Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Violet

The driver pulls over by the side of the road. "Here you go. Pay on the app."

I look at the GPS and note we're still a mile away. We drove by the wooden placard that read Welcome to Salem, complete with the obligatory golden witch on a broom, half a mile ago.

"Uh, this isn't it. Still a mile up ahead."

The kid driving the car's about twenty years old, clean-shaven, and he wears glasses perched on the end of his nose. He looks over the wire rims and frowns. "This is as far as I go, lady. Do you know who lives up that hill?"

"I do." I barely control my temper. "It was the address I gave you when you agreed to drive me, remember?"

He blinks. "I didn't recognize the address. Would've turned down the job if I had."

Lovely. Does everyone know the man I'm going to see, and I've somehow lived in ignorance all this time until yesterday?

"Soooo?"

"I won't go up there. I don't have a death wish, lady. I won't charge you for the rest of the trip, only this far," he says, as if somehow that makes it all better.

"How kind of you." I can't hide my disgust.

"Out," he snaps.

"Fine." I grab my bag, a beat up black leather crossbody I picked up at a thrift store, and sling it over my shoulder. I really should maybe find something a bit nicer for times such as these. "Thanks."

I slam the door harder than I need to and frown at my choice of footwear. I have exactly one pair of heels in my closet, and it figures today's the day I'd decide to wear them. I could call for another ride but that risks another rejection, and the truth is, I don't have time. I've got to be at work in two hours, and I have no idea how long this—interview?—will take.

So, I do what I must. I take a deep breath and begin walking toward the house.

I fume the whole way. If Mr. Master's asshole employee hadn't totaled my car, I wouldn't be walking alone to the ridiculously huge mansion a mile away on the hill. I wouldn't have this massive headache or bruises either.

I also never would've discovered Cain Master or have an excuse to visit him.

The summer heat's cooler by the seaside, yet it's still nearly eighty degrees with no breeze. I'll show up sweaty and disheveled, no matter how slowly or carefully I walk.

My head hurts from the injuries of the night before, but I'm otherwise alright. I used a little bit of makeup to cover the bruises, and even ran a mascara brush through my lashes. But the makeup was old and dried up, and I'm afraid I look like a little kid playing with her mom's lipstick.

Normally, I prefer to mask my eyes—they're a vivid violet that unfortunately is hard to hide—but today I decided it couldn't hurt to accent them a little. Or… whatever. I don't know what else people who know about these things would call it. Shades of purple make my eyes stand out.

The dress I chose is one of the few I own. A pale lavender number in a cotton blend, it dips in the front while still being professional, the hem hitting mid-thigh. Combined with a nude pair of pumps, the dress is professional and simple, suitable for a job like today.

It's odd that while I was able to find out Cain Master's history, including the cases brought and accusations made against him, I wasn't able to find a birth date or a single picture anywhere. It's disconcerting, honestly.

Cain Master is insignificant in the eyes of the American public… but it's a lie.

A part of me wonders if hiding damn near everything about him online was intentional. Or did he have an identity before this one? Another name? Is this one given to him by the government, or one he chose for anonymity?

I bet he isn't as quick as he once was, his wits dulled over the years. He's wealthy enough, that I know from just a cursory glance at his home. But does he even own that? I spent my time researching his history and background and haven't looked into his personal assets.

I'll get there.

He has no family to speak of, not even so much as an ex-wife.

I know enough. Sometimes it's better not to know more than what's directly in front of you.

I twist my foot on a rock and stumble but throw my arms out wide and catch myself before I fall. If I hurt myself now, I'll have to head home and cancel this mission altogether.

I carefully take off my heels and begin to walk along the side of the road. It's cooler here, under the shadows of the large, stately maples that offer shade and shelter. I'm physically fit, but panting from the heat. I blame last night's accident.

The call of a seagull over the water catches my attention. Even from here, I can see the blue-green depths of the ocean bordering his house. What would it be like to live in a place like this? I'd hazard a guess the view isn't the only reason he lives here, though.

His house is far enough off the beaten path to deter strangers from visiting—at least, most of them. No little girls in uniforms would make this walk to peddle their Girl Scout cookies, no Jehovah's Witnesses would come knocking to save his besmirched soul. It's almost a fortress of sorts, set far from the main roads, but not so far that a twenty-minute ride wouldn't bring you into the city to get food or gas.

The closest Air Force base is in Hanscom, only thirty-two minutes by car. I checked.

Here, in the light of day, when I'm not compromised and as badly injured as I was when I first arrived last night, I note things I didn't see before—a large, sunny porch that overlooks the private beach, immaculately well-kept and homey, and a pathway lined with brilliant white rocks that leads to the front door. It's like a trail to the gingerbread house, set just far enough back to beckon unsuspecting victims.

I always did have an overactive imagination.

The last time I came here, he wasn't home, and I was injured. I missed lots of details.

Here in Salem and the surrounding cities, it's unusual for a home this close to the water to be much bigger than three or four bedrooms. Small colonial homes are the bedrock of the North Shore. Much larger homes are rare and cost a small fortune.

As I draw nearer, I note a four-car garage, a large, paved, circular driveway, and two main entrances, both bedecked with large but simple wreaths. The landscaping's immaculate, well-groomed and maintained, and if I peek a bit to the right of the main entrance, I can see into a rock-lined garden that overlooks the sea. Is that a barn or a shed out back? I also catch glimpses of a heavy gate and fence and another glimmer of water. A pool?

The owner of this home favors privacy.

A brisk wind kicks up as I near the main entrance. Here, right by the water, the temperature's dropped by at least ten degrees.

I'm not alone. There's someone in the side yard tending the garden, humming as they pull weeds. A small pile of drying dandelions sits beside him. Someone else is rummaging around in the garage. I'm guessing the people I met last night aren't the only staff he employs.

At least I should be able to get someone's attention.

I walk up to the closest entrance, draw in a deep breath, and square my shoulders. The front entryway's swept neatly, and a large potted plant stands to the right. Everything's masculine and utilitarian, no welcome mat by the door, nothing flowery or bright. I ring the doorbell.

The clanging of the bell reverberates inside, a deep, musical baritone. Footsteps sound on the other side of the door, and I see a tall, thin man through the rectangular windows that flank each side of the double doors.

I let my breath out, then draw in another to steady my nerves. From here, I can see the kitchen entrance where I went in last night and the sitting room where I saw the doctor. No sign of the master of this house.

He's in there, though. I know it.

Will he see me?

When the door opens, I notice a uniformed guard standing in the shadows to the right of the doorway, armed and ready. His face is set in stone, his eyes staring at me unblinking from the shadows. Now that's a sight you don't see every day.

My pulse staggers.

I wonder if the guy at the door's a daytime butler, or housekeeper or something. He's older than I am, pale, with a receding hairline, but he's wiry and strong. When he looks at me, only one eye is seeing, the other is dull and lifeless.

He gently bows his head in greeting, and when he speaks, he has a gentle southern accent. "May I help you?"

I clear my throat. It's make-or-break time. I give him what I hope is a disarming smile, but I'm rusty with such formalities and only manage to bare my teeth at him. Cringy.

Step one. Confirm the name of the owner of the house. Say it with confidence.

My voice rings loud and clear. "I'm here to see Mr. Master, please."

He nods. Check.

"Do you have an appointment?"

I briefly consider lying just to get inside, but quickly dismiss that idea. It could backfire too quickly.

I shake my head. "I don't. Is he in?"

He holds my gaze for a moment before he responds. Is he sizing me up? He quickly schools his features and gestures for me to come in.

"I'm not sure if he is in or not, but please, have a seat and I'll find out. Your name?"

I don't believe him. He knows exactly whether or not he's in, he just doesn't want to tell me until he knows if Mr. Master's entertaining visitors.

"Violet."

"Last name as well, please, miss."

"Violet Price." The name I adopted when I turned eighteen.

He nods. "I'll be right back, Miss Price." As he walks away, he takes a phone out of his pocket and begins to type. Texting.

The guard looks at me, immovable and serious.

"Hey." I give him a little side-wave.

He doesn't even blink.

"You come here often?" Funny, Vi. Real funny. He just stares at me without responding, a real-life stoic. I sigh and turn away.

I take the opportunity to observe more details. The interior of Cain Master's home is simple yet elegant and updated, coupling the charm of an earlier time with the technological advancements of the twenty-first century. Hardwood floors line the entire house. The walls and trim are clean and off-white, the furniture both sturdy and understated. A large, wide-screen TV adorns a wall along with what looks like state-of-the-art intercom and alarm systems. In the kitchen, light blue and white tiles line the backsplash, setting off large stainless-steel appliances, while a massive digital calendar occupies one wall of the uber masculine room.

Fancy.

Every detail speaks of wealth and comfort. It's exquisite.

But the truth is, I'm more interested in the titles of the books on the shelves I see when I wander into the sitting room, little clues into the character of Cain Master. Most of these are in English, though I catch a few foreign titles. Many are the types of books you'd expect a well-read retired army general to read.

The Art of War.

Elemental Strategy.

The classics, some titles a bit surprising.

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.

Cold Mountain.

Pride and Prejudice.

I've seen libraries like this before, outfitted with popular titles for show. But if you take a book off the shelf, you'll find the spine's never been cracked, the poor books left to collect dust. Not these, though. They're well-worn and clearly loved, every one of them bearing marks of repeated use.

Interesting. No e-book readers for Cain Master. Does he occasionally eschew modern technology, then? Or is there another reason for the volume of print books?

Footsteps sound in the foyer outside this sitting room, and I pause in my perusal. Is it him? But the footsteps retreat, along with the sound of a deep, masculine voice.

My pulse races. I don't recognize the voices as being from the night before, and for some reason, my intuition tells me they aren't the man I've come to see.

I twiddle my thumbs, read every title I can see in front of me on the lined shelves, then sit down and begin counting to twenty in every language I know. I'm at number ten in Hindi when footsteps approach, heading this way. I get to my feet. I know who it is.

A shadow precedes him. I still at his breadth and height just before he enters.

I know before he speaks, by the way the air seems thinner and the furniture somehow smaller… this is the master of the house.

He's taller than I am, by a full foot or more. Thick, dark brown hair just a touch longer than acceptable military length frames a ruggedly masculine face, his square jaw lined with stubble that underscores harsh, brutal beauty. If not for the cut of his jaw and the harsh lines of his face, he'd be too pretty.

He's younger than I expected. At least… physically.

His eyes tell another story.

They spark with latent energy and power. His posture commands respect, and swift, blind obedience, like the kings of old. I can't decide if I expect him to pull a sword out of a stone or bare his teeth with a show of fangs.

I meet his gaze, which is harder than it sounds, as it takes an act of sheer will not to look away. Stark, naked cruelty lies in the savage sapphire depths. Barely civil. He holds me in the power of that gaze for one wild, terrifying moment. A mere glimpse of the ferocious honesty in his eyes shows a world of barely contained fury and power, as if the blood of an unnamed god thrums in his veins, demanding homage and obedience before he snaps his fingers and orders destruction.

A shiver skates down my spine.

Heavy, dark brows slant over his eyes, and his mouth is a harsh slash softened by full lips. He stares at me, unblinking, his hands on his hips.

"May I help you?" I nearly startle at the rumble of his voice, as the polite words he's chosen bely a savage intensity I feel from across the room. He wears faded jeans and a black Henley, but the simple clothing doesn't hide the resilient cords of muscle that outline the column of his large neck and run down the nearly graceful slope of his powerful shoulders to the sleeves stretched tight across the carved biceps of his arms. His is a body perfected and honed for the sole purpose of harnessing a human's full potential.

I realize I'm not breathing, but it's his fault. He took all the air out of the room when he entered and barely left any for me. No fair.

He clears his throat, the polite veneer quickly vanishing, and I suddenly feel as if I've done something wrong. Have I? I suppose coming into his presence unbidden may qualify as unacceptable. Perhaps I was supposed to wait for a summons.

I brace myself, but he pauses, leaning casually against the side of an armchair. His voice drops an octave in warning. I haven't replied to him yet. Oops.

"Who are you?" His tone is accusatory, as if he only talks when necessary, and it's my fault I made him do it.

"Violet." I blink in surprise at myself. No one unnerves me. Why does he? With a deep breath, I stand taller and remember who I am. I square my shoulders and steady my voice. "Violet Price."

He doesn't respond. Normal people would say something forced but polite, like, "Pleased to meet you, Miss Price." But it seems he's already used up all his politeness for today.

"And?" His gaze no longer polite, his eyes scour the length of my body, lingering at the show of cleavage at my chest, moving quickly down my bare legs, then back to my face. He doesn't even pretend he didn't sneer at the dust on my shoes or my worn bag, or even bother to hide the fact that he just undressed me with his eyes, like it's his right because I'm standing on his property.

I should be offended. I should be angry that he just… stares like that. But I'm not. Instead, the deep, dark recesses of my mind beckon with a whisper.

God, what a man like him could do to a woman like me.

What I could do to bring him to his knees.

I don't like sex and never have, and yet…

Something tells me, he'd teach me how to enjoy it.

My cheeks feel hot. I clear my throat. It's time for me to take back control of this situation.

"Are you Mr. Cain Master?"

He nods, one brief jerk of his head. "I am." The sound of his voice feels like a liquid, sensual caress that skates across my naked skin, gently barbed with a prickle of heat.

I take in a deep breath. If he can skip the formalities, I can, too.

"Last night, my car was hit by someone I believe works with you. He totaled my car."

No show of surprise or reaction. No apology. He knows, then.

"Right," he says with a bored sigh. "You'll be fully compensated for any damages to your car or medical bills." He pushes off the side of the armchair and turns away from me. "Please leave your contact information before you leave."

I'm… dismissed?

He's given me the small amount of time he's reserved for interruptions, and now he has to go do manly, important, adult things.

How dare he?

"While I thank you for that, Mr. Master, covering damages caused by the guilty party is a given, and certainly not worth my time in coming to see you. Clearly, you're a man who values his time, so I won't waste it. That's not why I'm here."

He turns back to me, that fiery anger stoked in the depth of his eyes again with a warning I should heed. But there's something else I see that keeps my feet locked in place, holding me back from sprinting right out that door and leaving the way I came before he skins me alive.

He's curious.

Danger, my mind warns me. The man probably has enough room right here on this property to bury my body, and no one would ever even know.

Yeah, my mind went there, but after reading what I have about him, I can't help it.

His voice is a low rumble that borders on a drawl, challenging me.

"Then why are you here, Miss Price?"

The better question is, why does the way he says my name, drawing each syllable out like it's an act of foreplay, make liquid heat pool at my core? My skin shouldn't feel this tight. My breath shouldn't be this ragged.

"I looked you up when I got home. It started because I wanted more information about the man who hit my car, and what I found out about him led me straight to you."

Is that a glimmer of amusement in his eyes? No… it leaves so quickly, I wonder if I imagined it.

I clear my throat. I have his attention, so it's time I stop circling around him. It's time I go in for the kill. "And you're the man who could help me."

As he turns more fully to me, I watch the way his muscles bunch with tension. He raises his brows, a physical admission that I've interested him. When he crosses his arms over his chest, I realize he has muscles in places I didn't know even had them.

"Could I?" A low, lazy drawl.

This could be my only chance. I say it all in one breath, unblinking as I speak to him.

"I need your help to find the people I'm after."

God, I could've done better than that. They make it look so easy in the movies.

He cocks his head to the side, all traces of humor gone from his face. "And who are you after, Miss Price?"

I lower my voice as I stay my course. I've never been in the military, but something about his presence makes me speak to him as if I were. "That's a conversation for a much more private audience, sir." Though we're alone here, we both know anyone could walk in on us at any moment.

I want to bite the little nail of my pinkie on my left hand or tug a lock of my hair and fiddle my worry away, but I force myself to stand still and wait.

Several beats pass before he responds. Outside the window, his gardener walks by with a trowel and a rake. Far in the distance, the tide goes out behind him. I can almost hear the waves lapping at the shore.

"Let's take a walk." My heart flutters in anticipation. I'm a drowning woman, and he's thrown me a length of rope.

This is what I wanted, privacy with him, but a little warning voice in the back of my head tells me I should tell him no. I should talk him into speaking with me in his office or someplace neutral.

I came here for a reason, and I don't take no for an answer.

I go against my every instinct and follow him.