Silence fell like a hammer. Or maybe an ax. Why not? An ax could sever more than one thing today. Greg swallowed twice, his gaze darting over me, like he couldn’t quite believe I was there. In my own home.

His voice was somewhat shaky when he finally spoke. “You’re early.”

So many things to say. Scream, maybe? Cry? But I was numb. Completely numb. So I said the only thing I could. “Funny, I think I arrived just in time.”

And like that, the carefully constructed life I was so proud of crumbled to dust.

CHAPTER ONE

Lucian

One truth I’d learned in life: the tender care of a woman who loved you was the best refuge when your soul was broken. Of course, I hadn’t thought the woman I’d run to would be my grandmother. Yes, she loved me. And yes, her place, Rosemont, was an excellent refuge. But the sad truth was there was nothing left for me anywhere else. My fiancée was gone, my career was gone, and I was broken.

Which meant I was at Rosemont. And, apparently, at my grandmother’s beck and call. There was no such thing as privacy when you lived with her. Meddling wasn’t her middle name, but it should have been.

Her droll, musical voice managed to rise above the sound of my hammering. “They have this wonderful new invention called a nail gun, Titou. Or so I’m told.”

Suppressing a sigh, I set my hammer down and turned to find her standing at the base of my ladder, hands on wide hips, a fond but slightly reproachful smile on her thin red lips.

“I like my hammer.”

A glint lit up her glass-green eyes. “A man should not grow so fond of his tool that he closes out the rest of the world.”

I swear to God. This was my life now—having to grit my teeth through sexual quips told by my unrepentant grandmother.

“Did you need something, Mamie?”

Failing to get a rise out of me, she sighed, and her shoulders sagged. She was wearing one of her silk caftans, and when her hands flipped up in annoyance, she looked like a small head stuck atop a fluttering orange-and-blue curtain.

I bit back a grin; otherwise, she’d ferret out why I was smiling and would be in a huff for the rest of the day.

“Do you remember Cynthia Maron?”

“Can’t say as I do.”

“She is a very dear friend to me. You met her once when you were five.”

It was typical Mamie, ever a social butterfly, to have perfect recall of everyone she met. I didn’t bother pointing out that not everyone had that talent. “All right.”

I also didn’t see where she was going with this, but I knew she’d get there eventually.

“Cynthia has a granddaughter. Emma.” Mamie tutted under her breath. “Poor dear has had a time of it lately and is in need of relaxation.”

“She’s coming here, isn’t she?” This wasn’t my house. Mamie could invite whomever she wanted to visit. But damn it—I’d come here to get away from everything. That included guests.

“But of course,” Mamie huffed. “What else would I be talking about?”

It was petty of me to complain.

Rosemont had always been a haven for those who needed it. The massive Spanish revival estate, complete with multiple guesthouses, lay near the base of the Santa Ynez Mountains in Montecito. Bathed in the golden California sunlight, the extensive grounds, redolent with the heady fragrance of roses and fresh lemons, overlooked the Pacific Ocean. To be at Rosemont was to be surrounded by grace and beauty. For me, it had always been a refuge. A place to heal. Over the years, others, invited by Mamie, found that same healing.

“It was just a question,” I muttered, instantly feeling like the angry fourteen-year-old boy I’d been when I first came to live here.

She made another annoyed tut but then waved my churlishness aside with a swat of her hand. “She’s arriving today. I thought we could have coffee and cakes at around four.”

Instantly, I knew where this was going. But I played ignorant. Partly because dread prickled down my back and partly because it would annoy my grandmother. Ah, the games we played. The realization that it was the only type of game I could play anymore sank my mood faster than a stone plummeting into a cold, dark well.

“All right.” I stepped down from the ladder. “Do you want me to stop working while you have your party?”

A string of muffled French curses followed before a sharp pinch to my side nearly made me yelp.

Mamie’s eyes narrowed to frost-green slits. “Oh, you test me these days, Titou.”

I knew I did. Regret thickened in my throat. I was shit to be around. Mamie was the only one who could stand me anymore. I knew all this. That I couldn’t seem to pull out of it was the problem. My entire life had gone to shit. Most days, it was all I could do not to scream and rage until my voice gave out.

Not talking unless absolutely necessary seemed the best and safest solution.

I couldn’t even give my grandmother an apology. It was stuck there, a big-ass lump at the center of my chest.

Again she sighed. She peered at me with those cool-green eyes that were the exact shade of my own. People often said that looking into them was like gazing into a mirror—they were so reflective. Those eyes could cut a person to shreds with one look. The saying wasn’t exactly wrong; I felt flayed just now.

Her cool knobby fingers caressed my cheek for a brief moment, and I fought the urge to flinch. I didn’t like people touching me now. At all.

Her hand drifted down, and she visibly regrouped. “Now then. I expect you to join us.”

“No.”

Perfectly plucked brows lifted high. “No?”

I felt all of two years old. And just as damn petulant. Rubbing a hand over my face, I tried again. “I’ll only end up accidentally insulting your guest or messing it up in some equally embarrassing way for you.”

This wasn’t a lie. I’d lost all my ability to charm; it had leaked out of me and never returned. Some days I wondered about that, about how I’d changed so much, so quickly that I no longer felt right in my own skin.

“I believe our guest will be able to handle the likes of you,” Mamie said dryly.

Don’t fall for it.

“And why is that?”

I fell for it. Damn it.

Her smile was nothing short of smug and victorious. “She is Emma Maron. You know of her, yes?”

Emma Maron. The name danced around my sorely abused brain. I knew that name. But how? Emma . . . an image of wide-set, big doe eyes the color of indigo ink and a plush, pouty mouth filled my mind’s eye. Oval face surrounded by white hair with electric-blue tips.