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stay. Hadn't he mentioned the fact
that he knew a lot about her? It certainly didn't seem like it now. She sighed
in exasperated confusion.
    "And how long have you been here?"
    "Fifteen years."
    "I see." He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, inspecting
her in a way that brought a flush to her cheeks. She half expected him to prod
her with his cane as if she were an animal on an auction block. She drew
herself up as straight as she could, but she was still more than a head shorter
than Mr. Wolfe.
    "And how do you earn your keep, Ms. Quennel?"
    "I help in the garden, I cook—whatever Mrs. Jacoby requests
of me."
    He gave her splattered smock another scathing look. His eyes were
cold and opaque, almost black, in perfect complement to his curt questions.
Once again her gaze strayed to the scar that ran across his forehead, just
above his left eyebrow, and the other angling down his cheek. Rose wondered
what had happened to him, to leave him scarred and crippled. His scars added a
primal ruthlessness to his expression, which caused her heart to patter more
quickly in her chest. She studied him while he inspected her. Then he switched
his cool regard to her face, and she quickly glanced away so he wouldn't catch
her staring.
    "I called ahead to the Jacobys, instructing them to prepare
for my arrival. And when I get here, it’s like the place is deserted. They've run
off, haven't they, knowing they have been remiss in their duties?"
    "The Jacobys are quite old, you know—"
    "They've been living at Brierwood all these years without
lifting a finger to take care of the place. That’s plain to see. They couldn't face
me, could they?"
    "Mr. Wolfe, you've—"
    "And like cowards, they left you here to make excuses for
them."
    "That is not the case."
    "What did they do—drink away my aunt's money?" He
pivoted, leaning on his cane "Look at the place. It's a
complete—"
    He broke off suddenly. His hand flew to his face, and his slender
fingers splayed over his eyes. He swore and stumbled backward, as if dizzy or
ill.
    "Mr. Wolfe!" Rose exclaimed. She rushed to him and,
without thinking, clutched his arm, hoping to catch him before he fell.
    "I'm all right!" he growled, wrenching his arm away.
    She stepped back, staring at him in alarm as he staggered to a bench
in the hall. Was he having a migraine attack? It served him right for losing
his temper and subjecting her to an angry tirade without allowing her to speak
in defense. He collapsed onto the bench and leaned back, closing his eyes. His
cane clattered to the wood floor. Rose reached down and picked it up.
    "Are you ill, Mr. Wolfe?"
    "No." His heavy breathing belied his words. She could
tell something was wrong with him.
    "If you had let me explain, Mr. Wolfe, you might not have
gotten so upset."
    "Please leave me alone."
    "And just because you're a Wolfe doesn't give you the right
to act like an ogre."
    "Leave me alone, Ms. Quennel."
    "And if you had taken the time to look around, you'd see
that the inside of Brierwood has received excellent care."
    "You've said your piece, Ms. Quennel, now go."
    "Not without an apology."
    He raised his head and squinted at her. "An apology?"
    She nodded.
    "All right. I'm sorry. Et cetera." He sighed and let
his head ease back. "Now, will you just leave me alone? Please?"
    "That apology did not come from the heart."
    "So I'm a heartless bastard, Ms. Quennel. Ask anyone.'
    He sounded gruff, and his lips were stern and tight, but what he
said didn't ring true. It was as if he were relaying someone's opinion of his
character, an opinion that had offended him.
    She lingered, curious to discover his real character, the one she
suspected might lie beneath the gruffness.
    "Can I get you something—a glass of water?"
    He sighed again, as if realizing he was not to be rid of her.
"Scotch, if there's any around."
    Carefully she leaned his cane against the end of the bench and
then walked to the drawing room, where Mr. Jacoby had kept a well-stocked