Page 3 of Ashes to New

The house had been dusted and polished to perfection. The marble floor of the foyer gleamed in the light from the chandelier. To the left, the wooden floor of the library glistened with fresh polish, and the line of Persian rugs leading down the main hall had been vacuumed and aligned to form a straight path.

A grimace pulled at Elsbeth’s face as she stepped around the first rug in line. In less than an hour, she’d be kneeling in that spot.

Forest rushed ahead, heading to his bedroom in the back of the house. “Come, I want to show you a new game.”

Hugging her books tight, Elsbeth picked her way down the hall. “I don’t have time.” Indeed, she would barely make it back to the foyer.

“It’ll only take a second,” Forest urged.

The eagerness in his eyes pulled at her heart, but with company coming over, she couldn’t afford to make a mistake.

“I promise, I’ll check it out tomorrow.”

Forest understood even if he didn’t like the answer. The oddity of his mind would allow him to switch on and off with much greater ease than she’d ever accomplished. For that small gift, she envied him. She would need all of the remaining time to get in the right headspace to make it through the night.

“Okay,” he said.

“And you need to make sure you’re prepared, too.”

His mind might be strong, but of the two of them, his body would break before hers.

“Ugh, okay,” he said with a dejected slump of his shoulders. “I’ll get ready.”

“Good.” Elsbeth headed to her room.

With over six thousand feet of living space, conversations would echo and tumble through the house, bouncing off cathedral ceilings, amplifying whispers. The house was composed of three levels. The main floor held the usual suspects—a marble entry foyer, wood-paneled library, formal dining room, and a modern kitchen that opened up to the great room. There was the basement of course, a place where she and Forest spent far too much time. And of course, there was the second floor.

Her room occupied the left wing—a spacious second master living suite with a sitting room adjoining her bedroom, including a walk-in closet and a bathroom with a jetted tub and steam shower.

Forest’s rooms were on the opposite side of the house. He’d been allowed to take over two bedrooms joined by a Jack and Jill bathroom. He would sleep in one bedroom while the other glowed with light from multiple computer monitors.

Neither of them ventured upstairs. In five years, she’d never set foot on the bottom step of the staircase leading up to Clark Preston’s bedroom.

Quickly, she set about the task of removing unwanted leg, pubic, and underarm hair, using a brand-new razor to ensure thesmoothest finish. With plenty of time to spare, she made a pass of her room, straightening up. Then, she returned to the foyer and knelt on the first prayer rug.

Forest joined her a few minutes later, taking position behind and to the right of her. “Hey, Elz, you forgot your collar.”

She grabbed at her neck, a moment of panic overtaking her. A quick glance at the clock had her heart thumping.

“I’ll get it,” he said.

She rose and took off down the hall. “No, I’ll get it.”

Was that the throaty roar of the Porsche?

She sprinted back to her room.And where was the collar?It wasn’t in the tray beside her bed or attached to the chain hanging from the headboard.Shit, where had he left it last night?Her search turned frantic as the seconds ticked by, and that was most definitely the garage door rising on its tracks. The rumbly sound transmitted through her wall.Shit!

Elsbeth gave up the search and raced back down the hall. Her bare foot twisted on the corner of the rug, flipping the woven wool over. Crashing to her knees, she assumed the position of greeting moments before the door leading from the garage opened. Forest widened his stance, clasping his hands behind his back and lowering his head, as required. She pressed her palms to the ground and bowed, touching her forehead to her knuckles.

Clark Preston’s dark force rolled across the gap separating her from him and settled with a heavy presence on her shoulders. A dark gray Armani suit brushed the tops of his Salvatore Ferragamo dress shoes, and the firmness of his steps echoed in the expanse of the foyer.

Eleven steps—that was how many it took. Not ten, not twelve, but eleven. The number was precise and had been ingrained in her mind since she the age of twelve.

One…two…three…

Each thunderous sound snapped with the beating of her heart.

“Congratulations,” he said.