Wilderness of Mirrors by Ella Skye Page A

had bent at the waist. Kate had appeared too, under the grand entrance, waving her hand while covering her mouth with a lacy handkerchief.
    Welcome to Chateau Crazyville.
    “If you’re heading back to the city, perhaps you wouldn’t mind company?” David’s frank face twitched.
    Blood pressure increased at the idea of having a passenger, Sam forced a smile. “Not at all.”
    “Good. Good.” He bobbed like a bathtub duck, shook Nigel’s hand, and then hesitated, as though wondering if it was a wise idea after all.
    Samantha made the decision for him and leaned over to pull her bag from the floor. She flipped the door’s handle and tossed her tote into the back.
    Nigel lowered himself, filling the small space with the scent of antiseptic and anger.
    It was going to be a long ride.
    Doctor Twitch waited until she glanced his way again. “Awfully good of you. By the way, this is Nigel Forsythe. Kate’s brother.”
    Oh shit.
    Samantha risked another glance of the still waving, anxiety-ridden Duchess
.
Convincing her to call Nigel obviously hadn’t been such a good idea. Kate’s dark hair had been gathered in a stern bun, and the copper trousers and maroon blouse she’d changed into did nothing to soften her.
    Little wonder he hadn’t called.
    “No worries, David. Take care.” She waved at Kate, put up the window and shifted into first gear. Tamar yanked in his head and busied himself in the Audi’s rear. For an alpha-male, he was a pansy about bedding arrangements.
    The car vibrated across the graveled drive. Samantha shifted to second and pulled from the stone gates onto the winding B road.
    By the way, I’m Samantha Bond. We met last night over your whisky and drug-induced hallucination. I hang curtains and set up houses like an overgrown schoolgirl. You must be delighted now that you know you’re not mad as a hatter.
    She hazarded a sidelong glance.
    Fucking hell
. He was staring at her with the oddest of expressions.
    She hummed and fiddled with the heat. Was it too hot? Cold?
    Music. Did he want to listen to something?
    How am I supposed to drive and communicate?
    At a loss, she finally said, “I have to be honest, Mr. Forsythe, I don’t normally drive with a passenger. Well, besides the oversized parasite in the back. I’m not sure how to guess what you’re saying if I can’t see your mouth. So feel free to turn on the radio, whatever. Clearly, I don’t care what you listen to.” Her laugh felt reedy.
Crap
. “Tamar might. Um, despise your taste in music, that is… ” She jabbed a thumb toward her dog and forced her mouth shut.
    My God, verbal diarrhea was still alive and well.
    Her eyes flicked to the side mirror and she caught a fragment of his face. He was still staring, an oddly unsettling expression drifting around the depths of his glacial eyes.
    A car was fast approaching them. So she flicked on her signal and pulled into a turnout. Tamar stood.
    “Forgive me.” She sucked a deep breath, faced Nigel and held out a hand. “I’m Samantha Bond. We met last night at Brad’s. It rattled me having you thrust into my car just now. I’m not usually this rude on accident.”
    Something flickered through his eyes. He hesitated before putting his calloused, dry hand in hers. “Nigel Forsythe.”
    His grip was strong. Committed. Warm.
    And oddly familiar?
    She withdrew her hand, now buzzing with his touch. “Um, where to?”
    He shrugged and shifted his gaze back to the road ahead of them. His sweater dipped and the space where his throat became a hollow filled her stomach with something strangely akin to lust. She appreciated beauty as much as the next person, symmetry particularly, and his physique had it in coffers. But this sort of cold splendor usually left her indifferent. Yet, for a moment, she imagined herself tucked inside those solid arms.
    Annoyed with her odd reaction to him, she said, “Are you always like this?”
    “Like what?” His lips barely stirred and it took her a