Upstairs Downstairs Temptation (The Men 0f Stone River Book 2)

by Janice Maynard

  We sat quietly, until he said, “When Kirby first recommended you as my stylist, he didn’t know that I was acquainted with you. He knows now, though. I told him that we used to date.”

  “Why in the hell did you do that?” I could have strangled Spencer, murdered him for real.

  “Because it was too weird for me to pretend that we were strangers.”

  “And now he thinks that we went out, way back when?”

  He stared me down. “Would you have preferred that I told him the truth?”

  “Of course not.” I didn’t want Kirby knowing my personal business. “I would have preferred that you kept your trap shut.”

  “At least I made it sound respectable.”

  “Whatever.” I didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

  “Well, you know what?” he snapped. “Maybe you and I shouldn’t work together.”

  Screw him, I thought. “You’re going to fire me already?”

  He jerked his head. “I might.”

  “Whatever,” I said again. I was too damned mad to care.

  In the tense silence that followed, I studied the pale ink on Spencer’s arm. His tattoo was a predominantly Native American design. Kirby had a half-Cherokee son named Matt with one of his former mistresses, and Spencer was of mixed origins, too. He’d never told me what tribe he was from, though. When I’d asked, he’d claimed it didn’t matter. But now he was covered in artwork that seemed to prove otherwise.

  I brazenly said, “It’s interesting that Kirby has a son with a similar heritage to yours. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you could be one of his kids, too.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right.”

  “Maybe you actually are his son,” I taunted him. Not because I believed he was Kirby’s heir, but just because I wanted to get back at him for not keeping quiet about us. “You might be his kid, and you don’t even know it. With the way Kirby messed around, he could have dozens of illegitimate children out there.”

  He sighed. “Go ahead and make up whatever stories you want. But biologically, him being my father is impossible. Kirby is white, and so was my mom.”

  For some unknown reason, I’d always assumed that his mother had been Native American, but Spencer’s brown skin had obviously come from the father he’d never met. I swallowed my pride and apologized. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of that.” I had no right to bring his family into my foolishness. I made a sheepish expression and said, “Truce?”

  He lifted his eyebrows, making me wait for his reply. Was he going to tell me to get lost? Had I blown this job? Had my stupidity gotten in the way?

  “You’re something else,” he said a few heartbeats later. He didn’t sound amused. But he didn’t sound angry anymore, either. He expelled a breath and added, “But you always were feisty.”

  I used to be a full-on brat, but I wasn’t going to cop to it now. I flashed a hopeful smile. “You’re not firing me?”

  “I guess not.” He glanced at my lips, as if he was remembering the taste of them.

  He stood and walked over to the bar. Seconds ticked by, or maybe it was minutes. I wanted to break the silence, but I couldn’t think of an intelligent thing to say. I was remembering the taste of his lips, too.

  “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” he asked.

  I blinked at him. “Anything?”

  “To drink. I’m going to have a ginger ale.”

  Actually, I was getting thirsty. Or maybe my mouth had gone dry as a reaction to him. The air between us had gone thick again. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

  “Do you want yours on ice?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He turned, opened the mini fridge and poured my drink.

  “Here you go.” He came toward me with my ginger ale, and I reached out to take it.

  He returned to the mini fridge, retrieved a soda for himself and took a swig directly from the can. I sipped my drink, the ice clinking in my glass. He leaned against the bar, facing me now. So tall, so dark, so damned handsome.

  I steadied my voice and asked, “Is the photo shoot going to be here at your house?”

  “Yes, it’ll be here, showcasing how I live.”

  He kept drinking his ginger ale, with the off-limits bottles of hard liquor behind him. The wine rack on the bar was full, too. He was surrounded by the forbidden.

  I was, too. Not the alcohol. That wasn’t a problem for me. My forbidden was Spencer himself. Crazy as it was, I was about to invite myself to his bedroom.

  “Do you mind if I look in your closet to get a feel for your wardrobe?” I asked.

  “No, I don’t mind.” He gestured to his attire. “Expect lots of jeans. Fancy clothes aren’t really my forte.”

  He waited until I stood, then headed for a set of etched-glass doors that led to another part of the house. As I followed him, he glanced back and said, “I like your boots, by the way. They’re really...”

  He didn’t finish his statement. I suspected he was going to say “sexy” or “hot” or something of that nature. But he let it drift instead.

  I let it go, too. He guided me down a hallway riddled with artfully framed movie posters. I spotted a black-and-white still from The Wild One, featuring a young and defiant Marlon Brando, and my interest was piqued. The actor sat on a Triumph motorcycle, sporting 1950s biker gear. I knew the history behind his clothes. I’d taken a class about fashion in film.

  Spencer opened the door to the master suite. “This is it, where my closet is.”

  The first thing I saw was his king-size bed. It sat on a platform frame constructed from natural wood. The covers were tan and gold. Masculine. Overall, his room was warm and inviting, with an adjoining bathroom and French doors leading to the backyard. The curtains were open, with a view of his pool. Beyond it was acres of grass.

  “Your home is beautiful,” I said. “I should have told you that when I first got here.” I wandered over to the doors and peered out.

  He joined me, pointing to a flagstone path that cut through the grass. “My guesthouse is out that way. I turned it into a dog rescue. I have a slew of people who help me with it. Some are paid employees and some are volunteers.”

  “I don’t have any pets.” I wondered if that made me lacking. “Mary and Brandon have a husky named Cline. My niece and nephew adore him. He was Brandon’s dog before he met my sister, and now Cline is the family dog.”

  “I have two dogs.”

  “You do? Where are they?”

  He mock-whispered, “Hiding under the bed.” He smiled and said in a normal tone, “They’re just checking you out, deciding if you can be trusted. They were my first rescues, and I couldn’t bear to let them go, so they became mine.”

  Curious about his companions, I glanced at the foot of the bed. Sure enough, there were two little white faces poking out from under it.

  “They’re adorable,” I said. “They look like dust mops with eyeballs. What are they, actually?”

  “Maltese. Normally they’re a fearless breed, but Cookie and Candy came from a traumatic situation. Once they get used to you, you’ll see whole new sides of them.”

  “How long will it take for them to get used to me?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes they come around quickly and sometimes they don’t. If they’re agreeable on the day of the shoot, we might use them in some of the pictures. They already met the photographer and liked him.”

  “That’s good.” The shoot was a little over a month away, so there was plenty of time for his dogs to cozy up to me. “Has the photographer discussed his vision with you and what sort of image he wants you to project?”

  Spencer winced a little. “He said they want to go with a reformed bad-boy thing.”

  I cocked my head. “You don’t like that idea?”

  “It’
s okay, I guess. We all have a brand these days, and that’s how mine is unfolding.”

  “I can certainly build your style around it.” I knew just how bad he used to be. “I should check out your clothes now.”

  “We can go into my closet together. It’s big enough for both of us.”

  That was true. His walk-in was more like a room. Still, once we were inside, I imagined turning out the light and pressing my mouth against his. The first time I’d ever kissed a boy was in a closet. But not the urgent way I used to kiss Spencer.

  To keep myself sane, I inhaled the fabric-cluttered air. His clothes smelled clean and fresh. He was right. There were a lot of blue jeans.

  “I have a few suits,” he said, and showed me the garment bags.

  As I unzipped them to check the labels, I almost felt as if I were undressing him. I shivered at the memory.

  He stood back and his gaze roamed over me, and I hastily said, “You have great taste for someone who doesn’t place much importance on fancy clothes.” His Italian-cut suits were impeccably tailored. He’d certainly spent some money on them.

  Spencer shrugged, but not in a casual way. He seemed as if he had a lot on his mind. I knew the feeling.

  Finally, he said, “When I was a kid, my aunt and uncle used to make me dress up for their dinner parties and whatnot, so I guess some of it stuck. I know that I never told you this before, but they were rich as sin.”

  I widened my eyes. He’d been raised with wealth and privilege? I hadn’t seen that coming. But as vague as he’d always been, how would I have known? “How old were you when you went to live with them?”

  He frowned. “Ten. That’s when my mom died.”

  I understood his pain, the ache I heard in his voice. I knew what being motherless was like. My poor mama had succumbed to heart failure when I was eighteen, and I missed her every day. I preferred to think of her before she got so depressed, but it wasn’t easy. I was eleven when Kirby had damaged her, when her struggles had begun. For me, those memories ran deep, and so did my rebellious behavior. By the time I was in high school, boys were writing my name on bathroom walls.

  “No child should have to lose a parent,” I said.

  Spencer stepped a little closer. “My mom was an aspiring actress, but she didn’t live to see her dream fulfilled. Mostly she worked at department stores, walking around spritzing perfume.” He paused to clear his throat. “My aunt and uncle are in commercial real estate, with properties all over the world. When my mother passed, they carted me off to their big, stiff mansion in Hidden Hills. It’s a gated community in LA.”

  Were they as controlling as they were rich? Based on his description, I assumed that they were. I’d grown up in a low-income area in Oklahoma City, where Mama struggled to pay our bills. “They sound pretty uppity.”

  “I learned all sorts of proper things from them.” He gestured to the suit in my hand. “I know at least twenty different ways to tie a tie.”

  “Well, I’ve got you beat.” Had he rebelled because of them? Were they part of his cause and effect? “I’ve perfected thirty. Knots are one of my specialties. Ties, scarves. I can do it all.”

  “Too bad we never discussed this before.” He teasingly added, “We could’ve had some bondage fun back in the day.”

  “That’s not funny.” But I laughed anyway, sensing that he needed to lighten the mood and quit talking about his family.

  I closed the garment bags and continued looking through his things. He had a couple of high-quality motorcycle jackets. I reached for one of them and ran my hand along the leather.

  Before I stroked it too much, I turned my attention to the bottom shelf, where his shoes were perched. I noticed a pair of wonderfully scuffed biker boots with a vintage vibe, similar to the ones Brando had worn in The Wild One.

  “Is it safe to assume that you still ride?” I asked.

  “Yeah, Harleys are still my thing.”

  I checked out more of his shoes. He had a nice selection of cowboy boots. “Horses, too?”

  He nodded. “I have a barn just beyond the rescue with two really pretty palominos.” He looked directly at me. “But you already know I’m partial to blondes.”

  I forced myself to breathe, with his all-too-hungry gaze practically devouring me.

  We exited the closet, and I felt my skin flush. I was horribly warm, overheated, in fact.

  After an awkward beat of silence, I headed for the French doors and said, “It’s raining again.” I wished I could open them, go outside and let the water drench every anxious inch of me.

  He came over to where I was. “It’s not supposed to let up until tomorrow.”

  We stood side by side, body heat mounting between us. Even the dogs under the bed had crept closer to the edge, waiting to see what we might do.

  “So, what happens now?” he asked.

  I assumed he meant in relation to me being his stylist. But my mind was spinning in all sorts of directions. “Once we work out a budget, I’ll shop for you. Then I’ll bring everything here for you to try on. We can incorporate some of your belongings into the designs, too.” I wanted to see him in those motorcycle boots. I loved how battered they were.

  “I’ll also need to take your measurements before I leave here today. That’ll give me an accurate handle on your sizes. I can’t just rely on the labels from your clothes.”

  “That’s fine.” He shifted his feet, and one of the dogs pawed at his shoe.

  He reached down to pick her up, and she cuddled in his arms. I didn’t try to pet her. Touching her would bring me too close to him. I was already stressing about taking his measurements.

  I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t get intimately involved with anyone unless it promised to develop into a meaningful relationship. But now I was fantasizing about hooking up with my old lover and having hot and dangerous sex with him again. Did Spencer have the power to turn me back into the reckless girl I used to be?

  God, I hoped not.

  But a shameful part of me wanted to find out.

  Copyright © 2020 by Sheree Henry-Whitefeather

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  ISBN: 9781488062940

  Upstairs Downstairs Temptation

  Copyright © 2020 by Janice Maynard

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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