So much relief swept through her that she sniffled and a big tear fell onto the bed.
His silhouette sat forward, and a warm hand rested over hers and gently squeezed.
"I'm not usually so emotional." She tried to laugh, but it came out more as a choked sob.
He reached into a pocket and handed over a white handkerchief. "We'll blame it on the concussion. It can cause mood swings for a few days."
She dabbed at her eyes, grateful he was willing to believe this the exception rather than the norm. "Where's Trudy?"
"Stevens, my driver, has a pilot's license. I'm staying the night, and he took her home. Get your rest, Emma."
What had changed his mind? Stevens could have flown them in the first place. "Why did you come?"
He heaved a sigh, seeming frustrated she wasn't going back to sleep. "You sounded upset on the phone, and Ms. Van Hoodie said you're nervous being here." Then he sat back.
A blush crept up her cheeks. Thank goodness for the darkness.
"The neurologist returned my call a bit ago. He said he expects to discharge you in the morning, but you're to have limited physical activity for a few weeks, which your ankle will help hold you back. A contusion can be fatal if you sustain another head injury soon. He sees no need for surgery or anything at this time."
Her shoulders sagged with relief. "Thank you for talking to him. I think I was stressed and didn't really absorb what he said."
"It's alright to be human, Emma."
She searched the black silhouette of his face, caught off guard by his compassion. Men who exuded such control and power rarely seemed to be so forgiving of weakness.
"You look like something's on your mind."
"You simply surprise me."
"Then we're even."
What on earth could be surprising about her? "Why the mask?"
The silence stretched on for so long that he probably wasn't going to answer. He leaned his elbows on his knees, and his eye glowed slightly in the hall light. He said in a tone of steel, "I don't talk about it, and I expect you won't either."
She blinked, taken aback by his abrasive manner. "I'm not one of your servants." Her gaze met his.
He sat back, his eye retreating to the shadows. He leaned an elbow on the armrest and held his chin. "Ms. Van Hoodie tells me you're unemployed at the moment. I have a proposition for you."
A shiver of desire snaked up her spine. At the same time as revolusion. "No."
"I beg your pardon?"
Her eyes pierced him, hurt and disgusted. "I'm not going to be your mistress."
Silence. "You're attractive, but I had no intention of proposing that."
"You didn't?" Well now she felt sheepish.
"No. Tempting offer, but I'm not really into degrading women."
What other proposition would a secluded man whom she barely knew make? Plus, he hadn't been embarrassed about undressing her after the accident. Maybe the floor would open and swallow her up. Any second would be a good time.
He crossed his legs and continued as if nothing had happened, bless his heart. "I need someone who is good with numbers, who has experience with accounting. I have a business, and I suspect my accountant might be embezeling. It's about two years of records I'd need you to go through. It would likely take you three months."
She cocked an eyebrow. "And this is a legal business?"
"Of course. I can show you the business license."
"Where is this business?"
"In California, but I have the records at my house. The electronic records magically disappeared, but the accountant doesn't know backup hard copies are made at the end of every day by a very trusted source. I need these records safely guarded, so I could have an office set up for you in my home."
She shook her head. "I live two hours from your home."
"You would have free lodging in your current bedroom here."
Letting the details roll around in her head, she reached for the water glass beside the bed. "Would there be a salary too?" She took a sip.
"Of course. $80,000."
She choked on the water. He stepped forward and took the glass so she could cough into the handkerchief. Dabbing at her mouth, she cleared her throat. "Why me? I don't even have a finance degree."
He sat. "I don't want to spend the funds for a full forensic accountant for this particular business, but I need someone who is a whiz with numbers. Your background with Lloyd & Lloyd Associates in business law is impressive, and clearly your university degree minor in forensic accounting was sufficient for them. You figured out cases their senior accountant couldn't."
"You did your homework, I see." Opening her mouth to speak again, a nurse came in.
"Oh, you're awake. Good." The nurse flipped on the light.
Her eyes flew to him, worried if the nurse had caught him unaware with his mask. But he stood looking out the window with his back to them and the hood of his black sweatshirt pulled over his head. To the common bystander, nothing appeared out of the ordinary.
The nurse checked her neuro reflexes again and a couple other vitals. "I'll be by to wake you in two hours again." Then she left and flipped off the light.
He returned to the chair.
"What's the catch? No one gives $80,000 for three months of work when the person doesn't even have the credentials."
Slowly easing up to sit on the edge of the bed, he turned toward her with his face concealed in the shadows. His voice was low and intimate when he spoke. "I'm very selective with the people I keep in my house. They must have a degree of kindness and trustworthiness that few possess."
She cocked her head, not quite sure what he meant.
"Stevens and Ms. Van Hoodie are the only others in my house. I'm very private, so I ask you don't bring anyone into the house without asking and only when I'm gone-"
"Who are you?" she whispered. "Are you some kind of billionaire or famous person? Is that why you hide your face?"
"I won't repeat myself," he warned.
Her eyes narrowed. "Or what?" She sensed his irritation that she pushed the limits, but she wanted to know his temper if she was going to be in his secluded home.
He captured her jaw in his palm, but not in a threatening way. "Or Stevens takes you home that hour." His eye was so close it glinted in the dim light. "If you expect some kind of physical abuse, you'll be sorely disappointed, Emma," he answered in a low, almost seductive voice. "A mask does not make a monster."
"You're a stranger in a remote home who won't let his face be seen. What should I think?" she whispered, wanting to trust him.
"What do you think? Not your parents but you."
Her eyebrows rose. "What?"
"Your parents love you very much, and it was apparent when your father called me and said he'd call his friends at the FBI if I harmed a hair on you. A good father, but I'm merely a name to them. You know me a bit better than them. I'll provide references if you desire."
Heat pooled in her belly. Oh, she certainly desired. "You haven't answered my question," she whispered, her voice slightly husky.
"I promise I have more to fear from you than you do from me."