Storms

Quinn

Exactly one hour later, a soft knock caused my eyelids to pop open. I'd given up pacing my anxiety away and lay down on the bed, my hands clasped over my chest, trying to remember the meditation breathing exercises I'd learned over the years. It wasn't working.

"Ready, Miss?" Sims smooth voice flowed through the heavy double doors.

Smoothing down the white cotton of the maxi dress I'd chosen for the interview, I took a final cleansing breath, pasted a smile on my face, and greeted Sims.

The implacable house manager led me to yet another wing of the house; this one all rich dark wood and soft lighting. Oil paintings of haunting moors and dramatic storms lined the hunter green hallway. Interesting. The rumors were that McIntyre was probably from southern California, but his choice in art was strange for a Cali boy.

My musings were interrupted when Sims stopped in front of a dark oak door. The latch clicked loudly as the man turned the large, old-fashioned brass doorknob and motioned me inside.

Expecting him to announce me to the occupant of the room, I hesitated a moment before raising an eyebrow and stepping past Sims into the room.

The study was softly lit like the hallway, a massive wooden desk at the center. The leather chair behind the desk was empty, however. My eyes scanned the room until I finally saw him as he was lit by lightening flashing through the window in the corner of the room.

My breath caught in my throat as I took in the man who had been a cipher for so long. Broad-shouldered and powerfully built, he stood well over six feet tall, exuding an almost feral sense of power barely leashed.

He took a sip of an amber liquid from a crystal tumbler before turning to face me. He was even more magnetic than the few photos that were available of him, his presence utterly commanding. Even from across the room, the aura of raw masculinity rolling off him in waves was utterly captivating. Finally, he turned slowly to face me.

The first thing that struck me were his eyes - a pale, piercing blue that seemed to stare straight through me. His chiseled features were ruggedly handsome, from the sharp angles of his cheekbones to the firm line of his jaw dusted with a hint of scruff. A few streaks of silver threaded through his dark hair only added to his intensely virile appeal.

"Miss Pearce." His deep voice was a low rumble that vibrated straight through me. "I apologize for the...circumstances."

He gestured toward the window, where the storm lashed the glass with blinding sheets of rain. Thunder cracked ominously in the distance.

I tore my gaze away from him with an effort. Get it together, Quinn. This is just an interview.

"Not at all, Mr. McIntyre," I replied, proud of how steady my voice sounded. "A little atmospheric drama only adds to the intrigue."

One dark brow arched, just slightly. "Is that so? Well, we can't have you leaving disappointed, can we?"

There was something in his tone that made the fine hairs prickle on the back of my neck. A subtle undercurrent of...challenge? Invitation? I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

Clearing my throat, I held up my digital recorder. "Shall we get started?"

"By all means." With a slight wave of his hand, he indicated one of the leather chairs facing his desk.

As I crossed the room to take a seat, I couldn't resist studying him more intently. Lachlan McIntyre was a complete enigma - a tantalizing puzzle I felt increasingly determined to solve.

"Thank you for agreeing to this interview, Mr. McIntyre," I began once settled in the plush chair. "I know you value your privacy, so I appreciate you opening up a window into your world."

"A window..." He echoed the words almost absently as he moved to lean back against the edge of his desk, arms crossed over that powerful chest. "Yes, I suppose that's one way to look at it."

Our gazes locked and held, the weight of his stare utterly disarming. my mouth suddenly went dry. What was it about this man that made me feel so unsettled, yet undeniably intrigued?

Giving myself a mental shake, I pressed on. "Why don't we start at the beginning? Take me back to your childhood, your upbringing. What drove you to achieve such unprecedented success?"

A muscle ticked in his jaw, but his expression remained impassive. "You could say ambition was bred into me from an early age. I came from...humble beginnings, you might say. But I always had a hunger to create something more, to build an empire."

His gaze seemed to bore straight into me as he spoke, those pale eyes blazing with an intensity that made me want to squirm in my seat at such close proximity. "I'm sure you've heard the stories - the young, brash entrepreneur who rose to power with a few calculated gambles and ruthless business savvy."

I gave a slight nod, holding his stare. "Those stories never quite seem to capture the full picture, though. There are so many...layers to your success that have been kept maddeningly vague over the years."

A faint smile curved those sensual lips - a look that could almost be termed predatory. "Is that your diplomatic way of saying the public is desperate for all the sordid details, Miss Pearce?"

Heat crept into my cheeks, but I refused to be flustered. "I'm simply saying there's more to your story than meets the eye. As a journalist, I want to go beyond the carefully constructed public image and really understand the man behind the myth."

"The man behind the myth..." He echoed my words, letting them hang between us in the thickening silence.

I could have sworn his gaze drifted momentarily to my lips before he spoke again. "And if I told you the truth might be...more than you bargained for?"

The low rumble of his voice combined with the heated look in those pale eyes sent a shiver of pure visceral awareness down my spine. What was this dizzying tension that seemed to spark and crackle like a live wire between us?

I opened my mouth, fully intending to respond with a calm, professional rejoinder. But before I could speak, a deafening boom shook the room as a bolt of lightning split the sky right outside the window. I gasped, my heart leaping into my throat.

In a blur of movement, Lachlan surged forward, one hand gripping the arm of the chair while the other came up to brace against the high wing back - effectively caging me between his arms. His face was mere inches from mine, those blazing eyes locked on me with a searing intensity.

"Perhaps we should take a break," he murmured, his voice a low, heated rasp with a hint of an accent that seemed to vibrate against my very skin. "This storm seems to be...intensifying."

My mouth went dry as I stared back at him, utterly transfixed. The air between us seemed to thicken and churn with an electric, undeniable charge. I could feel the heat radiating from his powerful body, smell a hint of sandalwood and citrus that made my head spin.

What was happening here?