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her hands shake, which made things worse, of course, but he wasn’t going to push her around. “This won’t do. Take me to Mr. Haliday, at once.”
    Mrs. Drundyl nodded and led Frannie back down the labyrinthian hallway.
    By the time they’d returned to the front of the mansion, Frannie had altered her plans for her expense-account dinner from lobster to surf-n-turf. Harold owed her big time.
    Considering the workout she received just moving from one wing to the next, she didn’t need to worry about excess calorie consumption. The walk also served to cool her temper somewhat.
    Mrs. Drundyl paused outside a room Frannie hadn’t yet seen, and announced, “The Parlor.”
    Frannie hadn’t had time yet to figure out exactly what she’d say to Mr. Sinclair Haliday, and she took a moment to consider it before stepping into the room.
    It didn’t help that the parlor wasn’t the least bit parlor-like. Although some might consider it a bit cozier than her assigned bedroom, the blasted gold crap had been strewn throughout this room as well. The parlor was richly paneled, softening all the gold-leaf, and offered a bit more color than the white on whites in Frannie’s bedroom.
    Scarlet draperies, tied back with gold tassels, of course, covered windows flanking a central fireplace. Above the fireplace, a portrait of a loving couple appeared to be more modern than the other furnishings. The fireplace was made of a light marble with a dark thread running through it. Placed between the door and the fireplace were a loveseat, a sofa and a scattering of chairs and tables spread over a lovely antique blue, red and white oriental carpet. And, like in her room, vases of long-stemmed roses were everywhere, set off by a few lush green ferns. But this room, although lavish, was more livable.
    Sinclair Haliday sat in a chair reading on the far side of the room. Sunlight dappling in from the window picked up highlights in his dark hair. Frannie felt a moment’s discomfort in spying on him this way. He didn’t look moody or cruel in this light. He looked—attractive and sinfully appealing, the long lines of his form spread carelessly in the chair. With the cast of anger missing from the planes of his face, he appeared younger than she’d first taken him to be, not much more than her twenty-six years. Perhaps thirty?
    She turned to Mrs. Drundyl, wondering why she hadn’t announced Frannie, but the housekeeper was gone. She hadn’t made any noise at all when she’d departed.
    Frannie addressed Sinclair. “Hey.”
    He didn’t react.
    Her eyes narrowed. Although he reclined in the chair, to all appearances in relaxation, something about the way he held himself sent out signals to her psyche. Something that called to the lonely kid hidden deep inside her, the one who had never belonged. What was it?
    She noted he was seated off to the side of the room, not anywhere near where the center of the action would occur if others occupied the room. It was as though he’d set himself apart from the room, and, for that matter, from the house. His autocratic appearance blended perfectly with the elegance of his surroundings, but contrasted with this apparent inner need of his to step back from them. The dichotomy intrigued her.
    She cleared her throat as she entered the room and stepped onto the soft plush of the oriental carpet. Silence hit her like snowfall. “Hey, dude.”
    Again, he didn’t react.
    Although he was apparently at ease, neither his arms nor elbows touched the arms of the chair. His forearms hovered over the chair arms, held there by a steely force of willpower. He wasn’t at ease at all—he sat at full attention. Had he noticed her?
    Was he ignoring her on purpose? Grrr.
    She marched to his side. “Yo, Sin Boy. I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    Sin Boy? Sinclair rolled the words around in his mind. He rather liked the phrase. It was a hell of a lot more interesting than research scientist or condensed