…Natalia came to a great gothic gate with the words Saint-Cloud on it with a bright smile on her face. Then she looked up the long drive to the sprawling gray manor house and her face fell. Gray stone, steep roofs, and turrets. The house looked like it should stand not under the California sun, but weather-beaten on an English moor. It seemed desperately out of place and unloved and she felt a twinge of sadness. Anxiously she walked up the drive, peering at the gray stone

[Jack] stood a hairsbreadth behind her, all the nerve endings closest to her firing and crackling, his fingers twitching to touch. Bending to the nape of her neck, he breathed in the scent of sweet almonds, bright citrus, and a dark musk that was utterly intoxicating. How desperately he wanted to touch her. To drag his nose along her nape sending a warm breath to tickle the fine hairs. To slide a hand down her arm and thread his fingers through hers. To take that last sm

A thick, shrouding copse of honeysuckle opened to reveal an ornate, iron gate swung wide. Gleaming Cadillacs, Rolls Royces, and Bugattis idled in a line in the drive, waiting to deposit the evening’s guests. “I don’t know why Graham couldn’t drive,” said Faye. “He could have, of course,” said Jack, sitting easily behind the wheel as they rolled slowly forward to a valet. “But it’s ridiculous to ask him when I’m perfectly capable.” He glanced at her slunk low as if avoiding