Evelyn Grant froze. Her first instinct was to run, but on Preston Keaton's turf, she had learned her lesson.
Clutching the bath towel tightly around herself, she steeled herself and calmly walked up to the man. "Why are you back so early today?"
It was just after four in the afternoon. The gentle sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, enveloping her and making her skin appear even more translucent and fair. It was flawless, like the finest white jade—lustrous and ethereal.
A droplet of water slid from the ends of her hair and landed on her collarbone. It glistened as it rolled down into the hollow of her throat. Preston Keaton's gaze fixed upon it. His long lashes lowered, concealing the darkness in his eyes and making him seem impassive, yet he still possessed the stern authority and coldness of a man at work. His towering presence radiated danger.
