The patter of the rain was like a drumbeat. The wind and rain raged outside, bringing a hint of dampness into the dining room.
Perhaps it was a headache, but he pressed a hand to his forehead. Under the stark white light, Preston Keaton's eyes were as dark and oppressive as the night outside, fixed on her face. His every move exuded an overwhelming aura.
Like a predator lying in wait in the dark, aggressively territorial.
A faint air of danger emanated from his stare. Evelyn Grant's hands curled slightly, but she sat ramrod straight, her gaze unwavering.
In a gentle voice, she asked, "Should I get Butler Shaw for you?" She sat there obediently, watching the man with wide, clear eyes, completely unaware of what was to come.
She was a kind-hearted young woman. She would have shown the same concern even if it had been Wyatt Walsh sitting there instead.
But Preston Keaton, for his part, felt a spark of greed.
