He glared at her, then grumbled something under his breath. The fire went out, infusing the air with cedar as tendrils of smoke rolled off his shoulders.
“You really should do something about that.”
“What?”
“Yoga, maybe.”
He scowled at her.
Ignoring the show of temper, she continued, “I hear meditation works wonders. Might help you unwind before whatever’s got you tied in knots causes you to explode.”
“I’m not—”
“Try again.” She shrugged out of her peacoat and tossed the heavy wool jacket on the back of a chair. Quick strides took her past him, toward the entrance to the study. “You’re wound tighter than an Oklahoma twister.”
“A what?”
“Never mind. You wanted to talk. I’m giving you an opening. I shouldn’t, given your blatant intimidation tactics, but I am, so—start talking.”
“Fuck,” he grumbled. “You’re worse than she was.”
“Who?”
“Mavis.”
“You know my godmother?”
“Unfortunately.”
“So what—you didn’t get what you wanted from her, so now you’re here to bully me?”
“I’m not bullying you.”
“No?”
A muscle twitched in his jaw.
She clenched her teeth to keep from laughing. God. He was too easy. A much softer touch than expected, given the lethal vibes he wore like cologne. “Showing up uninvited. Breaking into my place. Snooping through my stuff. Acting like a badass, harassing my staff, trying to scare me. Seems—”
“If only it were working.”
“—like intimidation to me.”
He sighed.
She paused on the threshold to look over her shoulder. “You want me to go on?”
“Is the list extensive?”
She pursed her lips. “You haven’t been here long enough for the list to be extensive, but given how annoying I find you so far, I’m sure we’ll get there.”
“Jesus, McGilvery. You always this difficult?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Whom you ask, and whether or not I like you.”
“You got a male?”
The unexpected jab made her flinch. A mistake. The wrong one to make in the verbal chess match she’d started with Kruger.
A skilled strategist, Ferguson knew how to play the game. She’d been taught by the best, forced to learn on the fly. One moment insulated by love, the next set adrift when her mother never came home. She’d been eleven, and her stepbrothers fourteen. Even as teenagers, the pair knew how to hurt her. They never pulled their punches, aiming to hurt, maim, and, sometimes, destroy.
Her relationship with the boys hadn’t been great before the accident. It got worse after her mother’s death, and her stepfather checked out, refusing to intervene. He egged his sons on, or simply ignored the byplay. Which left her alone in a house full of guys who used nasty words, all-too-accurate putdowns and cruel pranks to keep her in line.
So she understood the game. When to dodge. When to parry. When to avoid and the best times to turn and fight. Which also made her able to read an opponent and know when one was about to seize the upper hand.
An advantage she handed Kruger by reacting. By giving away the truth.
“Of course you donnae have a male,” he said, sensing her weakness, moving in for the kill. “What happened—you play the shrew and scare him away? Or mayhap he simply didnae want you anymore. Did he find someone else? That it, McGilvery? Is he at home, in the Americas, fucking someone else? Someone sweeter. Someone prettier, leaving you tae—”
“Shut up.”
“Touchy.”
“And you’re an asshole.”
“At least I’m getting laid.”
The barb struck like an arrow, hitting the very heart of her. Just another nasty insult, one of many she’d fielded in recent years. A verbal strike designed to obliterate her self-esteem. A tried and true method, the ultimate weapon in a man’s arsenal.
She swallowed past the tight knot in her throat as memories came flooding back. Old wounds reopened. Choking on the pain, Ferguson struggled to rally, but recovery, along with relief, remained out of reach.
Turning her back on him, she walked into the study, around the desk to the sideboard. Shaky hands unearthed two glasses and a bottle of scotch. Her second choice. Tequila would’ve gone down smoother, but the walking wounded took what they could get.
A quick scan told her she’d be drinking without ice.
After cracking the seal on the bottle, she poured without comment. Amber liquid hit the bottom of fine crystal. Prisms of color danced across the top of the antique sideboard. The scent of hard alcohol assaulted her senses. Silence did the rest, cranking her tight as heavy footfalls followed her into the room.
Kruger stopped on the other side of the desk.
Determined to keep the hurt from resurfacing, Ferguson took a sip. The mouthful burned all the way down. The second the scotch hit her stomach, though, warmth spread, allowing her to turn and face him.
His dark gaze met hers, then traveled over her face. Braced for another round of nastiness, she drew a fortifying breath, picked up the second glass, and reentered the game.
Feet planted beside the office chair, she reached across the desktop and offered Kruger the scotch. His expression softened. He accepted the drink. “Listen, McGilvery…”
“Say what you came here to say, then go.”
“I didnae mean… I shouldnae—”
“Say it and go,” she said, voice quiet, heart still stinging from the gut punch he’d landed.
A stupid reaction. Hurt feelings always landed a girl in trouble, twisting a situation until she couldn’t see straight. No matter how nasty things got, Ferguson knew better than to take his comments personally. Kruger was no different than anyone else. He played the game to win, using the weapons at his disposal.
Something about him, though—his beauty, maybe…the idea a man like him would never desire a woman like her, a girl with carrot-orange hair who carried extra weight—cut deep, leaving new wounds in need of immediate attention.
Frowning at his glass, he drew in a deep breath. Something surfaced in his dark eyes. Something she didn’t recognize. Remorse, maybe. A renewed sense of fair play, perhaps. Ferguson didn’t care. He’d delivered the blow, skewering her without hesitation. Now he could effing well pay the price.
He cleared his throat. “I came tae make you an offer.”
“What kind?”
“I want tae buy The White Hare.”
“It’s not for sale.”
“Lass—”
“It’s not for sale.” Drilling down, she found her courage, met and held his gaze. “Nor will it ever be. I may have just arrived, but I already know that much.”
“You’ve yet tae see what I’m offering.”
“I don’t need to.”
And she didn’t. Not now, not ever.
She’d felt the connection the moment Hendrix turned up the lane and the hotel reached out to greet her. To welcome her. To draw her into the fold.
The spark burned in her veins, growing stronger by the minute. As it flared bright, realization dawned: she belonged here. Destiny awaited her here, making her feel things she hadn’t since her mother died—acceptance and unconditional love. The spirit of The White Hare wanted her right where she stood, inside the Parkland. So did her godmother. Mavis needed her to stand strong and ensure the legacy of her line not only lived on, but thrived.