Read Online Shameless Playboy by Caitlin Crews - Free Book Online Page B

have a death wish.
                 He
climbed out of the limousine after her, more focused on the sweet curve of her
behind in the latest of her series of stuffy, corporate suits than in the fact
that he was once more at Wolfe Manor.
                 Acquiescing
to an urge he only belatedly realized was uncharacteristically chivalrous
instead of calculating, he relieved the driver of his umbrella. He motioned the
poor man back into the warm and waiting car, then followed the prickly Ms. Carter through the rain toward the
front of the house, from where, he knew, she could see just about the whole of
the property laid out at her feet. He loathed the very sight of it—all the
picturesque British countryside spread out so prettily, with the charming
little village of Wolfestone in the distance. He knew that appearances were
deceiving: the prettier the surface, the uglier the mess beneath. He had not,
perhaps, thought through his impulsive offer of this house for Hartington’s
use, much less considered that he would have to return here himself.
                 He
concentrated instead on the woman standing with her back to him, frowning
through the weather at what there was left of the once-famous view.
                 “You’re
wet,” he said, close enough to her to see her start, and man enough to enjoy
the flustered look she sent his way when he caught up to her. He indicated the
rain, lighter now than before but still falling with no sign of stopping, and
then moved even closer, shielding them both beneath the umbrella.
                 He
doubted she knew the picture she made as she stood there, damp and inviting,
her lush mouth soft, her usually sleek hair escaping from its confines and
curling slightly, making her seem more wanton, more open. He felt himself
harden and shifted closer to her.
                 “You
failed to mention that this house is falling down,” she said, her voice faintly
accusing, her chin tilting up as she looked at him.
                 “Not
yet,” he said. He looked at the house, still regrettably upright and this time,
thankfully, without his brother’s disapproving presence on the front stair.
While it was certainly in a notable state of disrepair, it had not been reduced
to rubble and a hole in the earth, as Lucas had often fiercely imagined while
still forced to live here. “Though one can dream.”
                 But
Grace was not looking at him any longer. She peered up at the house, then
pivoted to look out over the wild, overgrown gardens and sweeping lawn that led
down to the picturesque lake, pretty even beneath the onslaught of the rain.
Her brow creased in fierce concentration, and she pulled her lower lip between
her teeth as she let her gaze move from one dilapidated marker of the once-lush
Wolfe estate to the next. She sighed and then turned her frown on him.
                 Somehow,
he restrained himself from pressing his mouth into the indentation between her
dark blond brows.
                 “I
suppose we can set up a big tent on the lawn,” she said. “It will be pretty if
the weather is fine, and there will be enough space if it isn’t. And the state
of everything else could work for us. The house and grounds will add a bit of
gothic splendor to the whole enterprise.”
                 Lucas
laughed, the sound more bitter than he’d intended. “This is Wolfe Manor. The
ghosts here outnumber the living, I assure you, and are all known by name. And
there is not a person in the whole of England who does not want to come here
and see it for himself.”
                 She
looked at him, her expression warily polite, and he remembered belatedly that
she was American, and was not, perhaps, as conversant on the Wolfe family and
their tragic history as any citizen of the United Kingdom might be. He was not
sure if he liked the possibility of her ignorance regarding