Read Storm Over the Lake for Free Online

I say it involves. You were rude, Miss Priss, and deliberately.” His jaw set. “Never again, do you understand me? Or I’ll set you down in a way you’ll grow old trying to forget!”
    She raised her face, a calm expression pasted to it. “Yes, sir. It won’t happen again, sir. I’m very sorry sir.”
    His hands clenched into huge fists on the surface of the desk, the knuckles going white. He drew a heavy, harsh breath and turned away, going to stand at the window with his hands jammed into his pants pockets.
    â€œI’ve never known a woman who could get under my skin the way you do,” he growled. “God, you make me want to do something violent…!”
    â€œIf I were a man, you’d hit me, wouldn’t you?” she asked matter-of-factly. “Then, I’m very glad I’m not a man, Mr. Devereaux, because I don’t imagine you pull your punches.”
    He glanced at her hotly. “I don’t. Any more than you pull yours.” He studied her pale face. “Just how deep does that veneerof composure go, Meredith?” His lips narrowed. “One day, I’m going to strip you out of it and see what’s underneath.”
    She avoided his eyes and rose from the desk. “I’m through for the day. Do you mind if I help Lillian in the kitchen, sir?”
    He hesitated. “Hell, go ahead.” He lit a cigarette. “Don’t tell me cooking’s among your many talents?”
    She paused with her hand on the doorknob. “I’m very good with hemlock and toadstools,” she said quietly.
    â€œNo doubt.” He didn’t say another word as she left.
    Supper was frigid. Utterly frigid. She’d tried to take refuge in the kitchen with Lillian, but he wouldn’t hear of that. With a thread of pure anger in his deep voice, he’d practically ordered her to his table. And watched her relentlessly while she picked at her food.
    â€œIf you don’t eat,” he said finally, leaning back in the chair to watch her through narrowed eyes, “I’ll feed you myself.”
    Her head jerked up and her lips started to form words.
    â€œOh, hell, yes, I will,” he said, anticipating her protest. “You’ve lost at least three pounds since you’ve been here. I want a healthy secretary, Meredith, not a sickly scarecrow, do you understand me? Now, eat!”
    She lifted the food to her lips with numb fingers, barely tasting the perfectly seasoned rice, the deliciously tender veal. Not, “I’m concerned about you, take care of yourself”—but, “I need your services, stay well.” Damn him, he didn’t have an ounce of kindness in his whole body, she thought, hurting from the onslaught. She finished her dinner, drank her coffee, and finally escaped to the kitchen where she spent the rest of the evening with Lillian.
    She had started up the stairs to bed when, on an impulse she went out the door instead and into the garden.
    It was a warm, spring night, and the scent of white roses was everywhere. In the pale moonlight, they seemed to glow, a delicate fantasy of beauty spreading over the gentle slope of the lawn in manicured perfection. She paused on the brick walk-way and touched one of them, pressing it to her cheek as she inhaled the sweet fragrance.
    â€œLooking for unicorns, Meredith?”
    She jumped, startled by the deep, curt voice, and pricked her finger on a thorn as she turned to see the master of the house standing a few feet behind her. His jacket and tie were gone and his shirt was open halfway down that massive chest, revealing bronzed skin and a mat of black, curling hair. His dark slacks hugged his narrow hips and his powerful legs as he stood, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a cigarette. His whole posture was threatening.
    â€œI…I don’t believe in unicorns anymore, Mr. Devereaux,” she said in a thin voice, touching the pricked