Stolen Hearts (Hearts 1)

I walked the overgrown path up the hill. The turret on the Constantine mansion was obscured by mist. I bypassed the driveway and used the old wooden gate built in the side of the fence set deeper in the woods. Mom showed us this fence when Zilla and I were girls, when we were in and out of this house like it was our own. I hadn’t used it in years. But this morning, in my muddy Wellingtons and bedraggled ponytail – it seemed right.

I knocked on the door and squeezed the water out of my hair, waiting for one of the maids to answer.

“Poppy!” It was Denise. My favorite. She’d been around the longest and remembered my mother. “Ms. Constantine didn’t tell me she was expecting you.”

“She told me to come by last night.”

“Did you make an appointment?”

“Nope,” I said, stepping inside the foyer. I wiped off my boots on the rug. I liked Denise, but I wasn’t going to be sent away. “Is she in her office?”

“Yes,” Denise said. “But why don’t you let me—”

“I know the way, Denise. It’s fine.” I gave her a blinding smile. The kind of smile I gave servers and photographers when they noticed a bruise on my wrist and their eyebrows went up. It was my no further questions smile.

Caroline’s office was up in the turret. And I took the wide sweeping center staircase up to the second floor and then the smaller staircase to the third, and in the corner by the old nursery and the maid’s quarters was the final staircase up to her throne.

Justin had a desk at the top of the stairs. “Poppy!” he cried as he stood. “You don’t have an appointment.” He looked down at his desk like this unexpected interruption was going to send the whole house of cards to the floor.

“You’re right,” I said and pushed my way into Caroline’s office anyway, right past him. The room was windowed on three sides, and the ceiling was gorgeous refurbished mahogany. All the décor cream, white, and gold with accents of pale pink.

In the middle of the room, standing opposite her desk was a man with his back to me in a black suit. I knew in a heartbeat who he was.

Ronan.

I had not anticipated him. And my body lurched with memory and shame. The urge to run was not small, but I stood there. I stood there, and I folded up those conflicting memories and I put them away. I wasn’t stupid. And I wasn’t a little girl. It was time for me to stop acting like I was.

And more importantly it was time to stop being distracted by what he did to me.

Who is he? I wondered. And how did he get so close to Caroline? So fast? That office in her building that I’d been sure was for family; it was clearly his. Which meant he was deeply inner circle.

“Poppy?” Caroline asked, looking around Ronan to see me in the doorway. Her eyes went wide at the way I was dressed. Jeans and wet hair, muddy boots. An old raincoat I found in the gardener’s closet. “Are you all right?”

At that, Ronan turned, his face registering nothing. Not surprise or happiness or anger or disdain. Not even the memory of my ass grinding against his cock as I came so hard I left my body.

Nope. Ronan stared at me like we were strangers. And that was just great with me.

He’d worked some magic on me last night. Not just my body, but in my head, too. Pushing me out of that trap I’d lived in, too terrified to ask for what I wanted in fear of it being taken away.

Too terrified to want anything.

I felt stronger for having asked for something, even if it was something as strange as that man’s hands on my body. Even if getting what I wanted sent me someplace dark and shameful.

Sex was so easy for some people. Why was it always a Greek tragedy for me?

“I’m fine,” I said. “I was hoping we could talk?” My gaze flicked to Ronan, and I took great pleasure in sniffing dismissively. “Alone.”

“Of course,” she said. As she stood, she nodded at Ronan who turned and walked for the door. Brushing so close to me I could see that scar under his neck. I watched him go, all but daring him to look at me.

Of course, he didn’t. Because in the end, I was a senator’s widow, the good friend of his boss, and he was the help.

Now who is the coward? I thought. But didn’t necessarily feel better for the thought.

The door closed behind him, and Caroline gestured to the ivory chairs in front of her desk.

“You’re mad at me,” she said.

“I am,” I said. “Those things you changed in the speech—”