“What are you willing to wager?” Seb asked as Lance pulled open the door to the office.
“Wager?” Lance stopped in front of the now open entrance and spun back to face him.
“Yes, a wager. You think Lady Olivia will be scared upon meeting me and flee, whereas I think the lady is made of sturdier stuff.”
Lance paused for a moment, his face lighting up with a grin. “You know I’m always up for a good wager. I’ll put down twenty pounds that as soon as this Lady Olivia claps sight of you, she won’t just be scared of you, she’ll hobble for the hills with that limp of hers, scared shitless of you.”
“I do hate to disappoint you,” the velvety smooth voice of a woman spoke from behind Lance, her crisp upper-class accent sending a shaft of awareness through Seb, placing all his senses on alert. “However, I have no intention of hobbling away scared of anyone.”
Lance spun around to the side, giving Seb a clear view of the doorway.
Seb swore under his breath. There, standing at the entrance to his office, stood a bloody angel. An angel dressed all in black, who had obviously been waiting in his outer rooms. She’d gotten past his clerk, Clint Kofsson, with the lad himself standing behind her, wringing his hands in distress.
He’d have to have a word with Clint later and remind him not to let anyone, even a woman as clearly striking as this one, get the best of him. Though, for a moment, Seb could understand the lad’s acquiescence, as he’d never seen a more compelling face than hers. She wasn’t classically beautiful, but there was something about her high cheekbones and creamy porcelain skin, along with the determined set of her chin, that gave her character.
And her eyes. Good Lord, they were sparkling crystal blue, clear across the room, and he was certain he could drown in the depths of them.
He was intrigued in spite of himself. But it wasn’t just her looks that had him fascinated. No, there was a keen intelligence and purpose radiating from her that was compelling. And, rather than taking offense at Lance’s words, there was instead wry amusement dancing in her gaze. An unusual woman to say the least.
“I’ve come to see Mr. Colver,” the woman continued, “and I have no intention of leaving until I do so. Now, which of the three of you is he?”
She deliberately walked into the room, her cane leading the way, a limp definitely noticeable as she strode past Lance to stand in the center of the space a few feet from Rowan, her gaze scanning the three of them.
He supposed some men would be put off by her gait, with her body swaying slightly to the right as she balanced her weight away from her bad leg. But there was certainly nothing haggish about the lady. She wielded her cane like an adept swordsman—effortlessly and as if the cane were connected to her.
Seb unconsciously found himself taking in a deep breath, aware of her as he hadn’t been of anyone in a long time. She was wearing a tailored black bodice and black dress that molded her curves to perfection, though gave her the definite appearance of a widow. Her golden blond hair was artfully piled high on her head, with a black bonnet perched jauntily atop, and small ringlets cascading down to frame her heart-shaped face.
If this was Lady Olivia, which he highly suspected it was, she was going to be trouble with a capital T.
Seb knew it all the way to his bloody toes.
Goddamnit.
Chapter Three
Livie stood at the threshold of what many called the devil’s den, eyeing the three men, who all appeared like intimidating Vikings as they stood towering around her, a decided lack of amusement on each of their expressions.
They were probably unused to being visited by a lady at a place of business, particularly when the owner of the business and the building was Sebastian Colver, a man with a reputation of destroying any who came into his path.
But which of the three in this rather spacious and grandiose office was the notorious Mr. Colver?
The dossier she’d received about him hadn’t included a photograph, though it had included information on his right-hand men, Lance Trantor and Rowan Drake. Men who ensured all of Colver’s instructions and edicts were carried out to the letter.
Quickly, she took in a breath and squared her shoulders. She knew from her experience in dealing with her three older brothers that she had to maintain the upper hand, even if her stomach was rolling like an ocean steamer battling through hundred-foot waves.
“Let me hazard a guess,” Livie said, turning her head ever so slightly toward the man standing beside the door with an inquisitive expression in his brown eyes. The one who had agreed to the wager, saying she’d flee to the hills. “You must be the self-proclaimed ladies’ man, Lance Trantor?”
The man blinked. “How did you know that?”
Livie shrugged. “My informants tell me you have a penchant for wearing flamboyantly colored waistcoats with matching neckties, along with a proclivity for agreeing to wagers.” Her eyes flicked over his tailored charcoal suit with the bright purple silk waistcoat underneath. “I see they were correct on both accounts.” She was glad to observe an expression of consternation cross the man’s face.
“And you.” She swiveled her eyes over to the burly young man sitting in the chair to her left, who was wearing horn-rimmed glasses and peering at her with suspicion heavy in his hooded green gaze. “You must be Mr. Colver’s young protégé, Rowan Drake. A man particularly clever with numbers.”
“And who the hell are you?” Rowan spluttered, grabbing the ledger that had been on his lap and unfurling his
