Finally, there came a fumbling noise; a latch turned and the door swung open. Sunlight streamed past her and into the house, striking a crystal chandelier that hung low in the foyer. Glass orbs and shards grabbed the light and tossed about a brilliant rainbow of colors, blinding her. She flinched and stepped backward, her boot heel catching on the fabric of her skirt. Down she went, limbs akimbo, the piazza floor rising up fast to greet her. But as she fell, she caught a glimpse of a man—a dark outline of his tall frame. His features were invisible against the white stone of the house.
Then the ground slapped her hard enough to rattle her teeth. So much for a good first impression. The sunlight poured relentlessly on her. She shielded her eyes and looked up.
“You find me that offensive?” His voice was low and sleep-filled, tainted with anger. No, she realized, the voice wasn’t tainted with mere anger—it was laced with something close to rage. Or worse.
From beneath her hand, her eyes darted left and right, searching for the man who spoke with such venom. “I can’t see you,” she said, feeling foolish.
A face swung into view, inches from her own. “I’m easy to miss,” he said. Eyes the color of a thousand sunsets swept over her face in a harsh gaze. Reds and purples and blues shifted and swirled within the irises. She shrank from him and sucked air into her lungs like a dying woman. Her hand fell away from her brow, revealing the man in his entirety. Stupidly, she sat there, blinking, trying to fathom exactly what she was seeing.
He stood there in the bright sunlight, white as snow, clad in black sleeping trousers and a robe that lay open to his waist. His skin was powder white—white beyond fathoming—as if milk had been added to an already pale skin tone, bringing forth an unnatural brightness. To look at him was to look upon the facets of a diamond; it hurt the eye to take him in. His muscles were etched into hard lines on his torso and he had a winter’s blaze of white hair that crowned a youthful, vigorous-looking face. All that white hair and he couldn’t be more than thirty-five. She stared, openmouthed.
“At least have the courtesy to shut your mouth while you stare at me,” he said, each word scraping out exactly as her boots had on the walkway moments before. He held out a hand.
She hesitated, swallowed hard and then finally slipped her hand into his. His hand was warm and she couldn’t help but be surprised by this. She had half expected his touch to have the cold chill of death on it. He pulled her to her feet, yanked her right up, and she stood in his shadow—for he was very tall, indeed—panting, trying to collect her thoughts.
“Well?” he said, a sneer twisting his features. Was he handsome?
“I’m sorry,” she said, her brain scrambling for words. “The agency sent me, sir. I’m here for the position.” She chanced one more look—she couldn’t help it. His face was too young, too beautiful and too strong for that white hair. And those eyes. God help her, those eyes.
He said nothing, merely watched her as she watched him. He seemed determined to shock her, unconcerned as he was with his half-dressed state. “Have you seen enough?” he finally asked. A touch of sleep lingered in the drawl of his voice, giving him an almost casual arrogance.
“I apologize,” she said, busying herself by leaning down to pick up her valise. “I was surprised, and all the lights startled me.”
He sniffed and shook his head. “The agency sent you? And who exactly are you and why did you come to my door at this ungodly hour?”
“Heatherton.” She extended her hand. “Penrose Heatherton.”
He didn’t take it. His eyes held hers. She thought of the crystal rainbow from the chandelier; the colors shifting, changing. Finally, he said, “Tell me, Miss Heatherton—”
“Yes?” She held her hand extended for another moment, a bit too long, before pulling it back and wringing both hands together awkwardly.
“Miss Heatherton,” he repeated, his Southern drawl low and conspiratorial. “Why in the world are you knocking on my door at the break of dawn?”
“The agency told me to arrive at seven a.m.” This wasn’t going well, she realized. Not at all as she had imagined it. For a lot of different reasons.
“P.M.,” he said harshly. “Post meridiem. Or generally speaking...in the evening. I told the agency specifically that I needed the applicant to show up at seven p.m.”
“Oh,” she said foolishly, feeling the blush rise in her cheeks.
His gaze skipped over hers, lowered to her lips and returned once again to her eyes. “That’s right—p.m.,” he said slowly. “So, not only are you a full day early, you reported at the wrong time. I was asleep, and now you’ve woken me.”
“I’m so sorry.” The blush in her cheeks must be red as fire, because her face burned.
“I’m certain you’ve noticed my affliction. I am cursed with paleness. A lack of pigment. Albinism.” His chin jutted into the air defiantly. “It does not lend itself to sunlight. I keep night hours, and I’m very protective of them.” He sighed, and those unapologetic eyes didn’t look away from her. “But you’re here. Though I specifically requested someone who wasn’t attractive. Makes it easier.” Those eyes still rested on her. The heat on her face grew to volcanic levels. “I take it you can read and write?”
“Of course.”
“How’s your eyesight?”
“Perfect.”
He nodded. “And your hands? Can you can handle fine tools and small mechanical parts? Smaller than a fingernail?
“I’m very sure-handed.”
“You can work the night through? Adjust to my schedule?”
“Certainly.”
“Good. It’s what I value most. That, and discretion.” He stepped aside the slightest bit to make room for her, forcing her to brush against him as she entered. “Come in.”
She took in the interior of the house with a few quick glances: white marble floors, a high ceiling—two floors high—stairs that curled in an elegant arc to the second floor, archways that led to other rooms. A huge grandfather clock began to chime. Sheets covered the furniture and paintings as if the house were bedded down while its owners were away. Splatters of rainbow light still spun over everything.
He shut the door and the blinding rainbows disappeared. When she turned around, he was beside her, almost too close. Shocked at his willingness to invade her independent space, she pulled away from him. Her reaction was an odd mix of aversion and excitement. He seemed dangerous.
He stilled. “Forgive me. My eyesight is very poor, and I am used to stepping close in order to see something.” Then, with a lingering glance, he turned around, and she knew that a moment where they might have established a cordialness between them was lost. When he spoke, it was with a firm and cold voice. “I won’t give you a tour as you’ve already interrupted my sleep. I’m heading to bed. You will start tonight.” He turned and began to climb the stairs.
She followed, taking small, anxious steps. “I’m to work your hours, then?”
“How else do you expect to be my assistant?” His voice boomed in the open space. The stairs creaked under his weight as he climbed, his black robe swirling in the air behind him.
“Of course, Mr. Arundell.”
Without turning around, he waved his hand angrily. “Don’t call me Mr. Arundell. My father was Mr. Arundell, and he’s dead now. Call me Carrick. You’ll be ready to work at dusk and you’ll be with me until dawn. The work is intense, requires a steady hand and a sharp mind. Are you certain that you’re up for the task?”
“I am.” She peered down the hall. “Is there anything you want me to