Chapter 1 - The Frozen Lawn and the Boss's Unstoppable Fury
By the time Roman DeLuca found Claire Bennett in the snow, her eyelashes were
frozen together and his Christmas dinner was still being served. That was the
part he would remember for the rest of his life. Not the screaming wind. Not the
bloodless color of her lips. Not even the terrifying moment when he pressed two
fingers beneath her jaw and felt a pulse so faint he thought he had imagined it.
What Roman would remember was the golden light spilling from the mansion behind
him. Warm windows. Crystal chandeliers. A twenty-foot Christmas tree glowing
through the glass. Forty people inside drinking vintage champagne, eating prime
rib, and laughing beneath garlands imported from Vermont while a woman who
worked under his roof lay unconscious in a snowbank less than two hundred yards
away. And someone in that house had sent her there.
Roman tore off his heavy wool overcoat, wrapped it tightly around Claire’s
freezing body, and lifted her into his arms. "Stay with me." She did not move.
Her head fell back against his shoulder, limp, her skin like wet marble. His
heart slammed against his ribs with a violence he hadn't felt in a decade.
"Claire." Nothing. Not a breath against his throat. Not a flutter of her frozen
eyelids.
Roman DeLuca had been called cold since he was twenty-three years old. At
thirty-four, he controlled a family empire so vast and unyielding that judges
returned his calls within minutes, federal prosecutors spoke his name with
caution, and hardened men lowered their voices whenever he entered a room. He
had buried a father. He had survived an ambush on the Brooklyn docks. He had
negotiated multi-million-dollar treaties while a bullet was still lodged beneath
his shoulder blade. He had never been afraid of much. But carrying Claire
Bennett through three feet of snow while the gale-force blizzard whipped against
his bare suit jacket, Roman discovered that fear had a distinct taste. Metallic.
Bitter. Unforgettable.
He kicked open the heavy French doors of the south wing with a crack that echoed
like a gunshot through the marble corridors. The butler, Mr. Howard, dropped a
silver water pitcher. It shattered on the parquet floor. "Call Dr. Rossi!" Roman
roared, his voice cutting through the holiday music like an executioner's blade.
"Get every blanket in the master suite! Move!" "Mr. DeLuca—what happened?"
Howard stammered, his face draining of color. "Rossi. Now. If he isn't in my
bedroom in three minutes, tell security to drag him by his neck."
Roman didn't take Claire to the staff quarters in the basement. He didn't take
her to the guest wing. He carried her up the sweeping mahogany staircase,
straight past the portraits of his ruthless ancestors, and into his private
master suite—a room no servant, and certainly not his socialite fiancée, had
ever been permitted to enter uninvited. He laid Claire gently in the center of
his massive king-sized bed. The snow from her thin uniform dress began to melt,
soaking into the dark silk duvet. Her lips were a terrifying shade of blue. Her
fingers were stiff, curved into tight claws as if she had tried to dig her way
out of the drifts.
Roman tore off his gloves and took her hands between his large, warm palms,
rubbing them furiously. "Come on, Claire. Breathe. Look at me." The bedroom door
swung open. Vivian Mercer stood on the threshold. She was holding a crystal
flute of vintage Dom Pérignon, looking immaculate in her scarlet silk gown,
diamonds glittering at her collarbone. "Roman, darling," Vivian said, her tone a
smooth mix of mild irritation and sweet condescension. "Our guests are waiting
for the dessert toast. Why on earth are you carrying a servant into your bed?
You're ruining the sheets."
May you like
Roman did not stop rubbing Claire’s frozen fingers, but the temperature in the
room dropped ten degrees below the storm outside. He slowly lifted his dark,
lethal eyes to Vivian. "Where was she?" Roman asked, his voice dangerously low.
"How should I know?" Vivian shrugged delicately, sipping her champagne. "She's
staff. She probably wandered off." "She was buried in the drift behind the
carriage house," Roman said, rising to his feet. He stepped toward Vivian,
towering over her, his broad shoulders blocking the light of the roaring
fireplace. "The carriage house doors were padlocked from the outside with heavy
iron chains. And in her pocket, I found an order slip written in your
handwriting demanding a bottle of Bellamy Reserve."
Vivian's smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. Before she could speak, Dr.
Rossi burst through the door with his medical kit, his breathing ragged. "Step
back, Vivian," Roman commanded, his voice shaking with a cold fury that made the
heiress take an involuntary step backward. Rossi pressed a stethoscope to
Claire’s chest. His face tightened into grim terror. "Mr. DeLuca, her core
temperature is critical. She's in severe hypothermic shock. Her lungs are
filling with fluid." Rossi looked up, his hands trembling. "If she doesn't
stabilize in the next ten minutes, her heart is going to stop—and somebody made
sure the estate's medical emergency oxygen supply in the south hall was emptied
this afternoon."
