Isobel Darby snapped angrily, then took a calming sip from her glass of champagne. Andrew always imported Dom Perignon from France. “I want Roxanna Fallon destroyed.” Powell watched her agitated pacing from his chair by the window. This house had a splendid view of the bay—almost as fine as the one he had shared with his wife before her death. Now he and his son lived there alone. Lawrence was no doubt curious about Andrew's relationship with the chilly Southern belle. That was one reason Andrew ensconced her here, where Lawrence knew he had always kept his mistresses. Best if his son did not know the exact nature of his dealings with Isobel. Not that bedding her hadn't been briefly diverting. Her very coldness had been a challenge. At first she had lain in icy resignation when he took her—until her body overrode her will. She hated herself because of the way she responded to him. After the first time, she had cried and thrown a Sevres vase at him, spitting and clawing when he finally subdued her.
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