Entrance (Thornhill Trilogy Book 1)
THORNHILL Trilogy book 1
ENTRANCE
By J. J. Sorel
Copyright ©J. J. Sorel 2017
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
COVER DESIGN by Melody Simmons
LINE EDITOR Sarah Carleton from Red Adept Editing
PROOF READER Red Adept Editing
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews or articles. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are pure product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or an actual event is purely coincidental and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or content therein.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
All the characters in this fairy-tale romance are consenting adults. For those readers who like their romance novels peppered with descriptive sex scenes, then this is for you. However, for those disinclined towards steamy boudoir scenes I suggest you either approach this with an open mind, or just pass it on to someone looking for an escape in the arms of a sexy read.
ALSO BY J. J. Sorel
Thornhill Trilogy Book 2 - ENLIGHTEN
Thornhill Trilogy Book 3 - ENFOLD
The Importance of Being Wild
I dedicate this book to all those hopeless romantics out there.
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER ONE
The secluded mansion was a rare jewel that hugged the cliff perilously. It wouldn’t take much for a landslide, I thought as I peered up at my imposing destination, while my sticky palms steered the car along the snaky coastal highway.
Pushing down on the accelerator, I turned onto a steep road leading up to the estate. My old car was weak and churlish, the gears struggling. My heart palpitated. What if I stall and roll back? I took a deep breath and gritted my teeth. This was hardly the time for a panic attack.
After conquering the incline, I passed a fortress of whitewashed walls.
“Where the hell’s the entrance?” I mumbled, scolding myself for not getting properly acquainted with technology.
I rummaged in my bag and dragged out a scribbled note that instructed me to swing right after passing the front entrance.
Okay, there was the entrance. I expelled a slow breath. My chest relaxed for the first time since I’d raced out of my apartment forty-five minutes earlier.
I pulled up close to the intercom and stretched my arm out to push on the buzzer.
“Yes,” a baritone echoed.
Craning my neck, I responded, “I’m here for the interview.”
“Name?”
“Clarissa Moone.”
“Take a left turn past the gate, and you will come to the visitors’ car park.”
The tall iron gates yawned open, and I drove into the estate.
As the car slowed to a crawl, my jaw dropped. My flesh tingled at the splendor before me. A pre-war era mansion came into view behind a flourishing garden, resembling an Italian villa in Lake Como.
Focus, Clarissa!
I looked ahead. There stood a tall, well-built man in black clothes and sunglasses. He waved for me to park amongst shiny, latest-model cars. I gulped. The poor old clunker would seem so alien. Was that a contemptuous expression behind his dark glasses?
Sweat dripped down my arms as I stepped out of my car. Despite the day being hot, I would have to keep my cardigan on to hide the wet patches.
Wiping my brow, I followed the enormous man along a cobbled path. The air, redolent of salt, flowers, and earth, was uplifting. Blood flowed to my face. I couldn’t believe I was heading for a job interview. At least the aesthetic distractions helped me forget my anxiety.
I wasn’t watching my step, and my heel got caught in a crack. I twisted my shoe sending a twinge of pain up the side of my calf. Luckily, I adjusted my weight in time and avoided a fall. Coming to my aid, the security guard stretched his arm out to support me.
“Are you okay, ma’am?”
“I’m good, thanks,” I said, blushing.
Eyes down this time, I started moving again as we continued on. He walked so quickly I struggled to keep up. Being a flat-pumps girl, I was not well practiced at walking in heels.
We passed through an archway of creamy, chiseled columns that led us to the portico. I climbed the stairs with care, watching every step I took. Mr. Security opened a stained-glass double door so mind-blowing in design that I uttered a quiet “Wow.”
The interior didn’t disappoint, either. It resembled a nineteenth-century museum. The yellow walls were covered by gilt-framed art, pearly marble goddesses stood on a black-and-white checked floor.
Could this be the home of one of America’s most eligible billionaires? I’d pictured something modern, minimal, white, and boxy. Just as in the movies.
We then entered a teal-colored room. Watercolor seascapes hung in profusion. Were they by Turner? Not possible. He’d have to be a trillionaire.
Having majored in art history, I had to ogle. One thing was for certain: this mysterious tycoon had impeccable taste. I found myself warming to him.
Although the agency had kept his name a secret, Ellen mentioned that he was an eligible bachelor. I didn’t quite know why I needed to hear that. But I gathered from her higher-than-normal pitch that she was rather pleased to be dealing with such an illustrious client.
She also revealed that she was sending a dozen girls to the interview, and the only reason she’d considered me was that her client had asked specifically for someone cultured and well versed in the fine arts. It was nice to know that my major had given me an advantage even though I’d chosen it for loftier reasons than becoming a PA to a billionaire, married or single.
But then, I had no ambition. I just loved looking at beautiful things. I needed a job desperately. And so there I was.
My God, Louis XIV armchairs! I stroked the silky mint-green damask. Probably a reproduction. I sighed so loudly that the security guard looked at me. A faint smirk appea
red, and then his blank inscrutability returned. I supposed appearing disinterested was part of his job.
He pointed to an adjoining room. “In there, ma’am.”
A room full of hopefuls sat waiting. Wearing low-cut blouses and tight skirts, they looked more like super-models than personal assistants. Their heavily made-up eyes peered up simultaneously, starting at my T-bar shoes and settling on my bare face. Pouty and plumped up, their lips curled mockingly all at the same time. I nearly laughed.
Still, I’m sure I appeared rather outlandish wearing a 1960s pencil-skirt inherited from my late mother. A white, button down shirt hid my larger-than- normal breasts. What possessed me to wear the green cardigan? Nevertheless, I needed a job, not a husband unlike the rest, with their hungry, seeking-a-billionaire vibe. My maxed-out credit card meant that Tabitha, my roommate, would need to cover our rent again.
A throbbing spasm at the side of my neck and damp palms spoke of stress. I hoped he wouldn’t shake my hand. To add to my discomfort, the mélange of celebrity-endorsed perfumes tickling my nasal passages was making me sneeze.
I could also feel my heavy bun threatening to sag. I tucked a stray strand behind my ear. Thick and long, my untamable hair needed hairspray. I shouldn’t have washed it. It never behaved. I always complained about my waist-length hair, much to Tabitha’s chagrin. But I couldn’t bring myself to cut it. My mother had shared the same black mane. I had many wonderful photos of her looking chic with her stacked-up bun and eyeliner. Despite inheriting her features, I was more like my father: shy, awkward and a dreamer.
For the umpteenth time, I recrossed my legs. I was clearly the attraction, with everyone’s unwavering attention directed at my green cardigan, purchased from my favorite vintage store. Were they rolling their eyes?
Finally, an older lady came out. Much to my relief, she looked drabber than me. Maybe she was being replaced. In either case, I was the closest in clothing choice. I fantasized poking my tongue at the room full of catty girls.
“Good morning, ladies. My name’s Greta Thornhill.” There was a sudden rustle amongst the girls. “You’re required to answer one question. You have five minutes to do so. Clipboards with paper and pens are here.” She pointed to a table. “I’ll be back in five minutes to collect your responses.”
As we gathered to collect our clipboards, I overheard two girls whispering, “Oh my God, it’s Aidan Thornhill.”
I’d heard the name before but couldn’t place it. Not one for celebrity gossip, I had no idea who the most eligible billionaire in town was. My aspirations were not that high. And although I loved the idea of a boyfriend, I had met none I liked. Apart from some heavy petting, I’d never gone all the way. Tabitha couldn’t believe I was still a virgin at twenty-one.
The question read: “If you received one million dollars with only one day to spend it, how would you use it?” Good. No trick questions. No esoteric math. This shouldn’t tax my overwrought brain too much.
I wrote, “Buy my father, a professor of English literature, a fully furnished cottage in England with an extensive library. Buy an airline ticket and car for him. Stock his cupboards with enough food to last years.” (I left out the lifetime supply of single malt whisky.) “Then I would donate to the homeless shelter and the lost-dogs’ home. With any leftover, I’d buy myself a ticket to Paris and visit the Louvre.” I put down my pen and relaxed.
A few minutes later, Greta Thornhill entered. “Time’s up, ladies.”
Frustrated sighs filtered through the room. How hard could it be? I did a subtle eye-roll.
When I presented my clipboard, I noticed her cool blue eyes studying me closely.
“Thank you, ladies. We’ll be in touch.”
CHAPTER TWO
Tabitha opened the door just as I entered, causing me to stumble. “How did you do? Did you find out who it was?” she asked, her wide green eyes brimming with impatience.
Parched after the long drive, I headed for the fridge and grabbed a juice, gulping it in one thirsty mouthful.
With hands on hips, she followed me into the kitchen. As always, Tabitha looked stunning in tight white jeans and a floral blouse. Her long blond hair framed her pretty features.
We were an odd pairing. While she was stylish and outgoing, I was old-fashioned and introverted. Joined at the hip since the age of five, we grew up in the same apartment block, both of us raised by widowed fathers.
I poured myself another glass of juice. “Not sure how it went.”
“Did you get to see him? Is there a name?”
“I only met an older woman. But I did hear the name Aidan Thornhill being whispered about.
“Seriously? You’re kidding me…” she screeched. “My God, Aidan Thornhill.” I shook my head. “Who’s that?”
Her stretched gaze nearly ate me alive. “Shit, Clary, he’s only the sexiest and most eligible billionaire in LA.” Without a moment to lose, she sprang up and tapped away on her laptop. “Come and have a look. Shit, he’s hot.”
Aidan Thornhill was indeed very good-looking. “He appears glum in every shot,” I said.
Tabitha leaned on her elbows and peered into the screen. “Hmm…the broody type. That makes him even sexier. Wow, imagine if you get the job.”
“I haven’t got it yet, Tabs,” I said.
“But you might. That’s the exciting bit.”
I sighed. “Let’s not jinx it. It’s better that way.”
“Don’t be so negative, Clary. Remember that seminar we attended. If one projects positive thoughts, life will deliver.
“That’s new-age claptrap and a recipe for disappointment. At least this way, I’ll be ecstatic if I get it.” Standing over Tabi’s shoulder, I checked the images of my potential boss. In each photo, he appeared with different women, never the same one twice. “He’s got a thing for blondes.”
“But wait till he sees you in a bikini.” Tabitha’s voice had gone up a decibel.
“Now you’re being crazy. I’ll be working as a PA, not a model. I don’t even own a bikini. And if I did, I wouldn’t be wearing it to work.” I tilted my head. Tabitha’s mouth curled into a wide, contagious grin. Imagining me at a computer in a bikini made us giggle.
The sound of “La Marseillaise” blaring startled both of us. I must change that ringtone.
While I searched for my phone in my handbag, Tabitha was close at my heels like an eager puppy dog. Taking a deep breath, I pressed the button. “Hello.”
An unfamiliar voice asked, “Is that Clarissa Moone?”
“Yes.”
“This is Ellen Shelton from the agency.”
“How are you?” I asked with a thin and high-pitched voice.
“Great, thank you. I’ve got pleasing news for you. You’ve got the job.”
“Really?” My eyes widened in disbelief.
“Don’t sound so shocked. You impressed them.”
“I didn’t do that much,” I said.
“Whatever you did was more than enough. I just spoke to Greta Thornhill. She requested that you go in tomorrow to discuss your role and sign a contract. Can you be there 9:30a.m.?”
I clutched the phone with a tight grip. “Yes, of course,” I exclaimed. “Thanks so much.”
“The pleasure is mine. They’ve been interviewing for quite some time. Well done.”
CHAPTER THREE
It was 9:20a.m. when I headed towards the regal entrance to the Thornhill estate. Once again, my tummy was tight with nerves. But with time on my side I ambled along taking in the charming sights while drawing in the salty sea air.
Out of nowhere, a dog suddenly raced up and pounced upon me in a friendly manner. Not the typical canine of a billionaire, I thought. I would have expected a poodle or a designer breed. This wild fellow, a white-chested black cattle dog, resembled one I’d grown up with, making our meeting rather heart-warming.
“Rocket!” a tall man in a baseball cap and sunglasses called out, running to rescue me from the dog’s enthusiast
ic embrace. I patted the keen canine and spoke in a childish doggy voice. His brown affectionate eyes, helping me to relax, filled me with joy.
“I’m sorry about that,” the owner said, panting.
“Oh, he’s such a sweetie,” I said, rubbing Rocket’s back. The dog, in response jumped up and placed his paws on my thighs.
The man made a command and the obedient animal sat. “I’m so sorry.” He pointed at my skirt, which was now covered in paw prints.
Frowning, I bit my lip. Damn!
“I’ll get someone to wipe it for you,” he said in a deep drawl. Before I could respond, he had disappeared. I tried to brush the stain with my hand, but to no avail. Good start, a stained skirt.
Heavy-hearted, I walked up the stairs to the entrance. The door opened just as I touched the bell. Before me stood the security guard I’d met the day before. He pointed up the stairs. “First room on the left, ma’am.”
I nodded and gripped the smooth wooden bannister. The lacework staircase was so grand I pictured Scarlett O’Hara descending in her bouncy ball-gown. Taking careful steps, I ascended the staircase. Stern, judgmental stares from the portraits on the wall followed me. All historical figures, the original occupants I assumed.
I knew they couldn’t be related to Aidan Thornhill, however, because Tabi’s relentless googling revealed that he had been a ranger with the Special Forces in Afghanistan. Unless he was some kind of adrenaline junkie, I couldn’t imagine a billionaire from established wealth doing that. We also discovered he’d built his empire from playing the stock-market. There was nothing about his family.
Lost in the deep, rich colors of the still-life before me, trying to determine whether it was an original Brueghel, I didn’t notice Greta Thornhill waiting for me. When I turned and saw her within a few inches of my face, an embarrassing squawk left my lips.
Clasping a damp cloth, she remained expressionless. “I heard you had an accident courtesy of Rocket.” She stared down at my skirt.