She stepped over the threshold, a bit surprised at the opulence of the room. She'd been expecting something a bit more like a hotel room, with a simple bed, dresser, and table. She would have been glad for that. This . . . was incredible.

"I trust that this suits your needs?" the butler asked dryly.

Gretchen forced herself to close her mouth and gave him an equally grave look. "It's a little small," she lied, "but it'll suit."

"I'll give you a few hours to get settled. Dinner is in two hours and will be brought to your room."

Audrey stopped staring at the gorgeous room and looked over at the butler. "Do we get a tour of the place?"

"And the letters," Gretchen said. "When do I get to look at those?"

"The letters are in the south wing, and the south wing is off limits today." He moved toward the door, readying to leave. "If you need anything else, ring the bell pull. My name is Mr. Eldon. You can ask for me."

"Why is the south wing off limits?" Gretchen asked as he began to shut the door.

"Because today is Friday," he said as the door closed with a click.

Gretchen stared at Audrey, a bit surprised by what had just happened.

"Well. The rich do surround themselves with eccentrics," Audrey said. "Maybe he's very good at being a butler. Or something."

"I'm hoping it's more along the lines of old family friend'," Gretchen said wryly. "Because that'll excuse his behavior a little more. Do you think the owner doesn't want me here to do this project?"

"I don't know," Audrey said, moving to the bed and touching one of the thick, luxurious tassels hanging from the bed draperies. "They invited you here, didn't they? So the Buchanan family must be aware that you're here to work."

"Huh." Gretchen wasn't so sure. The butler was kind of a jerk. Still, she could put up with a jerk for a nice fat paycheck and the opportunity to live in an American-style castle for an entire month. It wasn't as if Mr. Eldon was going to be hovering over her shoulder for the entire time.

An angry meow came from Gretchen's bag, and she set it down on the edge of the bed, unzipping. Igor bounded out a moment later, and then hissed at her to let Gretchen know his displeasure.

That was par for the course today, really. It seemed like everyone was in a pissy mood.

Eldon entered Hunter's office after a quick knock. "She is here, and she is settled, sir."

Hunter bolted to his feet behind his desk, then forced himself to remain put. Calm. Relaxed. At ease. "Did she seem pleased?"

The butler's mouth turned down in a sour frown. "Pleased? I suppose. She asked to see the letters and I told her the wing was off limits."

"You can show her tomorrow."

"Shall I leave the honor to you?"

"I . . . no. Not yet." The surroundings would be strange to Gretchen. Best not to unsettle her more than she was already. Perhaps she was nervous and seeing a man with scars lurking in the shadows would only increase the nervousness. "I shall introduce myself in time."

"Very well, sir." Eldon said nothing else, but didn't leave the room, either.

"What is it?"

"She has brought her sister with her."

"I have no objections."

"Yes." Again, a long pause, and then Eldon's face seemed disapproving once more. "And a cat."

Hunter felt his mouth stretch tight against his scars, smiling. "A cat is permissible. I did not state in the contract if she had to leave any pets behind."

"I see."

"And have you set up the letters for Ms. Petty's project?"

Eldon gave a sharp nod. "They have been placed in an authentic Buchanan trunk dating from the Victorian era and left in the Blue Library."

"And you reviewed them to verify their accuracy? This has to seem like a legitimate project, Eldon. I don't want her leaving early because she realizes it's a scam."

"I have been assured of the age and accuracy of the letters by the gentleman who sold them to me. He insisted that they have been in his family for generations and was only willing to part with them for a large sum."

"I don't care about how much they cost. I just want it to be enough to keep her here for a few weeks so I can get to know her."

"You may trust that it is under control, Mr. Buchanan." Eldon clasped his hands behind his back and shifted on his feet. "This does, however, bring me to the question of the publisher."

"The publisher?"

"The one you formed to push Ms. Petty's project? You hired Mr. Stewart from his publishing house and told him to acquire employees and projects as long as Ms. Petty's book was given premium attention."

He vaguely remembered something about that. It had seemed easier to him that he'd set his own publisher up than to approach one of the others. After all, he didn't care if the business made money. "Is there a problem with Stewart?"

"I believe he wanted to discuss Bellefleur Publishing with you and get your opinion on some of the acquisitions."

Hunter waved a hand, dismissing the thought. He didn't give a shit about what Stewart acquired. "Have him talk with my accounting people."

"They are not fans of this project, just so you know, sir."

"Why does it matter to them?"

Eldon's mouth pursed as if considering something unpleasant. "I believe one does not go into publishing with the expectation of making large amounts of money."

"Then it's a good thing that I didn't go into this expecting to make money, isn't it?" Hunter smiled tightly. "Tell him to contact my accountants. And tell my accountants to give the man whatever he needs to run his business-within reason."

Hunter moved to the window, gazing out at his rose gardens. They were bare and brown this time of year, the beds carefully covered to protect the roots in anticipation of springtime. They'd be gorgeous then, but for now they were barren. He wondered if she'd like them when they were in full bloom. Did she like gardening? Did she like the outdoors? "You met Gretchen, Eldon. Tell me your thoughts."

"It is not for me to say, sir." He didn't look pleased at being asked. When Hunter continued to wait, he added, "She seemed . . . strong."

Strong. Hunter rubbed his mouth, thinking of kind Gretchen. She was so beautiful and lively. He'd have no idea how to talk to her. Hell, he still had a hard time figuring out what to say to Logan, Jonathan, and the others and he'd known them for years. Next to someone as lovely and personable as her, he'd be . . . a tongue-tied, scarred lump.

Fucking pathetic.

Eldon cleared his throat. "Will our house guests affect the cleaning schedule, Mr. Buchanan?"

"No, they will not."

"Then I shall be off to resume my duties, sir."

"Thank you, Eldon."

His butler left, and Hunter was once again alone in his study. He forced himself to sit back down, calmly, though his heart was beating rapidly in his chest. Anxiety? Excitement? Or something else?

Buchanan Manor never had visitors. Hunter never had visitors. Even the Brotherhood never came to visit. He usually went to visit them, and with a bodyguard in tow.

He felt an incredible urge to head toward the guest hall in the east wing, where she was housed. He wanted to pass down the hall and perhaps spot her exploring. Did she like his house? Or did she find it old and stodgy and overbearing?

His hand touched the scars on his cheek, feeling the deep, ugly grooves still carved into his flesh after all this time.

And clenched his hands on his desk, quelling his excitement.

Dawn broke bright and early, shining through the massive windows along the far wall. Gretchen bounded out of bed, already feeling restless and ready to begin the project. On the other side of the bed, Audrey mumbled and rolled over, going back to sleep.

That was fine with Gretchen. It'd give her a chance to get her bearings.

She dressed quickly, considering the bell pull, and decided to head out on her own. Dinner had been brought to them last night but it had been . . . strange. A few meager sandwiches and a can of tuna for her cat. She'd considered that Igor might not be the most welcome here and had brought cans of food and a portable litter pan, but it was downright odd that the cat seemed to be welcome and her sister was not. And since the welcome had been so incredibly warm she decided that perhaps this morning she'd explore a bit on her own before alerting their host that she was awake.

The halls of the house were eerily silent, to the point that she stopped and turned her phone to vibrate. A phone call would alert someone to her presence, and . . . she paused. Why was she feeling the need to sneak around? There was no one in this mansion. And after all, she'd been invited. So why the vague sense of guilt?

Probably because the butler had been such a jerk. If he was the welcoming party, she could see why no one else was here. She wondered if the owner was quite as big an asshole as his employee. Perhaps the unfriendly Mr. Buchanan had given his butler instructions to make their welcome an unpleasant one because he wasn't a fan of the project. Maybe he didn't want her here and was permitting it only for the sake of the project.

Though if he didn't want her here, then why would he allow it? Why wouldn't he make other provisions to take the letters off-site in a controlled manner and have her work somewhere else where he wouldn't be disturbed?

None of it made any sense.

Gretchen wandered the halls, admiring the costly furnishings and the architecture of the place, but the more that she wandered, the more bizarre it seemed to her. Though the place was spotless, she had seen no one at all. Didn't a place this huge need a massive staff on hand? She'd seen enough documentaries about British aristocracy and the huge staff that the manor houses carried. This was practically American aristocracy, right? So where were the employees? She found it hard to believe that Buchanan would be doing his own dishes and dusting his library.

She eventually made it back to the main foyer of the house. Then she headed across the hall to the next wing. For some reason, it was oddly pleasing to hear the distant whirr of vacuums. That meant someone else existed in this enormous mansion.

Following the sounds, she pushed open doors until she found the source-an army of maids thoroughly cleaning one room. There had to be twenty women in there busy with vacuums and dusters.

"Hi there," Gretchen called.

They stopped what they were doing. One woman froze mid-feather-dust, and the one wielding the enormous vacuum shut it off. They were all middle-aged to elderly, and they stared at her as if she were a ghost.

Gretchen gave them a friendly little wave, though she was feeling a bit odd about such things. This place was crazy. "You guys work here?"

As soon as the question left her mouth, she felt like an idiot. They were wearing traditional black-and-white maid costumes that Gretchen thought only existed for costume parties, though a more modest kind than she'd seen for Halloween. Of course they worked here. "I'm staying in the east wing," she said lamely. "Working. Nice to see you all."

"No one's supposed to be in this wing," one woman said after a moment. "Today's Saturday."

"Umm, okay." She glanced around, but everyone seemed to be waiting for her to go. "Why can't we be in the west wing today again?"

"Because it's Saturday," another woman said. "Off limits except to the cleaning crew."

"Yeah, okay, but why?"

The woman shrugged. "That's how it is. We don't make the rules. We just work here."

And now she was making them nervous. Well, wasn't this awkward. Gretchen pointed at the door behind her. "I'm . . . um . . . just going to leave, I think. Have you guys seen Mr. Buchanan?"

"No one sees Mr. Buchanan except Mr. Eldon," the eldest maid offered helpfully. "Do you want me to call Mr. Eldon?"

"No, that's okay. I already had my fill of Mr. Eldon." Gretchen glanced at the door, then back at the maids. One wing was closed yesterday because it was Friday. This wing was closed because today was Saturday. "So tomorrow's Sunday. What happens on Sunday?"

"Boathouse and Greenhouse," one of the women offered. "And any outlying buildings or special projects."

"And Monday?"

"No one works on Monday or Tuesday. Wednesday is the north wing, Thursday is the east wing, Friday is the south wing, and Sunday is the west wing."

"You do a different area each day of the week? Huh. Which day of the week is Mr. Buchanan's room?"

"Wednesday."

So he lived in the north wing. Not the same wing as her. "And the rest of the family?"

"No one else lives here except Mr. Eldon and Mr. Buchanan."

In this big house? Only two men? How positively . . . creepy. And lonely. And an enormous waste of all this incredible space. "I see. Well, I think I'm going to finish taking a look around, if that's okay with you guys."

"Are you sure you don't want me to ring Mr. Eldon?" One woman pulled out a phone that looked remarkably like a walkie-talkie. "I'm sure he'd-"

"No, I'm good. I was just heading down to the kitchens. Can you tell me where they are?"

"There's three kitchens," one maid volunteered. "But the only one that's kept stocked is in the north wing."

Spiffy. "Thank you. Is there a kitchen staff?"

"Just Mr. Eldon. He prepares all of Mr. Buchanan's meals. He's probably there right now."

"I see." Jeez. This was sounding weirder by the moment. Gretchen knew the rich were eccentric, but this was a little ridiculous. "Well, skip that, then. I'm not that hungry after all. I'll check the kitchens out some other time. Thanks for your help, ladies."

She left, quickly shutting the door before they could protest-or worse, call the oh-so-pleasant Mr. Eldon.

Gretchen headed back to the main hall, heading toward the familiar part of the house before she got lost and someone had to call Eldon on her. It was still early enough that she could get a good day's work in on Astronaut Bill before Eldon returned to show her where they were keeping the letters. She could return, wake up Audrey, spend some time with Igor, and relax. And work on her book like she was supposed to. Even better, she could ring the bell and force that awful Mr. Eldon to make them breakfast. The thought of him slaving over a stove for her and Audrey had a certain appeal.

And yet . . . Gretchen turned. Then, after a moment's thought, she headed up the stairs to the north wing.

She was being nosy, she told herself. She just wanted a glimpse of what the mysterious Mr. Buchanan looked like. Maybe he'd be just as weird and unpleasant as Mr. Eldon. But her imagination was fired up.

Plus, she'd use any excuse to avoid spending manuscript time with Astronaut Bill. Maybe it was time Astronaut Bill met up with a fearsome race of skinny, bald giant butlers that needed to be slaughtered.