Page 6 of The Amber House

Victoria stood by the window of the Oakbridge Grand Hotel, watching the freezing April rain hammer against the glass. It had been less than twenty-four hours since Julian Croft’s transatlantic phone call had shattered her entire existence, ripping away the lie Harrison had built around Joe’s death. She had caught the first flight out of JFK, checked into the nearest luxury hotel she could find in the English countryside, and now she was alone.

Tomorrow morning, she would have to drive to Rosebrook and face the physical reality of the estate she had inherited. Tomorrow, she would have to face the ghost of the grandfather she had unwittingly abandoned.

But tonight, the walls of the suite were closing in on her. Her chest felt hollowed out, scraped raw by the jet lag and the violent whiplash of betrayal. She needed a distraction. She needed to sit in a room full of people who didn't know her name.

Victoria turned away from the window, grabbed her leather handbag, and took the private elevator down to the ground floor.

She bypassed the opulent lobby and headed straight for the lounge bar tucked into the west wing. The atmosphere inside was exactly what she required: understated luxury, smelling of expensive bourbon and polished mahogany, with a jazz trio playing softly in the corner to drown out the noise in her own head.

She approached the far end of the marble bar, intending to order a drink and retreat to a quiet corner. But as she stepped up to the stone counter, her gaze was inexplicably drawn to a woman sitting two stools away.

Victoria bypassed the empty seats and slipped onto a stool nearby, her charcoal blazer immaculate, her posture flawless despite the exhaustion dragging at her bones. She didn't look at the bartender immediately. She looked straight ahead.

"A whiskey," Victoria said, her voice cool. "Macallan. Neat."

As the liquor splashed into the crystal tumbler, Victoria’s gaze drifted to the mirrored shelving behind the bottles. Her eyes caught on a reflection two stools down. Victoria lived in a world of curated aesthetics. She understood the mathematics of high-end beauty—the dermatological interventions, the immaculate tailoring of a designer blazer. She respected the effort of it.

The woman she was looking at in the mirror possessed absolutely none of that, and yet, Victoria could not look away. She was wearing a faded flannel shirt thrown haphazardly over a ribbed tank top. The sleeves were wrenched up past her elbows. Her forearms were exposed, revealing toned muscle that clearly came from dedicated hours at the gym. A smear of white powder—flour, perhaps—was pressed into the denim of her thigh. Her blonde hair was pulled back into an unraveling knot, with several rain-dampened strands escaping to cling to her jawline.

It was the jawline that held Victoria’s attention. It was a stubborn line, leading down to a neck that looked incredibly strong. There was an unapologetic pragmatism radiating from the woman, a grounded reality that contrasted with Victoria’s polished existence. She looked completely out of place in the luxury lounge, and she clearly didn't care.

And she was staring directly at Victoria.

The gaze in the mirror was dark, doing a deliberate assessment that started at the silk collar of Victoria’s blouse, tracked down the curve of her neck, and settled with a bold weight right on her mouth. The air in the lounge suddenly felt thin.

Victoria’s jaw tightened. She was used to being the one in control. Being looked at like this—like she was something to be consumed by a stranger—sent a flush of heat creeping up the back of her neck.

The bartender set the whiskey before Victoria. Glass struck marble with a clean snap. Victoria picked up the tumbler without dropping the woman’s eyes, bringing the rim to her mouth as the heat cut sharp down her throat.

The woman’s chest rose in an uneven breath. She didn't look away either. Instead, she picked up her pint glass and slid off her stool. Victoria watched as she walked the short distance between them.

The woman stepped close, the worn denim of her jeans hovering inches from Victoria’s dark slacks. She propped her elbows on the marble, turning toward Victoria's profile with sudden hesitation, clearly noting the divide between her and Victoria’s expensive clothes.

"Hi," the woman said. Her voice was raspy, and she cleared her throat immediately, a nervous gesture that vibrated through the narrow space between them. "I, uh... I know this is entirely out of nowhere."

Victoria turned her head. Up close, the physical impact of the woman was disorienting. There was a scatter of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were intelligent, but currently wide with a touch of genuine, endearing hesitation.

"Is it now?" Victoria murmured, keeping her tone low.

A tense silence caught in the woman's throat. Under Victoria’s steady gaze, her initial bravado faltered. She rubbed the back of her neck, a nervous gesture that drew Victoria’s eyes to the strong line of her collarbone. The woman shifted her weight, radiating a restless energy, suddenly looking very aware that the person sitting across from her possessed a much more settled gravity.

"I just..." The woman gestured awkwardly toward Victoria's drink. "I figured if we were going to stare at each other through the mirror, we might as well do it face to face. So… Do you need a distraction, or were you about to assassinate someone?"

The corner of Victoria’s mouth ticked upward, revealing a rare flash of amusement. "What if it is the latter?"

"Then I'll just take my cheap beer and go," the woman said, a beautiful dimple appearing on her cheek as she offered a self-deprecating smile. "I'm having a bad enough week as it is without getting escorted out of a five-star hotel."

Victoria took a slow sip of the Macallan, letting her eyes do a sweeping appraisal. She looked from the scuffed boots, up the strong line of her legs, pausing pointedly on the white smudge on her thigh.

"Stay," Victoria murmured, her gaze meeting the woman's eyes again, softening the command just enough to make it an invitation. "I'm off the clock. No assassinations tonight."

A quiet hitch tightened in the woman's throat, but she didn't retreat. Instead, she leaned into the marble edge, angling her shoulders to study Victoria’s profile.

"So," she said, her voice still carrying that raspy edge, clearing her throat in a nervous gesture that betrayed just how out of place she felt. "What brings a person in a bespoke suit to an Oakbridge hotel? Business or pleasure?"

"I am exactly where I intend to be," Victoria replied, lifting her chin. Her corporate pride flared naturally, but she tempered it by dropping her tone. "And you? Are you a tourist, a local, or just hiding from the rain?"

"I'm just passing through," the woman answered, her tone becoming immediately guarded. Her gaze dropped to the open V of Victoria's blouse, lingering there for a heavy second before darting back up with a flash of embarrassment. "I'm working in the area for a few days, then I'm driving back down to London."