WHEN GRAYSON had promised a weekend away, Mailah had envisioned a charming cottage with wicker chairs and perhaps a slightly overpriced bottle of Chardonnay.
Instead, they arrived via a black-on-black helicopter at a cliffside monolith of glass that looked like it had been carved out of the mountain by an angry god.
"Is this a vacation home or a villain's lair?" Mailah asked as the rotor blades slowed to a hum.
Grayson hopped out first, offering her a hand that felt like heated marble. He was wearing a charcoal linen shirt, unbuttoned just enough to be dangerous, and black trousers. No tie.
"It is a secure perimeter with a view of the Atlantic," Grayson replied, his eyes scanning the horizon as if expecting an amphibious assault. "I had the staff purged for the weekend. We are alone."
"Purged? Grayson, please tell me you just gave them a paid holiday."
