by Alice Gaines
“Sir Peter Breit, who else?” Lauren said. “He’s not old and droopy. He’s thirtyish and—”
“This isn’t a good time, Lauren.”
“—studalicious. I’ll send an image to your phone.”
“Don’t!”
The man’s head snapped up at her tone. Correct that, studalicious Sir Peter Breit’s head snapped up. The guy with the requirements.
“Am I interrupting something?” he asked.
“Just the office. It’ll only take a second,” she said.
“Is that him?” Lauren was whispering now, as if Sir Peter might overhear what came out of Susan’s phone even with it right against her ear.
“I think I’d better go now,” Susan said.
“Holy sh…” Lauren’s voice went softer, almost reverent. “Is he as good-looking as his pictures?”
“I haven’t seen any, so I wouldn’t know.”
“But not droopy.”
“Definitely not. Good-bye.” Susan broke the connection. “Sir Peter, I’m sorry for the confusion.”
“It happens all the time,” he said. “People usually expect someone older.”
“We have that in common.”
“We do, indeed.”
She slipped her phone into her jacket pocket. “Now that’s settled, would you like to see the property?”
He nodded, his expression even, as if he hadn’t just overheard her end of that ridiculous conversation. “Lead the way.”
“The living and dining rooms have been restored to the Victorian era of the house,” she said.
“This floor would have been staff bedrooms, I would imagine,” he said. “Not for family gatherings and entertainment.”
“True. We converted the space somewhat.” She walked to the far wall and placed her palm against the walnut wainscoting. “The company sought out authentic materials where we could and bought the best modern counterparts for the rest.”
“Antiques everywhere.” His voice might have held a note of disapproval. Or he might be trying to keep her on her toes, guessing whether she’d pleased him or not.
“You own the place. You can redecorate any way you want.” She gestured toward the dining room. “Shall we?”
“Please.”
He said nothing about the polished floors and Oriental carpet runner nor the paintings she’d selected, but followed her into the dining room. A fireplace stood at one end of the room, encased by ornate carving. Another arrangement of orchids sat in a vase on a hand-tatted doily in the center of the long table.
“This can be extended to seat twenty people,” she said. “The condominium is perfect for entertaining.”
He ran his fingertips over the table. If he was looking for dust, he wouldn’t find any. “I don’t throw parties. I avoid other people’s parties whenever possible.”
“Then you won’t be using the kitchen,” she said.
“On the contrary. Aside from the room that becomes my office, I’ll spend most of my time there.”
This time, she was the one to cock her head as she stared at him.
“Surely you’ve seen a man cook before,” he said.
“Only on TV.”
“Then you’re in for a treat.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I am?”
He rested his hand on the back of a chair and crossed one foot over the other in what appeared to be a casual pose. It was almost convincing. “You’ll be eating my cooking.”
“If we send out for lunches, we’ll get more work done.”
“I wasn’t only speaking of lunch.”
He straightened and without waiting for her to guide him headed down the corridor and let himself into the kitchen. When she caught up with him, he was examining the professional grade, six-burner stove. “Gas. Excellent. Dual ovens.”
“Bay Vista only uses the best furnishings and appliances,” she said.
He moved to the worktable, removed a knife from the wooden block, and hefted it in his hand a few times. “Nice.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
For a moment, the man who’d seemed like a general softened as he examined the rest of the kitchen. You couldn’t really call him a kid at Christmas, but his smiles became uncomplicated and his praise generous. He checked out the wine cabinet, making approving noises as he studied a few of the bottles. He ran his hand over the heavy-duty stand mixer as if it were a lover and bent to study the drawer beneath the counter.
“A bread rising compartment,” he said. “And a pasta maker. We’ll have a lot of fun with that.”
“We?” she repeated. “I don’t cook.”
He straightened and gave her a look that suggested he’d never heard anything so ridiculous. “We’ll fix that.”
“My duties don’t include—” She stopped herself before she said “messing around” in the kitchen. “That is, I’m supposed to be your business assistant.”
“The contract states whatever I require.”
“For your business,” she said.
“The clause wasn’t qualified.”
“But I assumed…” That sounded lame, damn it all. “Does your regular assistant help you cook?”
“He does whatever I need him to do.”
Oh, right. Sure. Like some man helped him make pie crust. She didn’t believe it for a minute. Men didn’t treat each other like servants. He was only doing this because she was a woman, and she didn’t have any way to stop him. Damn that clause.
“Why can’t he help you here?”
“He will. Right now, he’s finishing some business for me in London.”
Instead of arguing the point further with her, he went to the refrigerator. After checking out the supplies, he shut it again. “I’ll make a list of what we need. You can have everything delivered, I hope.”
“San Francisco’s a big city. We have everything you could want.”
“We’ll need a good butcher and fishmonger.”
“I assure you, we have both,” she said. “You can order online and have whatever you need delivered immediately.”
He tapped his lips with his forefinger. “And a green grocer.”
She didn’t answer that but stood still, her hands on her hips.
“Delightful,” he said.
“Of course,” she said.
“Anything in particular you like for breakfast?”
“Breakfast?” she said. “I’m not having breakfast with you.”
He gave her a too-pleasant smile. “Then you’ll be very hungry by lunch.”
“I’ll eat breakfast at home.”
He approached her, not too close, but near enough to remind her of his height and the breadth of his shoulders. Instead of trying to touch her, he leaned his hip against the worktable and crossed his arms over his chest. Faux casual again. “This will be your home until Geoffrey arrives.”
She straightened and stared him in the face. “Wait a minute. I never agreed to that.”
“Whatever I require—”
“Never mind that clause,” she interrupted. “I did not agree to shack up with you.”
“I’m not fluent in American slang, but I believe shack up implies a certain level of intimacy.”
“For heaven’s sake, I didn’t mean that.” The words had popped out of her. Still, how could a woman contemplate staying alone with a handsome man without her mind going off in the direction of sex? He might be overbearing to the point of intimidation, but his lips and his eyes suggested sin. And no healthy female could look at a body like that and not wonder about the feel of it under her palms and against her as he…
No. She couldn’t entertain thoughts like that, especially if she was going to stay here with him for days. Sharing breakfast, for heaven’s sake.
“Impossible,” she said. “I never agreed to stay here.”
“Perhaps I should call your company and ask for a replacement,” he said. “Someone who’ll comply with the contract.”
She stared at him, doing
her best to read an expression that gave nothing away. He simply returned her gaze. The only thing she could read was determination. He wouldn’t budge on this. She could either do what he wanted or he’d report her to Bay Vista as unsatisfactory. She couldn’t afford to lose this job, and Bay Vista couldn’t afford to lose his business.
“This condominium has a guest room, I believe,” he said.
“Two.”
“Select the one you like best,” he said.
“But why?” she said. “You don’t need a business assistant after hours.”
“Ms. Christopher, I have companies in different parts of the world. If something arises, I have to be able to take care of it immediately,” he said. “I don’t have after hours.”
“So you might wake me up in the middle of the night?” she said.
“If I need you, yes.”
Well, great. She really had no choice in this matter. She’d have to move in. Her life would no longer be her own, not as long as she worked for this man. He’d see her in her jammies and robe. She’d have to interact with him before she’d had her first cup of coffee. He’d cook her breakfast, for heaven’s sake. Everything like friendship with privileges, except for the privileges, and she’d probably have a hell of a time keeping that out of her imagination. She had the same urges as any other woman, after all.
“Can I at least go home for my clothes?” she said.
“Of course,” he said. “Pack well. We’ll be together for at least a week.”
“A week?” If the pitch of her voice got any higher, only dogs would be able to hear it.
“I’m a busy man, Ms. Christopher, and I plan to keep you busy right along with me,” he said. “The week will fly by.”
He could say that if he wanted. She’d have to see for herself how long a week would drag on with her at his beck and call 24/7. The condo was a big and beautiful place, but it might get small really fast, sharing it with shoulders as broad as his.
* * *
The condominium’s Wi-Fi went through smoothly, and Peter connected to the Internet to check his e-mail. Because the sitting room of his suite could hardly accommodate more than his laptop, he’d use the dining room as an office until the second guest room could be redecorated for the purpose. He’d toyed briefly with working in the smaller space off his bedroom. That way, Ms. Susan Christopher would have to join him there to conduct business. He smiled inwardly at the thought. He didn’t molest his employees, and he wouldn’t this one. But what went on in his imagination was his own business.
She didn’t trust him. She’d made that clear enough without words. He’d watched the play of emotions on her face when he’d informed her of their living arrangements. At her age, she hadn’t yet learned how to school her features, and she’d telegraphed nearly every thought. First resentment at his mention of her youth. He understood that well enough, as he’d faced the same prejudices himself. No one had taken him seriously at the beginning. Then he’d acquired one company after another. They took him seriously now.
Second, she’d registered alarm that he required her constant presence. One couldn’t blame her for that. Women had to face harassment in their private and professional lives. She had no way of knowing that his relationship with Geoffrey did require that they be in constant contact. When Geoffrey arrived, he’d share this living space until they could find something for him nearby.
Third, and most interesting, he’d caught a glimmer of curiosity in her eyes. They were a remarkable dark brown, given her fair skin and hair the color of ripe wheat. He’d nearly lost himself in her gaze more than once and had to pull himself back before he gave too much away by staring at her. She had the sort of figure that women thought unfashionable but most men found irresistible. Soft curves—breasts large enough to fill his palms, a sweetly rounded arse, and plush thighs. Those thighs could fuel any number of erotic dreams, chief among them featuring his face between them.
Damn. He was becoming hard again. Shifting in his chair did little to relieve the pressure in his groin. A man like any other, he had normal male reactions. Throughout his career, he’d learned to control any urges that got in his way, and he could do it again here. He’d exercise that control now. Unless, of course, she decided she wanted him.
The front door opened, and after a moment, she appeared as if his erotic daydreams had summoned her. She had a rolling suitcase by her side, topped by a smaller bag. A large tote hung over her shoulder. She stood there for a moment, staring at him, her chin lifted.
“That was quick,” he said.
“It doesn’t take me long to get things done,” she said.
“Good. Once you’re unpacked, we can get to work.”
“Right.” She stiffened her spine and walked off, pulling the suitcase behind her.
Peter couldn’t help but chuckle softly. He shouldn’t nettle her, but pique made her so damned attractive. Her eyes flashed, and she pursed her lips in the most delicious manner. To distract himself from his growing reaction to her, he stared at his computer screen. If he did that long enough, the sales figures there might start to make sense.
After a few minutes, she reemerged, went out into the living room and returned with a laptop computer and a portfolio of the type art students carried around. Before she could disappear into the guest bedroom, he reached out and caught her arm.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“It’s something of my own,” she answered.
“All well and good, but what is it?”
“It holds my sketches.”
He leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Remember what I told you about direct questions?”
“I gave you a direct answer.”
“But not a complete one,” he said.
She let out a huff. “I’m an architecture student. I do sketches of buildings that intrigue me.”
“A student with no classes for a week?”
“It’s summer,” she said.
“Fine. I’d like to see your sketches.”
She set her laptop on the table and studied it for a moment. “Sir Peter—”
“Why don’t we drop the Sir and Ms.?” he said. “They’ll sound odd at two in the morning.”
She stood completely still, studying him for a moment. “Do you require me to call you Peter?” She could be an irritating little thing. She resisted every question, every cordial gesture. To look at her now, one would think she was staring down an ogre. He sighed. “Yes, I require it.”
“All right,” she said. “Peter.”
“Well then, Susan,” he said. “The sketches, if you please.”
Without a word, she untied the fastening of the portfolio and spread it open on the table. Bending over, she separated the drawings into a display of sorts. Her posture gave him another glimpse of her derriere, and though he did his damnedest to ignore its roundness, his cock gave another twitch. He didn’t move toward her, but stayed seated. If she was to learn to trust him, he’d have to behave himself.
“This is Hawthorn House.” She handed him a mounted pencil drawing that showed the exact building where he sat as viewed from the drive below. The bay windows and lofty entryway gave the building a stately air. Not modern and rushed but full of tradition, exactly like the fine automobiles he planned to manufacture and sell in this country.
“You have an eye for design,” he said.
“I didn’t have anything to do with the construction here,” she said.
“But you captured the important details, all the facets that made me want to live here,” he said.
“You understand the building.” For a moment, her prickliness dropped away. He’d clearly said something right.
“I’m not sure someone can understand a structure.”
“Let me show you something else.” She fished among her sketches and produced another one, this one of a smaller house. Less imposing, but still charming.
He studied it for a bit. “This isn’t as old
.”
“It’s modern,” she said. “Or it would be if it actually existed.”
“It isn’t real?”
“It is in here.” She tapped her head. “I want to build these for everyday people to live in today.”
He looked at the sketch a bit more deeply. The house appeared modest in size, but it nevertheless had a bay window on each floor, and the small porch led to an ornate door. The whole produced an understated elegance one could call cozy.
“I’m working with a program, Archways San Francisco. We’re planning to reclaim bad neighborhoods and rebuild them for low- and medium-income residents,” she said.
“Ambitious,” he said.
“Realistic,” she answered. “We’re going to build community gardens and small houses the occupants will take pride in. My houses.”
In her enthusiasm, she leaned toward him slightly, her hand resting on the tabletop. Before he could stop himself, he was staring into the depths of her eyes again and noting the faint blush of excitement on her skin. Not so long ago, he’d had the same idealism about what he’d accomplish in the world. He’d worked hard and made a lot of money in the process, but had he ever really done anything to help his fellow human beings?
“Will low-income people be able to afford such elegant homes?” he asked.
“If we approach financing intelligently. We have an eye on a property and are working to get it for free from the city,” she said. “Energy efficiency will cut down on some expense. In the long run, good construction costs less than shoddy work.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” He handed the sketch back to her. “But do you really expect to get the land for nothing from the city?”
She stared at him as if she’d never expected him to say such a thing. “Well, yes.”
“They might be able to sell the property and make some money off it, take it industrial perhaps,” he said. “Why would they give it to you at no cost?”
“Because people already live in the neighborhood. They need good, clean places to live. My houses will raise the property value.”
“I supposed that would win the city higher taxes,” he said.
She knitted her brows together. “Do you judge everything by money?”
“I’m a businessman.”