nds.
“Miss Kelly,” he says politely.
She smiles at me and holds out her hand, which I
shake. Her isn’t-he-dreamily-gorgeous-wish-he-was-mine
flush does not go unnoticed.
“Olga Kelly,” she announces breezily.
“Ana Steele,” I mutter back at her. Who is this
woman? She stands aside, welcoming us into the house.
It’s a shock when I step in. The place is empty—
completely empty. We find ourselves in a large entrance
hall. The walls are a faded primrose yellow with
scuffmarks where pictures must once ha一ve hung. All that
remains are the old-fashioned crystal light fixtures. The
floors are dull hardwood. There are closed doors to either
side of us, but Christian gives me no time to assimilate
what’s happening.
“Come,” he says, and taking my hand, he leads me
through the archway in front of us into a larger inner
vestibule. It’s dominated by a curved, sweeping staircase
with an intricate iron balustrade but still he doesn’t stop.
He takes me through to the main living area, which is
empty, sa一ve for a large faded gold rug—the biggest rug I
ha一ve ever seen. Oh—and there are four crystal
chandeliers.
But Christian’s intention is now clear as we head
across the room and outside through open French doors
to a large stone terrace. Below us there’s half a football
to a large stone terrace. Below us there’s half a football
field of manicured lawn, but beyond that is the view. Wow.
The panoramic, uninterrupted vista is breathtaking—
staggering even: twilight over the Sound. Oh my.
In the distance lies Bainbridge Island, and further still
on this crystal clear evening, the setting sun sinks slowly,
glowing blood and flame orange, beyond Olympic
National Park. Vermillion hues bleed into the sky—opals,
aquamarines, ceruleans—melding with the darker purples
of the scant wispy clouds and the land beyond the Sound.
It is nature’s best, a visual symphony orchestrated in the
sky and reflected in the deep, still waters of the Sound. I
am lost to the view—staring, trying to absorb such
beaut
本章未完，点击下一页继续阅读。