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sit gingerly on a slippery powder blue brocade sofa with crocodile feet.
    If it were her sofa—which it could never be, because it was quite hideous—she’d paint its toenails fire engine red. She carefully put the plate of buttery cookies on a nearby side table. The fabric would probably stain just by one’s thinking about eating a cookie while seated on it.
    Thorne stood beside the massive Carrara marble fireplace, filled with scentless white roses and Queen Anne’s lace. How on earth could he exude sex appeal while holding a teacup with little red flowers on it? He’d propped his simple black cane to the side of the fireplace and stood with his feet a little apart.
    Isis wondered how such an unbending man could make her think of sex all the time. Not just sex, but hot, messy sex, sweaty-skin and twisted-sheets sex. Resting her palm on her throat she felt her rapid heartbeat, caused by just looking at him and imagining…
    He’s not the One, she reminded herself. She suspected Thorne would be quite happy to take her to bed. And she was pretty sure the experience would be mind-boggling.
    Too bad she wasn’t willing to risk sleeping with him and losing her heart to a man who she doubted had commitment on his mind.
    Safer not to complicate their relationship and risk him not helping her on her quest.
    Even though he was wreaking havoc on her senses, and firing her imagination, she’d lust in private and put on her game face for the duration.
    “Why would he make you wait so long?”
    “He’s sure to be thrilled to see I’m back.”
    The sarcasm dripping from his tone made it clear the comment was facetious. She took a sip of her drink, then held the glass between her hands on her lap. She was in no position to judge father-child relationships, but it seemed he and Daddy Dearest didn’t see eye to eye. “I’ll take a wild leap here and say you don’t get along.”
    He picked up a small jade elephant, then returned it to the end of a line of five others in descending size on the mantel. “I was the Great Disappointment.”
    She looked at him over the rim of the cut crystal glass housing her humble Coke. “No siblings to disperse the brunt?”
    “An older brother, Garrett.” His fingers briefly whitened on the edge of the carved marble mantel. “He died on his twenty-first birthday.”
    She absorbed the undertones, and her heart felt what she saw in his eyes before he masked it. “I’m sorry. Were you close?”
    “Extremely. We—”
    “James.” The man’s voice was cold and crisp. Isis looked over her shoulder, fumbling with her glass and the slippery seat to get to her feet as the Earl of Kilgetty greeted his son.
    Thorne didn’t walk over to greet his father, and his father came only a few steps into the room. Neither extended a hand to shake. Thorne put his cup and saucer on the high mantel and turned back, his face expressionless. “You look well, Father.”
    “I can’t say the same for you. I thought you’d gone to live in America.”
    “Seattle, yes. This is Professor Magee’s daughter, Isis. Isis, the Earl.”
    The Earl and his son were the same height and shared the same hazel eyes, but on the father the color was muddier and less interesting. He looked stern and unkind. Bitter. Isis had the irrational urge to rush over and standbeside Thorne in solidarity. It would’ve helped if he’d introduced his father by the way Isis was supposed to address him. My lord? Your Earliness? Hell.
    “Pleased to meet you,” she decided was good enough. The Earl gave her a cool, disinterested look, his gaze flicking from her sneakers up her jean-clad legs and over the open Windbreaker, then landing on her wildly curling hair. He didn’t look impressed with what he was seeing. Too damned bad.
    “How is August?”
    “I’m afraid he has Alzheimer’s,” she said. “I suspect his condition was exacerbated by the attack he sustained on his last trip to Egypt.” She’d come to terms with her