seemed to recognize her the first time they met, too.
“I am so sorry, Mr. Adamson—”
“You’ll call me Nashriel,” he interrupted. “I don’t want to hear that surname on your lips again.”
She bit her bottom lip. Neither his tone nor volume had changed, yet she felt as though he had just yelled at her.
Nashriel. Summer rolled the name over and over in her mind, pondering the emphasis he had placed on the “el” part of it.
It only occurred to her at that moment that she hadn’t actually seen his name on the Adamson Industries website or literature. No first name, no photo. Mysteries layered on mysteries.
Summer ventured a smile. “That’s a really unique name. Your parents must have some sense of humor,” she said, finally releasing her death grip on the brass doorknob. “I mean…Nashriel, right? Can I just call you Nash? Nash is better.”
His stare turned to a glare.
Ooh-kay. So he hadn’t inherited that sense of humor.
She cast about for something to break the awkward silence, but the only thing she could come up with was, “I’m sorry that I interrupted your party. My dress, it—um, it had broken. I was trying to fix it. That’s why I was in the bushes.”
With every word she spoke, she felt stupider. That hadn’t been a good excuse the first time she thought of it, and saying it aloud didn’t help.
Nash seemed to agree. The corner of his mouth lifted in what might have been a smile. “You weren’t invited to my party.”
“I guess I invited myself,” she said.
He circled the desk, and his gaze burned paths over her bushy black hair, her cocoa skin, her silver eyes. “You’re dark complexioned, but lack the aura of desert. Perhaps all this time in moist land has changed you. Are you of Kemet?”
Summer took a step back. “What are you talking about? I’m from Hazel Cove.”
“Don’t insult me. I saw women with the same…” He gestured toward her hair. “I saw women like you there on my last visit.”
“What’s Kemet?”
Doubt flashed through his eyes—an expression that she was certain seldom visited his features. He lifted his chin to stare down his nose at her. “Hazel Cove, you say. You’re twenty years old?”
“Yeah,” Summer said, feeling completely lost. “Just about.”
He paced the edge of the office, trailing his fingers along the spines of the aged books on his shelves. Just the sight of it made her feel like she was the one being stroked. A shiver rippled down her flesh. “And you claim to have lived here your entire life,” he said. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”
Okay, enough with the attack. Summer planted her hands on her hips. The reminder of the gold dress was enough to get her cheeks hot again. At this rate, she was pretty sure her face was going to get stuck in a permanent blush.
“You’re mad that I grew up in town, but you’re not mad that I trespassed on your property. That’s at least a little bit idiotic.” After a pause, she added, “With all due respect.”
“I don’t care that you trespassed because I wanted to bring you here,” Nash said, stepping behind her.
“I guessed that was your plan when you made the creepiest job offer ever.”
He stopped walking. “Creepy?” She could feel that one word breathed down her neck. His breath was as hot as the midday sun.
“Having your guys track me down is odd. Doing it when I didn’t even plan to interview for the position? That’s creepy.”
“Nobody has ever called me creepy before.”
Now that Summer had started talking, she couldn’t seem to stop. Her mouth had completely disconnected from her brain. “I can’t imagine too many people are honest with you at all. The money and giant freaky mansion is…intimidating.”
Nash stepped in front of her. Her eyes were at jaw-level, so she could see nothing but his dimpled chin, smooth cheeks, and his lips. “You don’t find me intimidating.”
Oh, she was intimidated all right. But a combination of raging hormones and temporary insanity had seized her, and there was no stopping the train wreck now that it had started.
Nash loomed over her, and it occurred to her that all of those muscles she had glimpsed in the garden were lurking under the perfectly-tailored suit. She had the mental image of peeling open his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders, and biting his pectoral. It wasn’t a wolfish thought. No, that desire belonged completely to her human side.
“Tell me why you came here tonight,” Nash said, interrupting her increasingly naked thoughts.
She fully intended to lie, but that wasn’t what came out. “I was spying on you. I wanted to know who was trying to hire me.”
That was definitely amusement on his face now. “And what did you determine?”
“A ‘good guy’,” Nash echoed. “Good, but creepy.”
Summer just couldn’t imagine that the man who gazed at the sky with such longing was a bad person. But she managed to prevent herself from saying that part out loud. She didn’t want him to connect her with the wolf in the garden.
He stepped away from her, breaking the tense moment. “You appear fatigued. I’ll have Margaret make up the guest bedroom.”
“Wait, what? I’m not staying here.”
“Our work begins at eight. It’s already well after midnight. You may as well get comfortable.”
“Uh, no,” she said. “I don’t think so. My family would notice I was gone.”
“Your family,” he said, as though mulling over the concept. “What do they think of your visit here tonight?” Summer bit her bottom lip and didn’t respond. The silence was probably answer enough.
“I’ll make sure to give the dress back to you,” she finally said, smoothing her hands down her hips.
“No.” His fingers traced the edge of the cap sleeve. “You’ll keep this. At least I can be confident that you won’t be naked when you return in the morning.”
Summer could have just crawled under the floor and died.
What must he have thought she was doing in his bushes like that? There was just no way to spin it in a way that didn’t make her sound insane or weird.
She realized that she was staring at his lips again and made herself focus on her feet.
“Margaret will take you to the car,” Nash said. “I’ll see you at eight o’clock.”
He turned toward his window in a clear dismissal. From their position perched on the cliff, there was nothing to obstruct his view of the endless, starry sky.
Before she left the room with Margaret, Summer had two very distinct thoughts: first, that Nash was impossibly, dangerously attractive; and second, that there was no chance she would make the mistake of returning to his house again.
Nash sat on his balcony to welcome the dawn. It was a ritual he performed every morning—his way of acknowledging the passage of another peaceful night and the return of the sun. Even after so many identical nights, he tried to feel every sunrise as though it was his first. He was mindful of the wind in his hair, the sun on his skin, the stone beneath his hands.