“Bring her inside,” Matthew commanded over his shoulder as he walked toward the towering double doors of the mansion.
Elena hesitated, but the driver offered her a polite, albeit expressionless, nod. “Miss Vargas. Please.”
Stepping out of the car, Elena’s bare feet hit the cold stone. She walked into the house, her wet dress dripping onto the polished marble floors of a foyer that looked more like a contemporary art museum than a home. High ceilings, minimalist furniture, and a vast glass wall that showcased the violent storm raging over the ocean outside.
Matthew was already at a wet bar, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler. He downed it in one swallow, then poured another.
“Mrs. Gable,” Matthew called out.
An elegant, elderly woman in a neat grey dress appeared from a side corridor. She looked at Elena’s disheveled state, her eyes softening with immediate maternal concern, though she kept her composure. “Yes, Mr. Carranza?”
“Take Miss Vargas upstairs. Give her the east wing guest suite. Call Dr. Evans to look at her face. And burn that dress.” Matthew finally looked at Elena, his expression unreadable. “Tomorrow, we talk.”
“Wait,” Elena said, taking a step forward, the wool blanket dragging behind her. “Why are you helping me? Who are you?”
Matthew paused, holding the crystal glass halfway to his lips. The lighting cast harsh shadows across his face, making him look devastatingly handsome and utterly terrifying.
“My name is Matthew Carranza,” he said softly. “And your stepmother’s business partner, Oscar Becerra, owes me fifty million dollars. More importantly, he killed my brother.”
Elena’s breath caught in her throat.
