The Enchantment Read Online Free Page A

invest. But Digby had given her nothing—nothing—to work with, and now she had to turn disaster into success.
    THE ENCHANTMENT
    21
    Larence hurried to keep up with her grueling pace. Every time his left foot hit the hard wooden floor, hot shards of pain shot to his knee. He forced himself to ignore it. Instinctively he knew she was testing him.
    For some strange reason, she wanted him to fail, wanted him to give her a reason to slam the door in his face again. He gritted his teeth and plodded along behind her, one painful step at a time.
    She pushed through a half-open door and disappeared. Larence picked up his awkward pace and followed her into a small, dimly lighted room. It took his eyes a moment to adjust.
    She'd led him to a library of some sort. Row upon row of new-looking leather-bound volumes covered the wall beside him in muted shades of russet, brown, gold, and green. The smell of crisp new paper and good-quality leather perfumed the heavy, cloying air of a room whose windows were never opened.
    Slowly the rest of the room came into focus. A forest green tapestried paper blanketed the upper portion of the remaining three walls, its primordially lush color disappearing at waist level into stark mahogany wainscoting. In the exact center of the room, facing no windows, was a huge mahogany desk, its mirror-bright surface dotted with carefully aligned piles of important-looking papers. A soft golden glow crept through the lamp's scrolled Japanese paper dome and cast pale fingers on the reddish wood.

    Emmaline swept into the massive wooden chair behind the desk, and immediately turned her attention to the stack of papers nearest her hand.
    Again Larence was struck by her beauty. In the lamp's light, she seemed to glow like a golden goddess.
    The claret-hued velvet of her gown made her skin seem al-

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    Kristin Hannah
    most ethereally pale. Flyaway strands of white-blonde hair curled across her brow and along her temple, softening the austere way she'd pulled it back from her face. If she'd smile, even once, she'd be the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.
    ' 'Sit," she commanded in the distracted tone of one used to being obeyed without question.
    Larence couldn't help himself. In the face of her imperious attitude, he was seized by an irrepressible urge to needle her. "Where?"
    She looked up sharply. "I forgot you were a college professor. Perhaps you'd feel more comfortable if I offered a multiple-choice answer."
    He laughed. "I take it you feel a certain . . . disdain for higher education." If he thought she'd smile, he was wrong. "Book-based education—I hesitate to use the term 'higher'—is something which I hold in supreme indifference."
    "Indifference? But these glorious books—"
    "Are decorations. I don't read, Dr. Digby." At his
    gasp, she smiled grimly. "Oh, I can, but I choose not
    to. You know the old saying, 'Those who can, do; those
    who can't, teach.' I do." "But books invite us to other worlds, fuel our dreams, fill our senses. You miss so much by turning your back
    on them."
    "The last thing I need is a bunch of useless dreams." She gave him a chillingly cold look and then eased the top desk drawer open. "Now, Dr. Digby, fascinating as this discussion is, I suggest we focus instead on the business at hand. As you may—or may not—have noticed, I have a houseful of guests to which I must attend. So shall we get on with it?"
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    He moved toward the chair facing her desk. On his second step, pain jolted into his ankle and shin. His leg buckled, and he stumbled forward, collapsing into the overstuffed velvet chair with a sigh.
    He steeled himself for her show of concern, false though it would be. Oh, dear, may I help you? was a sentence he'd heard all his life from women—usually just before they left with another man.
    She said nothing. Slowly he relaxed. One by one his fingers released their death grip on the chair's wooden arm, and his breathing normalized. When he finally