by July Hall
“No,” he agreed, raising her hand to his lips and kissing her knuckles. “And speaking of the dirty, bad, wrong world, I have work to do.”
“Oh.” She tried not to sound crestfallen. “Sure. I’ll leave you to it, then. I brought a book I’ve been meaning to—”
He squeezed her hand. “Bring your book. Keep me company.”
His words made her heart flutter. Yes. She really wanted to do that. Somehow she didn’t want to be away from his side all night. He really had messed with her head.
“What if I distract you?” she teased.
A smile played on his mouth. “That’s a given, but what are you planning?”
“I don’t know yet.” She pretended to think. “Sit across from you and play footsie? Or maybe just take off my—”
Though his smile never grew, his eyes danced with silent laughter as he glanced over her shoulder.
“He’s standing right there, isn’t he?” Sandra asked.
“Will you be wanting dessert, sir?” Warrick inquired stiffly from somewhere behind her. She hid her face in her hands.
“I don’t think so,” Charles said. She heard him place his napkin on the table. “I think Miss Dane has had her fill.” She was going to kill him. “We’ll take coffee in my office. Sandra?”
“Decaf, please,” Sandra mumbled into her hands.
“There you go. Decaf,” Charles repeated.
“Very good, sir.”
After a moment, Sandra managed, “Is he gone?”
“As far as you know.” At that, Sandra raised her head, and looked over her shoulder to see nobody standing there. She glared at Charles, who smirked. “What must he think of you?”
“Ugh,” Sandra groaned, rising to her feet. “Maybe I’ll just crawl under my bed and never come out again.”
“That’d be a waste.” Charles was still smirking. “Get your book. I’ll be in my office.”
“That better be some amazing coffee,” Sandra grumbled. But before she could take a single step toward the door, Charles stood up and slid his arms around her waist. Then he looked into her eyes with such obvious pleasure that Sandra felt her cheeks heat.
Warmth bloomed in her belly. “Grabby,” she whispered, fighting off her own smile. And losing.
“That’s me,” Charles agreed. He kissed her temple. “Grabby, greedy me.”
***
Sandra had hoped to avoid Warrick for the rest of the night. Ideally, forever. She didn’t even make it fifteen more minutes. As she reached Charles’s office with her book, she saw Warrick approaching from the opposite direction with a tray that supported a silver coffee set and two fine china cups. Oh, hell, she’d hoped a maid would bring it. Surely such a task was beneath the butler of a big house.
Then Warrick glanced toward the closed office door and said in a low voice, “I’m glad I caught you.”
Oh. It was an ambush. Sandra clutched her book to her chest like a shield and said, “Um. Yeah?”
Warrick regarded her unflinchingly. Charles had said that he was just the help, that Sandra shouldn’t care what he thought or said about them. But Warrick sure wasn’t looking at her like she was the boss.
“You are not with Mr. Bradley any longer?” he said.
“No!” Sandra whispered. “Oh God, no. I wouldn’t do that.”
“I thought as much.” Warrick glanced at the door again. “He’d never allow it. I…” His voice trailed off, and then he gave Sandra an assessing look. “I’ll be frank. I haven’t seen Mr. Magister smile like that in ten years.”
Those words alone were enough to make Sandra smile too, like an idiot. At the sight of it, Warrick appeared taken aback, and she tried to get it under control. She cleared her throat, and said, “Oh?”
“Indeed. You seem to make him happy. I’m glad about that.” Warrick paused. “But be careful.”
Her quick flash of delight faded, and Sandra shifted on her feet awkwardly. “Don’t worry. I know.”
“Do you?” Warrick narrowed his eyes. “What do you know, exactly?”
He probably thought she was some doe-eyed girl fed on dreams of Disney princesses. No wonder, with the way she swooned around Charles. That, or he thought she was a ruthless gold digger, throwing Bradley away the moment she found a better prize.
She wasn’t either of those things. Sandra raised her chin and tried to sound assured and mature. “I know it can’t be anything serious.” She forced down a surge of pain at the words. Hadn’t she just resolved to enjoy what she had, while she had it?
Warrick raised his eyebrows. She added, “I don’t have any, you know, designs on him.” At least that was completely true. “That’s not why I’m…honestly, it’s not. I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t believe me, but…”
Warrick shifted the tray. The silver pots made little clinking sounds. “The truth is, I do believe you,” he said. “I’ve seen how you are with him. I saw it from the moment he arrived home last night.” Sandra’s face scalded. God, had she really been that obvious? “That’s not what I meant.”
Huh? If he didn’t think she was out for all she could get from Charles, if he knew her feelings were sincere, then what could the problem possibly be? “I don’t understand,” she said.
“I’m sure you don’t.” Warrick shifted the tray again. “But I’ve known Charles Magister for a very long time. Nobody’s ever crossed him and lived to tell the tale. That is only mostly figurative. And he seems…interested in you.”
This kept getting weirder. Sandra wasn’t facing Charles down in a boardroom. She wasn’t some kind of enemy combatant. And if he liked her, what was Warrick so worried about?
Maybe he was just an old fussbudget. He seemed like the type. Sandra smiled reassuringly at him. “Got it,” she said.
Warrick sighed. “Not yet, but you will. I’ve already said more than I should, but this house has seen enough grief, and you seem like a reasonable young woman.” He put enough emphasis on “seem” that Sandra bristled. “There’s more to him than most people know. You’ve seen the gentler side, but it’s not all like that.”
“Then what is it like?” A shiver ran through her. “Are you saying he’s a psycho or something?” That didn’t seem likely—or even possible. But Warrick had known Charles for so long, and he seemed so serious.
“Certainly not!” Warrick looked at the door again and immediately lowered his voice. “If he cares for you, then you will never know a more faithful or generous man.”
Sandra’s heart fluttered again. She’d already guessed that, and she couldn’t afford to pin a single hope on it. “So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is, I don’t want to see him get hurt again,” Warrick said flatly. “Figure out what you want and do it quickly, before it’s too late and he figures it out for you.”
Figure it out? Sandra’s heart raced, and she found her hands were trembling. She clutched the book tighter so he wouldn’t notice. Okay, maybe she wasn’t totally sure what she wanted. At least now she knew what she didn’t want.
She didn’t want perfection. It would never be enough, not ever again.
And it was none of Warrick’s business. “Thanks,” she said, and swallowed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Glad to hear it,” Warrick sighed. “Will you knock on the door for me?”
“What? Oh, sure, of course!” Sandra reached toward the office door. But then she remembered something he’d said only moments before.
“Wait,” she added, her fist poised over the wood. “Did you say mostly figurative?”
“Do yourself a favor,” Warrick said. “Don’t mention his father.” Sandra’s eyes widened. “And knock, please. This tray is heavy.”
Sandra knocked at once, and after a moment, she heard Charles’s muffled voice calling, “Come in.” She pushed the door open, and saw Charles sitting at his desk with several folders lying in front of him.
He looked up as Sandra and Warrick entered the room together. “Finished conspiring?
” he asked mildly. “I heard your voices.”
Sandra froze. But Warrick sounded perfectly calm as he set the coffee tray down on a small table. “I was telling Miss Dane you work too hard,” he said. “I asked if she’d be willing to intervene. I’m sorry if that was impertinent.”
Charles grunted and looked back down at the paperwork in front of him. “How can it be impertinent? You’ve been saying it for twenty years.”
Warrick smiled. “Shall I pour, sir?”
“I’ll do it,” Sandra heard herself say. Warrick raised his eyebrows at her, and she managed to smile at him. “Thanks. I’ve got this.”
He gave her a look that said, You’d better. Then he nodded at Charles and said, “Good night then, sir, miss.”
After the door closed behind him, Sandra tried to concentrate on pouring hot coffee into the delicate china cups. It smelled heavenly. Going back to Folgers on Monday would be tough.
“You take yours black?” she asked, keeping her back turned to Charles while she tried to compose herself. What had Warrick meant about Charles’s father?
“Yes, thank you. What book did you bring?”
Sandra carefully put one cup on a saucer and carried it over to Charles, who accepted it with a nod. “A biography of Debussy. Your grand piano got me thinking about him again.”
Charles raised his eyebrows as he took a sip. “Have you played on it?”
“Just for a minute, when Warrick showed it to me. It’s a beautiful instrument. Did nobody really play it when you were growing up?” What a waste that would have been.
His eyes clouded. “My mother did.”
Whoops. Sandra found herself on uncertain ground all over again. “Oh?”
“She died when I was sixteen. I doubt anybody’s touched it since, though we keep it tuned.”
Damn it. This house didn’t hold bad memories, it held emotional land mines. Sandra squirmed. “I’m sor—”
“I’d like to hear you play.” He took another sip. “Perhaps tomorrow?”
“I’m out of practice,” she said quickly. “I haven’t played in two or three years at least.”
“I don’t care. Play for me.” His tone was almost gentle. “Something you love.”
The butterflies in her stomach returned. She’d probably do anything for him if he asked her that way. Better not let him see that. “Okay. I’ll think of a piece.” She managed a laugh. “Not ‘Chopsticks,’ I promise.”
“As long as you promise,” he said dryly. Then he glanced down at the papers on his desk.
Sandra took the hint. She poured her own cup of coffee and eyed the leather armchair sitting on the other side of the office, next to a Tiffany lamp. “I’ll just read over there. What are you working on? Company business?”
“Personal business. My investments.”
“That’s good,” Sandra said, keeping her tone serious. “You don’t want to retire and find out you haven’t saved enough money to live on.”
He glared at her, but his lips twitched. “So park your perfect ass in that chair and let me get on with it.”
Sandra did, with her coffee in one hand and her book in the other, knowing that he watched her ass all the way to the armchair.
She slipped off her flats and curled up in the chair, which was more comfortable than it looked. The coffee was as delicious as it had been this morning, but it was hard to concentrate on her book. She couldn’t stop thinking about what Warrick had said. Not just the stuff about Charles’s personality, but the reference to his father.
That had just been mean. Now she had to know. Did he really think she wouldn’t be curious? She wasn’t dumb enough to ask Charles, not after that warning, but the Internet was a wonderful thing. Maybe she could find some clues on her own.
Now that she thought about it, Bradley had made a few oblique references to the subject. The one she really remembered was the one he’d made only two nights ago. At the time, it had passed almost without her notice. She’d been too distracted. Now she remembered his words as if he’d just whispered them in her ear: Nobody ever gets anything back once he’s got his hands on it. Like the company…his own dad…
Charles had taken over the company in his mid twenties. That was one of the few things she’d known about him before they’d met. It made sense that his father would still have been alive then. If she’d ever thought about it—which she hadn’t—Sandra would just have assumed it had been some kind of mutual agreement. Warrick’s warning cast doubt on that now.
And on the night they’d met, Charles had talked about her parents’ business, how Sandra and her siblings should be ready to take over if necessary. It had struck her as so cold at the time. So unfeeling.
Yes, unfeeling. Charles talked about the importance of family more than anybody Sandra had ever met, but he never said anything about love or affection. Only duty and responsibility. Had that only started after his wife died, or had he always been that way?
She had to be overthinking this. Of course he loved his family. Maybe he just didn’t know how to show it. He wasn’t a robot or a man made of ice. He had passion. He had feelings, maybe even feelings for her—even if they weren’t everything she could hope for.
Sandra turned the pages without really reading them. She needed to stop being an idiot. She’d looked at her relationship with Bradley through rose-colored glasses, hoping for a fairy tale. And in the end, it had been nothing at all, just empty words and dust.
She realized that Charles was being awfully quiet. He’d started out by turning pages and scratching his pen over paper. Maybe he was just reading now, too. She glanced in his direction and saw him watching her.
He immediately cleared his throat and looked back down at his portfolio.
Sandra bit her lip so she wouldn’t smile and looked back down at her own book. “Um, how’s it going?” she asked.
“Fine,” Charles said tightly. “How’s Debussy?”
The stifled smile wanted to become a grin. “Still dead. It happened a while ago.”
“Good, good,” he said. She glanced over again to see that he was looking super-hard at his portfolio as he turned the pages.
Ha. He was human, after all. And Sandra might not have his heart, but she apparently got to him more than any other woman out there. Maybe that could be enough, once she found her common sense again.
It soothed her enough that she was actually able to concentrate on her book. She finished her coffee and lost herself in a funny anecdote about one of Debussy’s romantic adventures gone wrong. After that, she kept going, immersed in the story of his brilliant career and troubled love life.
As she read, she played with her hair. It was a habit of hers, something she rarely even noticed, and she didn’t notice it now until she heard a noise from Charles’s desk. She looked up to see that he’d thrown his pen down and was glaring at her.
“What?” she asked, startled.
“I can’t concentrate,” he said through his teeth. “You keep…”
“Keep what?” She hadn’t been trying to distract him with any of the things she’d threatened at dinner. “I was just reading.”
“You keep brushing your hair over your mouth.” He inhaled through his nose. “It makes it extremely difficult to focus.”
“Oh.” Yet again, Sandra struggled to keep a grin off her face. “I’ll try to keep a lid on that.”
“It won’t make a difference.” He scowled. “You’ll play with your hair, or you’ll tap your lips with your finger, or you’ll put your cheek in your hand, and I won’t be able to concentrate.”
Now she could only gape at him. Then she put both feet on the ground, folded her hands primly in her lap on top of her book, and sat ramrod-straight. “Zhere you go, mein Führer.”
“Very funny.”
She laughed. “Yeah, it is. What else am I supposed to do? I’m not trying to distract you.”
“That’s the worst part.” He was still glaring, but he held out his hand. “Come here.” S
andra lifted her eyebrows. “Please.”
This might be interesting. Sandra put her book down and ambled to his side, still barefoot. He sighed, rolled his chair backward away from the desk, and reached for her. “Hopeless,” he growled as she sat down in his lap.
Sandra grinned and slid an arm around his neck. “Is this going to help?”
“It might.” With a grunt, he rolled toward the desk. And, to her astonishment, he actually started reading through his portfolio again. His thumb rubbed idly against her hip through her jeans.
“Seriously?” Sandra asked.
“Mm.” He stroked her thigh. “Anything’s worth a try.”
“How long am I supposed to sit here?”
“Until I’m done.”
“I’m too heavy.”
“Not at all.”
“I should have brought my book,” Sandra muttered.
He squeezed her. “Hindsight’s 20/20.”
“Okay. I guess I’ll just read with you. It won’t be rude at all for me to look at your private finances.”
He lifted a sheet of paper with the heading “Earnings Report” and held it up for her to see. Sandra looked at the bottom line.
Her jaw dropped. “Um,” she said. “I think they misplaced a decimal.”
“I’ve got nothing to hide, Miss Dane,” he said mildly, set down the earnings report, and began turning pages again.
Maybe she shouldn’t be looking at this, but she could see why he had nothing to hide. Even after her mother’s advice, the long columns of numbers and initials on Charles’s papers didn’t make much sense to her. What was “KSB3d”?
Okay then, fine. He was bound to get tired of this soon. In the meantime, she might as well enjoy herself.
She’d said she wouldn’t distract him, so she didn’t caress or kiss him like she wanted to. Instead, she rested her cheek on his head, enjoying the brush of his dark hair on her face. Much softer than his bristle. And he smelled so good. She couldn’t call his lap comfortable, but his body was warm against hers.