The Colton Marine. Lisa Childs

drawl had been apparent, and he wouldn’t have expected someone to have such an affinity for an employer. She had definitely been talking to whoever had bought La Bonne Vie, though. Apparently even she wondered why the man had purchased the estate. Along with the affection, River had also heard frustration in her voice. Whatever her relationship was with the caller, it was complicated.

      So River doubted she had any interest in him. She had more than enough to handle already. And he knew he had no future with anyone until he’d retraced his past and discovered who he really was. Since Edith was distracted with her difficult job and her difficult boss, she might not notice his snooping around the estate.

      His stomach muscles clenched with dread over the thought of going back to La Bonne Vie. But it was the only place that might hold the answer to who he really was.

      * * *

      Edith’s skin was chilled—from the cold shower she’d taken. She had needed it to bring her to her senses, though. She couldn’t believe she’d been ogling River Colton like she had. The man was wounded; he had very obviously been through hell. And she’d been attracted. Of course she had been concerned, too.

      But then she’d noticed his body—his hard, muscular body. She had never seen so many sculpted muscles, his slick skin stretched taut over them. Her pulse quickened even now, thinking of them.

      Or maybe her pulse was quickening because she was about to unlock the front door of La Bonne Vie. It shouldn’t have been as scary now, in the bright light of morning, as it had been last night, cloaked in darkness and full of shadows.

      But now she could see the neglect of the last ten years—in the paint peeling away from the door and the fascia and the window frames. Moss clung to the brick walls. The landscaping was overgrown, vines climbing up the lattice in the windows to cover them—like that black leather patch covered River’s right eye. Trees overhung the roof, some big limbs even lying across it.

      She’d told Declan it was going to be a big job to get the place ready. But even she had underestimated the amount of work it would take. She wasn’t going to undo ten years of neglect in a few weeks’ time. But Edith had never shied away from work before. She would get the job done—just like she’d told Declan she would, just like she always did.

      Of course working as hard as she did left little time for anything else—like a personal life. Like friends. Like men...

      She thought of only one man, though—of River Colton, his chest bare and heaving with his pants for breath. He was the last man with whom she could get involved even if she had time. He had issues she wasn’t prepared to deal with again.

      And she had La Bonne Vie.

      She slid the key in the lock, but before she turned it, the knob turned—easily. The door hadn’t been locked. But she was certain that she had the night before when they’d all left together.

      Why wasn’t it locked now?

      “Damn this house...” She pushed open the door but hesitated before stepping inside the foyer. She reached into her purse instead, but her fingers fumbled across notebooks and pens, her wallet and plastic makeup containers. She couldn’t find the hard metal of the pepper spray canister. Then she remembered she had dropped it last night. It was under the basement stairs.

      “Not going to do me a whole hell of a lot of good down there,” she murmured.

      She peered around before stepping across the threshold. “Hello?” Her voice echoed throughout the two-story foyer—off the marble floor and the ornate plaster ceiling. The paint was peeling off the plaster like it was the exterior and several crystals in the chandelier were shattered, fragments lying on the scratched marble floor.

      What were Declan’s plans for the house? Did he want it restored?

      From estimating previous projects, she had an idea how much money it would take to return the mansion to its former glory. More than Declan would probably be able to get out of it—if he intended to flip it, like he had other properties. He wasn’t just CEO of SinCo; he’d built the company from the ground up. So maybe he was going to develop the land instead. The three hundred acres might get him a return on his initial investment if he turned it into a housing subdivision or something. But she grimaced at the thought of Uncle Mac’s ranch adjoining a real estate development.

      “Hello!” she called out again. Nobody else’s voice echoed back at her. She heard nothing else. No creaking. No footsteps. Not even the scurry of rodent feet.

      She shuddered at the thought of dealing with rats or mice. But no doubt animals had moved in when the humans had moved out. That was probably what she’d heard and seen the night before—some nocturnal creature like a raccoon or possum.

      She probably hadn’t actually locked the door last night, either. As rattled as she’d been, she might have turned the key the wrong way before pulling it out. Maybe instead of locking it, she had unlocked it.

      She expelled a slight breath of relief at the rationalization. Of course she knew that was what she was doing—trying to convince herself that everything was fine. She had been doing that most of her life, so it was second nature to her now.

      It was also how she had survived. So she wasn’t about to change her ways. Even though she was only twenty-seven, she was still too set in them. Or maybe, as some people including Mac and Declan had accused her, she was too stubborn to change. Instead of being insulted, she’d always taken that as a compliment.

      She was tenacious. As she glanced around the damaged house, she was glad that she was. A less tenacious woman might have turned around and walked back out.

      As damaged as the house was, though, it was still apparent how beautiful it had once been. The foyer was quite grand, with French doors opening off it on the left to a parlor and living room and an arched hallway to the right leading to the dining room and kitchen. And in the middle of the space wound a grand staircase to the second-story landing.

      She could almost hear the music from the parties she’d heard had been held here. The murmurs of conversation, the tinkling of laughter...

      What had it been like to grow up here? It was a far cry from the overcrowded foster home where she and Declan had grown up. Was that why Declan had bought it? Did it represent some sort of accomplishment to him?

      She knew it was important to him. She just didn’t know why. But because it was important, she had to get it ready for him. He couldn’t see it like this or he might be horribly disappointed—in the house and in her.

      She turned around again, surveying the damage. “Where do I start?” she murmured.

      The kitchen. She would need the plumbing and appliances functioning in order to stay there while she did inventory of the furnishings, and Declan would need it working for his visit, as well. La Bonne Vie was too far from town to order takeout. They would have to be able to prepare their own meals. When he came, he would have to tell her what he intended to do with the estate. Maybe he just hadn’t said yet because he wanted to assess the property in person before he decided.

      She passed through the dining room, with its elegant coffered ceiling, to the kitchen. Sunlight worked its way through the vines and grime covering the many windows to gleam off the stainless steel counters that looked like they had begun to rust. The wooden floor had buckled near where the sink must have leaked. The doors to that cabinet stood open, as if they’d rotted off their hinges. She could smell the dankness of water damage and mold.

      She would need a plumber for certain and definitely a carpenter. She moved toward the stove, about to check the gas, when she heard the noises again. The basement steps creaked as if beneath someone’s weight.

      Instinctively she reached for her purse again, but then remembered the pepper spray was gone. So she reached instead for the metal pot holder dangling over the island, and she grabbed a heavy iron skillet. Declan had taught her how to swing a bat. She suspected this wouldn’t be much different.

      It would do for protection.

      Drawing