Taking a shaky breath, I edge up to the intercom, noting the cameras placed all around, and press the call button.
Fuck, fuck, fuck a duck.
“Yes?” a man answers. He doesn’t sound like Macon.
Even so, I find myself stuck, lips parted, mouth dry, and not a sound escaping me.
Answer him, dimwit.
No, turn the car around, and run away while you still can.
“Hello?” he asks again. I swear I catch a hint of humor in the question as if the man on the other end is holding in a laugh.
Buoyed by sheer annoyance, I find my voice. “Delilah Baker to see Macon Saint.”
My hands are so sweaty one slips off the steering wheel. I surreptitiously wipe my hand on my skirt and stare into the dark little eye of the camera. It feels like forever but is probably only a few seconds before the gate slides open.
A long driveway lined with lacy old olive trees beckons me inside. Slowly, I drive along, my heart pounding a steady tattoo against my ribs. A small one-story white house comes into view. I begin to brake but then quickly realize it’s a guesthouse. In the distance looms a far bigger white house that faces the ocean.
“Jesus wept, what a setup.” A laugh escapes me even though I’m not finding anything particularly funny at the moment. But I can’t help myself. If I had to point to my perfect dream house, this would be it.
There are four main styles of houses favored by the wealthy in Southern California. The classic twenties Spanish style, the ornate wannabe French or English manor, the ultramodern, and the craftsman on steroids. Macon’s house is a mix of craftsman and modern, which shouldn’t make sense. But it does.
I roll up before the warm, inviting doors of weathered wood, and my breakfast threatens to make itself known once more.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself, pressing a hand against my roiling belly.
Outside, the air is fragrant with wild chamomile, sweet lemons, and the salty sea air. The gentle lull of the ocean just beyond seems mocking in the face of my wildly pounding heart. I take a long, easy breath and let it out slowly.
Running a hand through my hair, I prepare to meet my childhood nemesis. God help me.
Macon Saint does not answer the door.
I shouldn’t be surprised. However, I can’t help but stare at the guy who stands before me.
He looks like James Bond, to be honest. Roughly handsome with dark-blond hair, a pouty sneer, and a body that borders on brutish, he’s fairly intimidating. His sky-blue eyes rake me over, but I sense he’s curious, not antagonistic.
“I’m North,” he says by way of greeting.
I put on my visiting smile and hold out a hand. “Delilah.”
He shakes my hand briefly. “I know.”
Of course; he was the one who answered at the gate. And I’m expected. Neither of us mentions that Sam isn’t with me. Maybe he expected that too.
For the thousandth time this morning, I swallow down my irritation with Sam. It won’t help me now.
“Come on in.” North inclines his head in invitation.
I don’t want to. I want to run. The corners of his eyes crinkle as if he knows this well and empathizes. I’m led into a sun-filled front hall, and I’m hard pressed not to gape and sigh.
The interior of Macon’s house is even nicer than the exterior. Perfection. It is space and light and peace. It somehow manages to be grand without feeling empty.
“You find the place okay?” North asks me as we walk past a great room.
“Navigation aids are a lifesaver.”
“True.”
I catch glimpses of a living area with wide weathered plank floorboards, coffered ceilings, creamy-white paneled walls, and beyond, the blue, blue ocean. It’s perfect. A dream.
A nightmare.
I hate that Macon Saint, a.k.a. the devil, gets to live here, that he gets to look out these floor-to-ceiling windows every day. I hate that I’m jealous.
The house is extremely quiet and smells faintly of timber and citrus. Every few feet, an ocean breeze drifts through the open windows and teases the ends of my hair. We pass a dining room and a glass-walled wine room filled with bottles.
I imagine a drunk Macon sprawled on the floor, deliberating which wine to try next, and suppress the urge to snicker.
“Are you a friend of Macon’s?” I ask, partly to fill the silence that’s getting to me and partly because I’m genuinely curious.
“Friend?” North seems to ponder the question, then glances my way. “Yes. But I’m also his temporary bodyguard and personal trainer.” His expression turns devious. “So he’s not allowed to play the friend card when I’m busting his butt.”
“Tough love, eh?”
“Something like that.” He moves with crisp strides, and it’s not difficult to imagine him taking out bad guys.
I hadn’t thought of Macon needing security. I can’t seem to get my head around the fact that he is famous. As it is, I can barely think about how I’m about to see him for the first time in ten years. I’ll vomit if I do.