What Are You Afraid Of? (The Agency #2)(37)

Maybe it ran in the family.

She gave a sharp shake of her head, trying to dislodge the horrible thoughts.

“The estate has belonged to the Jacobses for a couple generations,” she explained. “He probably felt it was his duty to move in.”

“Hardly a duty,” Griff protested.

“A big house and lots of grass doesn’t equate to happiness,” she said, her tone sharp.

Griff reached to grab her fingers, giving them a small squeeze. “Are you ready for this?”

“Not really.”

He leaned toward her, wrapping her in his warm, masculine scent.

“If you want to go back to the hotel, I can—”

“No.” She sucked in a deep breath. The sooner they could eliminate her family as suspects, the sooner they could return to the hunt. “I just want to get this over with.”

He lifted her fingers, pressing them to his lips. A tingle of heat spread through her body, easing her shivers.

This man clearly had a magic touch.

A renegade image of allowing those enchanted fingers to explore her naked body seared through her mind.

“I’m going to be with you every step of the way,” he murmured. “I promise.”

The urge to lean forward and snuggle against his chest was shockingly strong. As if her body had suddenly developed a mind of its own.

With a silent curse, she pulled away from his light grasp, and unbuckled her seat belt. By the time she’d shoved open the passenger door and crawled out of the truck, Griff was at her side, firmly grabbing her elbow.

Did he think she might bolt?

Or was he hoping to offer her strength to face her family?

The thought was almost as unnerving as the lust that continued to heat her blood. She’d put a lot of effort into making sure she didn’t need anyone.

For anything.

Still, she didn’t pull away. She didn’t ask herself why not.

Together they climbed the shallow stairs and crossed the planked floor of the front porch. Griff reached out to press the bell, ignoring the heavy gold knocker.

Several minutes passed before the door was slowly tugged open to reveal a middle-aged woman in a starched uniform.

Carmen felt a stab of surprise, realizing that she’d been expecting Ellen to open the door. Ridiculous, considering how many years had passed. The woman could have retired. Or moved from the area.

“May I help you?” the servant asked, her round face flushed as if she’d been forced to run from the back of the house.

Griff took charge. “Miss Jacobs is here to see her uncle.”

The color in the woman’s cheeks darkened with confusion as she shot a brief glance in Carmen’s direction.

Had the housekeeper heard the horror stories? Or did she recognize Carmen from her book? Either way the woman took a hasty step backward, waving them through the door.

“Please come in,” she said, waiting for them to enter the foyer. “I’ll tell Mr. Jacobs you’re here, if you’ll wait in the salon?”

She led them across the marble floor and Carmen’s gaze moved over the walls that were painted a pale peach with crown molding at the top. On one side of the open space a staircase formed a half crescent as it soared toward the second-floor landing. At the back was an opening that led toward the rest of the house.

The servant turned to the right to enter a long room with the same peach walls. There was a bank of windows that offered a view of the front drive, and a large fireplace that had a marble mantel. The floor was wide wooden planks polished to glow beneath the chandelier that hung from the medallion in the center of the high ceiling.

The furniture was created more for style than comfort, with a narrow sofa and matching love seat. The tables were low and delicate with a plethora of ceramic figurines arranged on frilly doilies.

Carmen felt Griff flinch, no doubt worried about whether the sofa would hold his weight and if he could cross the room without knocking over any figurines. But as the housekeeper left the room, she found herself pulling away from his side so she could circle the room.

Now that she was actually in the house, the memories that she’d spent the past fourteen years trying to bury suddenly burst free. Like a dam fracturing beneath the force of flood waters.

Her fingers touched the mantel. There’d once been silver framed pictures there. Of her at her piano recital. Of her parents’ wedding. Of her mother performing Carmen. The silver frames remained, but the pictures were of people she barely recognized.

The pictures, however, were the only thing that were different.

Captured by her memories she headed toward the door. Her fingers continued to touch familiar objects. The table with the crystal vase where her mother kept the flowers her father would bring her after he returned from a business trip. Out into the foyer where Carmen would whoosh down the curved staircase by sliding on the banister. She crossed the marble floor to head down the hallway.

The memories came faster and faster.

Some of them good. The sound of her mother singing as she moved through the house. Her father tossing Carmen in the air to make her giggle. Birthday parties for her, and grown-up parties for her parents with expensively dressed guests who’d drifted through the house like glittering ghosts.

And some of them bad. The chiding from Ellen when Carmen dragged in mud on her clean floors. The torments from her older cousins who’d once locked her in the wine cellar for an entire day. And the shouting between her parents. When she was young she’d thought they were arguing because they enjoyed the drama.