Promoted to Wife (Destiny Bay)

by Conrad, Helen

  She bit her lip and shook her head. He was an odd one, but for some reason, she was surprised to find she could talk about things like this pretty easily with him. “We weren’t married,” she said, “but we lived together.”

  “I see.”

  “That's all over now.” She took a deep breath and smiled. “I'm starting a new life.”

  He nodded, looking as though he was suppressing a smile. “As a butler.”

  She raised her head and met his gaze steadily. “Yes.”

  He looked skeptical. “And definitely not on the lookout for a new man.”

  “No!” She shook her head. “No relationships. No little affairs. I'm going to be my own woman from now on.” She took a deep breath and stared into the fire. They were silent, the crackle from the fireplace the only sound in the room.

  When she finally looked at him again she found he'd leaned back even farther into his end of the couch, so relaxed she was afraid he was in danger of falling off. She glanced at him, and despite all resolutions, leaned down to take up a glass of the wine. She took a sip, then looked at him again.

  His head was tilted back and he was regarding her steadily from beneath his neat, dark brows. He didn't say a word, but his gaze spoke volumes.

  This man, she told herself, like most men, thinks he’s a master of seduction. He’s working out just what gambit to use to get me into his bed. And he’s going to be disappointed.

  She risked another searching glance at him. It was all a game to him. Like polo or golf. Rebellion rose in her. She didn't like being thought of as a sporting challenge.

  She set the wineglass back down on the table with a thump. “Is something wrong?” she asked at last. This constant scrutiny was driving her crazy.

  “Are you kidding?” His smile was slow and infinitely tantalizing. “Something is very, very right.” And he continued to watch her.

  She swallowed. It was working. She could feel his gaze sizzling across her skin and she knew she was responding to him. He was seducing her with silent promises, and she was finding out he was darn near irresistible. That excited and scared her, but it made her angry too. She’d told him again and again that she wasn’t interested.

  “Stop it,” she said, getting jumpy. “Don’t try your mind games on me. You’re very appealing, and you know it. But I’m not going to fall for you, no matter what you do.”

  He sighed as though her words made him very sad. “Are you about to launch into an a capella version of ‘I am Woman, Hear Me Roar’?” he asked, looking wary. “Just a warning, I hate that song.”

  “You would.” She gave him a smug look and blatantly lied to him. “I know all the words by heart.”

  But she was almost laughing and so was he. He smiled ruefully, his eyelids heavy with a languor that reminded her again of what a rich, spoiled playboy he was.

  “I can see that,” he said with regret. “You look like a suffragette with a cause in hand.” He sighed. “Just don't picket the estate, please. Grandfather wouldn't like it.”

  Terry lifted her chin stubbornly. She was tempted to say something very un-servant-like about his grandfather's wishes being no more important than her own, but he cut her off.

  “But I forget,” he said lightly. “You’re the butler. A proper butler would never stoop to picketing. Arsenic in the marmalade is more like it.”

  “Oh please!”

  He grinned. “Just don’t poison the children,” he said. “That’s all I ask.”

  How was she supposed to answer a request like that? She didn’t even try.

  “Your children are beautiful,” she pointed out again, feeling a little off balance. It was time she made a get-a-way. She glanced warily toward the door. The couch was comfortable—too comfortable—and she wasn’t sure how she was going to get up again without looking like a total klutz.

  “Yes, aren’t they?” he said in response to her comment about his children. But he had a way of slightly narrowing his eyes that made her think he was ready to take any comment on his kids as a criticism.

  “You're going to have to help me tomorrow,” he added with a slight frown. “Johnny is going to find some insane way to deliver my card. I'll need you to help discover where it is.”

  She felt her edginess melt away and shook her head, intrigued in spite of herself. “What makes you so sure he'll do something crazy again?”

  “He always does. One year his card arrived in the belly of a twenty-five-pound salmon. I never could figure out how he got it in there. Then there was the time it came in the middle of dinner, molded into the center of an enormous cranberry gelatin salad. I was supposed to eat my way to the card.”

  “You’re lucky it wasn’t an aspic mold.”

  “I suppose so.” He shook his head, remembering the day fondly.

  Pulling herself together, she managed to rise from the couch in one smooth move instead of lurching, as she’d expected to do. With a sigh of relief, she smiled again. “And now, I think I’ll go to bed. So if you’ll excuse me…”

  “Not yet,” he said, but it was more a complaint than an order. He stood and slipped an arm around her before she could escape. Startled, she looked up into his eyes and felt a swoon coming on. His arm tightened and he bent in to taste a tiny piece of her neck, sending out sparks through her system.

  “Just remember,” he breathed against her skin, “tomorrow is my birthday. And I've thought of the most wonderful present you could give me.” He kissed her earlobe gently, sending shivers down her back again.

  Taking a deep breath, she hardened her heart.

  “It's not quite your birthday yet,” she reminded him, firmly pushing him away and starting toward the door. “And I haven't promised you anything.”

  He reached out and pulled her back, looking down into her eyes. She looked up and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. His eyes were smoky and his mouth looked wonderful in the lamplight.

  Suddenly she wanted his kiss more than she’d ever wanted anything. She waited, yearning toward him, feeling the strength of his bicep under her hand, feeling the heat of his body as it curled around her. His lips came closer. She arched into him, her own lips parted and ready, her heart beating so loudly, it seemed to fill the room.

  “Now,” she was thinking wildly. “Oh, kiss me now!”

  His face came closer. He was almost there. And then he stopped.

  She stretched toward him, but he was drawing back. Frowning at her, he shook his head, looking as though he were waking from a dream and was slightly puzzled as to why she was still there.

  “Uh..okay. I’ll see you in the moring,” he said, drawing away.

  She took a quick breath and turned bright red. It was so obvious that she’d wanted him to kiss her. And so obvious that he had other things on his mind. She turned from him and headed for the doorway.

  He didn't try to stop her. She escaped to her room and closed the door, leaning on it as she closed her eyes and tried to wish away everything that had happened in the last five minutes.

  Had he purposely played her for a fool? Or was he making some sort of weird point? She didn’t know and she didn’t need to know. She just had to remember to stay away from him in the future. Far, far away.

  But then, beyond all reason, she was flooded with the memory of what it had felt like to be in his strong arms.

  “Oh, Terry,” she whispered to herself, “you are walking on quicksand.” How had she gotten herself into this situation? When she'd had the idea to come here, something like this hadn't even entered her mind. Now she was stuck.

  Suddenly she started to laugh. This was the classic servant-master affair. Shades of Tom Jones. Shades of' Pamela! How utterly ludicrous!

  That was the way to look at it—it was ludicrous. If she laughed, she couldn't fall for him, right? Laughter punctures false dignity every time. So she made a vow to laugh a lot.

  But as she slipped between the cool sheets and switched off her lamp, the memory of Rick's warmth swept over her ag
ain, and then Craig’s cool grey eyes filled her mind’s eye and laughter was nowhere to be found.

  CHAPTER FIVE:

  They Don’t Promote Butlers To Wife

  It was traditional to have a morning meeting in a butler-staffed house. The daily schedule was always worked out in detail. Terry's father had given her a full briefing on what to expect, how to prepare for it, what to ask, and what to write down.

  Terry was ready. She was going to be cool and grounded, her head into her work. No nonsense. No sidetracks. Her father had prepared her well. The only thing he hadn't foreseen was the disposition of the master of the house.

  Terry walked into the study off Rick's bedroom and found him sitting at the desk, yawning. He was wearing a bright yellow silk lounging robe that didn't conceal the fact that he was still in his pajamas.

  She stopped short in the doorway and put on a serious frown. In the cold light of morning, she could hardly believe she'd been so weak and…and female the night before. She'd given herself a silent lecture during her morning shower—and she needed it. Whenever she remembered how she’d melted when he touched her, she wanted to scream.

  No! No more of that. That sort of thing was over, gone. She was going to be tougher now.

  Still, it was embarrassing to have to face him after she’d made a fool of herself like that. The trouble was, he was probably the most appealing man she’d ever known. His basic decency was obvious and evident in every move he made. And at the same time, his tendencies toward being a womanizer were just as clear. He was danger on a stick, and she had to avoid that.

  Raising her chin, she entered the room.

  “You're not dressed,” she noted icily.

  Rick looked up as she spoke, his eyes narrowing. He could see right away there'd been a change. The warm, reluctant but weakening woman who'd been in his arms the night before had vanished. In her place was this straitlaced schoolmarm whose back was stiffened with determination. Apparently he was in for more of a challenge than he'd thought.

  His mouth twisted in regret and he gazed down at his attire, eyebrows raised. “Observant of you, darling,” he drawled. “Don’t like the casual look, huh?”

  She tapped the end of her pencil against the notebook she carried. Think professional, she told herself. “Not the way you do it,” she snapped out crisply.

  Devilment lit his eyes as he leaned back in his chair to observe her. “This disturbs you. What an old-fashioned girl.”

  As she hesitated in the doorway, he rose suddenly, coming to take her hands and lead her into the room. “I have on exactly three layers of clothing, you little idiot,” he said smoothly as he deposited her in the chair opposite his. “What could I possibly do to you without calling a time-out of at least five minutes to change?”

  She flushed, crossing her legs nervously. “That's not the point. It's the principle of the thing. I don't think you should be in these... bedroom clothes when we meet.”

  He grinned. “Are you concerned about your reputation—or mine?”

  “Both.”

  He nodded, pursing his lips. “Five minutes,” he muttered hopefully as he resumed his seat. “Want to time me?”

  Avoiding his gaze, she flipped open her notebook and wrote the date at the top of a blank page. “We have some things to discuss.”

  “Do we?” He made a face as though he thought this was going to be bitter medicine. “Your tone of voice does not entice me.”

  Ignoring him, she went on. “We should get plans straight. I need a list of the guests expected, the parties you plan to give, the people you want to entertain.”

  He groaned. “Now?”

  “Now.” She gave him a steely look. “I need time to prepare.”

  His mouth turned down at the corners. “It's going to be more work being the so-called master of the house than I'd thought.”

  She glanced up at him. “You haven't actually done it before?”

  He shook his head. “No. I don't have any servants at my own house. Only ranch hands. And they're a different breed.”

  “I'll bet.” So, they were both new at working out the boundaries of this relationship. She took in a deep breath and frowned. The good thing was, he wouldn’t know when she was messing up. The bad thing was, he wouldn’t be able to help her avoid it.

  “Don’t you have a couple of sisters?” she asked, suddenly remembering.

  He nodded. “Kathy is the Olympic swimmer. She’s in training for an international meet later this summer so you probably won’t see her around. And Shelley, my baby sister, is a psychologist right here in Destiny Bay. She’s a doll. She might drop by at any time.”

  Suddenly she remembered that it was a special day. “Oh, by the way. Happy birthday.”

  He looked surprised that she'd remembered, surprised and pleased. Every time he showed his vulnerability that way, she found herself weakening toward him. If only he were consistently arrogant, it would all be so much easier.

  “Thanks,” he said, his gaze searching hers as though hoping for some pleasurable surprises.

  That helped put things back into perspective. Casting him a frosty glare, she looked back down at her notebook. “We can go over the details of your entertainment schedule later, if you prefer,” she said. “But why don't you fill me in on Aunt Julia right now? I had no idea you were expecting to have a guest so soon.”

  From the twinkle in his eye she could see that Aunt Julia was a favorite of his. “Julia isn't a guest,” he exclaimed. “She stays here more often than I do. She's my grandfather's sister and you'll love her. She won't cause you a bit of trouble.”

  There was trouble, and then there was trouble. If Aunt Julia took a liking to her, that was all well and good. But if not—Grandfather might get called in, for all Terry knew. She'd reserve judgment on this one, and try to be ready for anything.

  “There is one problem, though,” he mentioned, then he laughed. “She'll be bringing someone along with her. She always does.”

  “Oh? Who is it?”

  He shrugged. “She's different every time. You see, Aunt Julia is sort of a traveling smorgasbord of marriage prospects.”

  Totally at sea, Terry shook her head. “I don't understand.”

  “Julia thinks I'm long overdue on the remarriage market. She always brings along a tempting morsel, sure that one of them is bound to catch my fancy one of these days.”

  Good grief. Aunt Julia sounded like a nosy manipulator. More problems coming down the line.

  “That’s convenient,” Terry remarked dryly.

  “Are you kidding?” He looked as though she'd lost her mind. “I have no intention of getting married again. I spend every other weekend trying to fight off these lovesick females Julia comes up with.”

  Lovesick! Poor women! “How trying for you,” she amended, letting her sarcasm show just a bit.

  “Oh, well.” He smiled at her, looking guileless. “You'll be a help there, at any rate.”

  She looked up in surprise. “Me? How can I help?”

  He leaned closer. “If worse comes to worst, and the latest lady breathes a bit too hot and heavy at my heels, I'll just tell her I'm in love with the butler.” He reached out to chuck her under the chin. “Good idea, isn't it?”

  Why was she flushing at his joke? She made her frown even more ferocious to compensate. “Not particularly,” she snapped.

  He let his hand linger on her chin, turning her head so that she was forced to lift her face to his.

  “Hey, grumpy,” he said with a smile. “If this is what a night sleeping alone does to you, we're going to have to do something about it.”

  He was gorgeous and adorable and ready to play. A temptation like this didn't come along every day. She took a deep breath and gritted her teeth for at least the illusion of extra strength. It was high time she established her rules.

  Slowly, deliberately, she pulled away from his hand and packed up her notebook. Rising from the chair, she forced herself to ignore the gleam in his
eyes.

  “Let me know when you're ready to talk business,” she said brusquely. Turning on her heel, she strode quickly out the door and didn't relax until she'd reached the safety of the butler's pantry, where she sank down on the little couch and let herself laugh for a moment.

  She was proud of herself. That brush-off had been difficult—but absolutely necessary.

  “And it was only practice for the future, I'm afraid,” she whispered out loud. Rick had to realize that she wasn't going to join in his games.

  But she didn't have long to brood about taming Rick. The morning was full of other things to keep her busy.

  Anatole, the cook, had arrived in time to fix the children's breakfast. Tall, gaunt, and very French, he'd swept in and taken over, making it clear he ruled the kitchen.

  Terry had known from the first that she and Anatole were not destined to become bosom buddies. From what her father had told her, cooks and butlers often formed close alliances in order to manage their employers. He’d warned her that their first meeting would set the tone.

  She was ready. She was thinking good thoughts and smiling as she entered the kitchen. But she could see it wasn’t going to be easy from the first. Anatole watched her approach with disdain fairly dripping from the ends of his mustache.

  “I am Anatole,” he'd announced grandly, looking down his long Gallic nose.

  “There's certainly no question about that,” Terry responded cheerfully, then bit her tongue as fire flashed in the man's black eyes. No sense of humor, she noted. It would be wise to tread softly.

  But no matter how diplomatic she tried to be, Anatole had a way to make things unpleasant, disparaging her every suggestion.

  Her father's first call of the day was close on the heels of one of their confrontations.

  “Am I, or am I not, the cook's boss?” she asked her expert.

  To her dismay, her father hesitated. “That's a touchy one,'' he admitted at last. “Technically you are, but most cooks would dispute it. They like to feel they run their department autonomously. It depends on what sort of character your cook has. She won't want to admit you're her boss, but when the chips are down—”