Edward Sinclair still had that cool, composed air about him.
No one looking at him now would have guessed that, as a sickly boy, he had once filled an attic with oil portraits of me.
I instinctively took two steps back, only for his arm to close firmly around my waist.
He tipped the black umbrella slightly and curved his lips in a faint smile.
His sapphire-blue eyes never left mine.
"Another two steps and I won't be able to keep you dry, Miss Bennett. Or are you still like you were back then, always looking for a chance to run?"
He kept tilting the umbrella toward me until heat crawled up my neck.
The year I ran away to Solmere Isle, I had hated Edward with all the intensity of a spoiled 18-year-old.
The thought of spending my life with someone so sickly and dull had made the futur
