Heir Untamed - By Danielle Bourdon Page 0,4
a porch ran the length of the main entrance, offset by enormous archways and broad, flat steps leading to a set of carved double doors.
The effect was imposing, stunning.
Chey could only gawk at the grandeur and the sense of history that emanated from every stone. She hadn't been able to appreciate the sheer enormity of what she was getting into until now.
When the car came to a stop, the driver got out and opened her door. Allar and Hendrik disembarked, standing aside to wait.
Following them out of the limousine, she shielded her eyes and swept a look all the way up the facade of the castle, awed by the size and scope. It was one thing to look at it out the tinted window of a car, and another to actually stand before it, feeling as impotent as a speck of dust on the pavement.
Relieved that she'd had the foresight to wear a business suit instead of something more casual, she smoothed a palm down the pale pink pencil skirt and straightened her matching short coat with a tug. The collar of a crisp white shirt showed beneath. On her feet, a pair of taupe heels added a modest three inches to her five-nine height.
More guards in military uniforms flanked the front doors.
“We'll be meeting with the liaison first thing,” Allar said, escorting her to the steps. Someone else obtained her luggage from the trunk and toted it behind.
“The liaison?” Chey parroted, falling in at Allar's flank. Hendrik, she noted, hovered in periphery.
“Yes. He is who you will report to, work through. When the family wants pictures, he is the one that will relay all pertinent information.” Allar preceded her through the front doors that one of the guards opened.
Chey sucked in a breath as she crossed the threshold in his wake. A foyer with a domed ceiling opened off the entrance, stunning with its arching beams and sparkling chandelier the size of a small car. Gray stone blended into cream walls and gold gilded baroque molding. A round table in the center held a floral display so colorful and striking that it nearly dominated the entire room. Shafts of sunlight spilling in tall windows illuminated two Great Halls that stretched to either side of the foyer, the décor a study in antiques and rich fabrics that probably cost more than she made in a year.
It was the most striking interior Chey had ever seen. Paintings from the hand of masters lined the walls and statuettes in marble stood near potted plants that added a touch of greenery to the austere décor. A double set of stairs swerved from the foyer to the first of several floors, ending in a long landing that seemed perfect for a Royal family to stand and look down at visitors from behind a banister carved in white.
“Miss Sinclair?”
Chey realized she was standing there gawking like a schoolgirl. “Yes?”
“This way, please.” Allar waited between the staircase in another hallway leading deeper into the castle.
“Of course.” Chey fell into step behind Allar. He led her past smaller rooms set off that main artery in the castle toward a smaller archway to the left. Here, doors to libraries, parlors and other formal gathering places opened off each side. So many that Chey wasn't sure how anyone didn't get lost on a regular basis.
Allar took a sharp turn through an open doorway toward the end of the hall.
Chey discovered a great room—great by her standards, at least—with a high ceiling, ancestral paintings in gilt frames and lavishly appointed furniture situated near a fireplace a grown man could walk into. Persian rugs decorated the floor and floor to ceiling windows at one end threw early morning light through the entire space.
“This is where the first photos will take place,” Allar explained, gesturing to the collection of divans and settees gathered at one end.
“It's certainly a beautiful room.” Chey had a difficult time dragging her attention off the splendor long enough to concentrated on work related things.
A man, perhaps six foot in height, with salt and pepper hair combed carefully away from his face swept into the room. He wore a strict suit in navy with a white shirt and tie.
“Miss Sinclair, I imagine,” he said, approaching with an appraising once over.
“Hello, yes.” She glanced away from Allar to the man she suspected to be the liaison.
He extended a well manicured hand once he reached her, a vague smile on his lips. “I'm Mister Urmas, your liaison to the Royal