by Laura Moore
Mimi waved her empty martini glass at her. “Your shift hasn’t ended. I need another.”
Maybe she could dump some arsenic in it. Though with all the venom already pumping through Mimi, the arsenic might be woefully ineffective.
Dakota silently plucked the empty martini from Mimi’s beringed fingers. Drink was making them fat.
She reminded herself that she was not her careless, self-absorbed mother and she was certainly not her aunt Mimi. She’d fix the damn cocktail and remain for the twenty minutes she’d allotted herself until she’d maxed out her NVUs—natural visiting units. It was a term she’d learned from one of her friends, Hendrick Daube, a professor of psychiatry at Columbia University. NVUs were basically the amount of time one could spend in the company of certain people before losing it. Generally she could tolerate her mother for an hour. When Mimi was added to the mix, the NVUs shrank dramatically, rarely passing twenty minutes before Dakota had to escape.
She’d be out of there soon.
“Do you want a martini, too, Piper?”
Piper had switched her attention to her iPhone. She glanced up. “I’ll wait until Duncan comes. He should be here before long.”
Another reason to make a quick exit.
“What are you doing with that man-child? I simply can’t understand you,” Mimi snapped.
Piper smiled lazily. “Can’t you, Mimi?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Piper. Is that all you think about?”
“You might be in a better mood if you got a little something going on. Have you tried coconut oil? It’ll do wonders for you down there, Mimi. I know you must be all dried up—”
Go, Piper, Dakota thought. Her mother had faults aplenty, but as Rae said, she could also be a hoot.
When she returned to the living room with Mimi’s cocktail, Piper’s infomercial on coconut oil’s rejuvenating powers had been cut short and her aunt had returned to her new favorite topic.
“He’ll destroy it, of course.”
“What’s his name again?” Piper asked.
“Really, Piper.” Mimi’s tone was exasperated. “How many times do I have to repeat it? His name’s Max Carr, and he comes from Mason, Michigan, wherever that is. His father was an autoworker—can you imagine?—and now he’s living in our house.” She grabbed the glass from Dakota and took a slug of the drink.
“Do you think he’ll tear it down?”
“He’ll try,” Mimi predicted darkly. “Can you believe Elliott sold the house for twenty-eight million?” She paused as if to absorb the enormity.
Dakota didn’t bother to offer a little reality check. The price wasn’t that exorbitant, considering Windhaven’s location, size, and acreage. Whoever this Max Carr was, he’d known how to negotiate. Moreover, he could probably make a case for a teardown with the town board if he chose. The house had been added to by any number of Hales, which meant that it was no longer the historical monument Mimi believed it to be. But mentioning any of this would be like waving a red flag, and an enraged Mimi was an ugly sight.
“He’ll be sorry if he touches even a shingle on our home. James Alden Hale built Windhaven in 1910. It’s been lived in by—”
Dakota tuned her out. Her aunt considered herself the family genealogist. Never did she miss an opportunity to mine the glories of her ancestors. Forget the Adamses, Roosevelts, Rockefellers, and Kennedys. According to the Gospel of Mimi, America would be nothing without the Hales.
“—but I’ll put a stop to him. And he can forget about joining the Maidstone.”
Well, that might hurt. The Maidstone was the exclusive golf club a few miles from Windhaven. It was snooty, but the eighteen-hole course was beautiful, with views of the ocean, and challenging, due to the shifting winds between sea and shore. Dakota wondered if Mimi could really pull off her vindictive blackballing. If Max Carr had friends like Alex Miller behind him, then Mimi might be in for yet another unpleasant shock: discovering that the old Hamptons guard, which she so loudly claimed to represent, had become toothless.
At least when it came to Mimi Hale Walsh, Dakota thought, this was a cause for celebration.
Piper gave a feline stretch, perhaps anticipating her evening with Duncan, and then looked at Dakota. “I wonder who this Carr person will hire to take care of the old place. It’s so hard to find good help these days.”
And here she’d thought Piper was conserving her energy for the night ahead, or possibly feeling too charitable toward her for having come over to sling any arrows her way.
Those twenty minutes of NVUs were going to have to be cut short, Dakota thought. She couldn’t take any more of what passed for quality time with the Hale sisters. “Who knows, maybe he’ll hire Premier Service,” she said.
Mimi’s laugh was loud. “I don’t think so. Face it, you’re small potatoes.”
Dakota smiled.
At ten o’clock the next morning Dakota buzzed Windhaven’s doorbell and willed a calm expression on her face.
She really shouldn’t have Googled Max Carr.
After leaving Piper and Mimi last night, she’d been determined to accept any task Max Carr needed done, just to show her relatives that her “small potatoes” company could attract serious bigwigs. Over a bowl of takeout pad Thai and a very nice glass of chardonnay, she’d opened her laptop and typed “Max Carr” into the search engine. She’d learned far more than she wanted to.
The front door opened, and everything inside her warned her this was not a good idea. As in, really not a good idea. Max Carr was even more strikingly handsome in person. His face, chiseled and strong, would have suited a Roman soldier, and his blue-gray eyes shone with a fierce intelligence.
His body spoke of power. His broad chest was outlined in a black crewneck sweater—cashmere, she knew from a glance—and his faded jeans were just snug enough to emphasize the muscles in his long legs. The bottom three inches of his pants were damp and his bare feet were dusted with sand—something never allowed to enter the house by her grandmother—which told her he’d already enjoyed Windhaven’s private access to the beach.
The weekend look, complete with the reddish-brown scruff darkening his lean cheeks, did nothing to diminish the intensity radiating from him. He could probably stroll into a boardroom dressed just like this and cow all the assembled suits with a single lift of his dark auburn brows.
She extended her hand. “Hi, I’m Dakota Hale.”
“Max Carr,” he replied, shaking it. His gaze swept over her in swift assessment. “Come inside.”
The entry hall and the living room to her right were empty and forlorn-looking. The wallpaper was marked with dark rectangles where paintings had once hung, and scratches marred the wood floors. A film of dust covered the windowsills and built-in shelves. The cleaning crew hired by her uncle had missed a few spots. No one at Premier Service would have.
“I gather from Alex Miller that you know the house.”
She turned to face him. “Yes. It’s belonged to the Hales…well, until now.”
“Is it odd for you to be here, in your family home?”
“Actually, I can’t recall stepping inside Windhaven even once after my uncle inherited it. It was my grandparents’ when I was growing up. We weren’t close, either.”
“So it wouldn’t be a problem working for me?”
It would be a lot of things, she thought. After what she’d read online, she wasn’t sure she wanted anything to do with Max Carr. From her brief search it was clear he was a MOTU—a master-of-the-universe type. But he didn’t just grace the pages of Forbes, The Wall Street Journal, and Bloomberg Businessweek; he also hit the gossip pages. There’d been dozens of pictures showing him with one model/starlet type after another. Clearly his “I can have anything I want” aura worked well with the opposite sex.
Max Carr was the type of man Piper liked to snag and then shag, and the kind Dakota avoided like the plague.
But this was a business meeting. Max Carr wasn’t looking to become friends, a
s Gen Monaghan and Alex Miller had, and he wasn’t looking to date her. She’d be caring for his property. Period.
With luck, she might never have to interact with him again after this meeting. She had a number of clients where for all intents and purposes she was like an invisible genie. She’d prefer to go the invisible route—Dakota the friendly ghost—but she had to get the job first.
“A problem with respect to my family, you mean? They’ll be outraged, but that’s one of their favorite attitudes.”
“I met your uncle.”
“Ah, then you’ve had a taste of the Hale charm,” she said lightly. “Wait until you run into my aunt Mimi. She consumes a steady diet of sour grapes.” And that was really enough about her wildly dysfunctional family. “Windhaven’s a beautiful property. I hope you’ll be happy here.”
She pulled out her notebook from her leather tote as well as her business card and a glossy folder. Inside was an overview of the company, a list of the jobs her staff routinely performed, and references from numerous clients, Alex and Gen among them. She handed the folder and her card to him.
He tucked the card in the back pocket of his jeans, opened the folder, and scanned its contents. “Very impressive.”
This from the man who’d had article after article written about his business coups. “Thank you. Would you like to discuss what you’re looking for with respect to Windhaven?” She glanced around and caught herself. Great. He had her so rattled, she was actually looking for a chair in a room bare of everything save dust.
From the small smile curving his lips, he must have noticed. “There’s not a stick of furniture in the place other than the mattress I had the realtor deliver. I’m assuming you’d rather not sit there.”
“No! I mean, yes, that’s right.” She fumbled for more but came up empty, her mind flooded with images of the two of them on the bed. And where had their clothes gone?
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “How about we sit outside, on the porch steps?”
Had Max Carr just teased her? Yeah, but so what? He didn’t have to be professional. She did.
“Perfect,” she said coolly.
Windhaven was a sprawling shingled “cottage” that in any other part of the world would be labeled a mansion. The porch steps, in proportion to the house, were wide. They gave onto a manicured lawn, which led to a gate with a planked walkway to the dunes and the sea beyond. She sat down on the top step as far as she could from Max Carr’s lean length and drew a deep breath of the salty air.
“As you can see, we offer an extensive list of services.” She rummaged for a pen in her bag and passed it to him. “You can check off the ones that interest you.”
He took a moment to scan the relevant page again. It was more than enough time to study him in discreet glances. Just because he wasn’t her type didn’t mean she was blind.
Then he began ticking off boxes next to the menu, and her heart beat faster still.
Silently he handed it back.
There was definitely one thing to like about Max Carr: all the lovely bold checks he’d made. Only two boxes were left blank, the one for babysitting and the other for pet care. “You want all this?”
“No. I want more.”
With any other potential client, hearing those words would have sent her cartwheeling across the lawn, a forbidden joy when her grandparents lived here. But something told her that working for this man was going to complicate her life even more than she’d imagined. “What else can Premier Service provide for you, Mr. Carr?”
“It’s Max,” he corrected. “I’ll need you to oversee the remodeling and furnishing of the house and grounds. Structurally the house is sound but—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Carr—”
“I said, it’s Max.”
Fine. “Max. There are many interior designers on the East End who’d be happy to work with you—”
“But I don’t want to work with them. A designer remodeled my New York apartment and believed that was license to pester me every other hour about types of wood and fabrics and delivery snafus. If you can do all this”—his index finger ran down Premier’s checklist of services—“I imagine you can oversee any changes to the house and then furnish it.”
She swallowed. “Well, yes.” The entire house and grounds? This would be her biggest account yet. She should have figured Max Carr wouldn’t do things by halves. “Nonetheless, I’d like to consult with someone. You’ve already invested quite a bit of money in this house. It should come out just the way you want it. I know a designer. Her name’s Astrid Shibles. She does beautiful work and has a reputation for getting the job done on time.”
“Fine. Retain her. But I want you to be in charge of everything.”
“I have a very competent staff.”
“I want you. Consider yourself my personal assistant for the foreseeable future. I want the job here done well and I want it done fast. How much will it cost for you to say yes and accomplish that?”
She blinked. “This is a big job. It won’t be cheap,” she warned, deciding to be as blunt as he.
“I hadn’t realized the Hamptons were the place for bargains.”
A laugh escaped her. “Good point.”
“So how much?”
She stole another look at him. He was staring out at the ocean, a wide strip of rolling gray. The waves had been cranking today at Turtle Cove when she’d surfed at dawn. His profile was as arresting as every other part of him. His nose had a bump as if it had been broken. Had that happened in a football game? she wondered. She’d read that he’d been the starting quarterback at UPenn.
And why was this man so distracting?
It was one thing to be intimidated by his long list of accomplishments and successful business deals, quite another to be hung up on his looks and charisma.
At least he wouldn’t be asking for her help in finding dates. The women on the East End were going to go nuts when they got a load of him.
Dragging her gaze away, she fixed her attention on the form he’d filled out. Then she did a rough calculation of how much she’d earn for overseeing nearly every aspect of this man’s life in the Hamptons.
“We charge on an hourly basis for our services. Our rates are in the booklet. The personal assistant part of the job is different, so for that my rate would be double. I won’t charge a commission on anything we buy for you. Does that seem fair?”
“Suits me. Though you’ll probably come to regret not charging me triple.”
“I don’t take advantage of my clients that way,” she said. At double her rate she would do well enough to ensure there’d be no layoffs this winter. She’d even be able to give Rae a promotion and a much-needed raise. And if she did a good job, Premier Service’s reputation would soar and her business would grow. She gripped the wooden step to keep from jumping up and down and shouting her triumph all the way to Portugal.
And for the record, she was pretty confident she could handle whatever Max Carr threw at her. After all, dealing with difficult and demanding people was second nature to her. But there was no time like the present to scope out how demanding he’d be. Or how outrageous his demands.
“However, I haven’t agreed to take you on yet,” she said, and was pleased to see him lift a brow in surprised amusement. She suspected he was used to getting his way. “Why don’t we go through the house so I can get a better sense of your tastes and what you’d like done? Then I’ll know whether I’m right for the job.”
—
They started in the kitchen. Recently remodeled by her uncle’s third wife, it had the requisite Viking range and double wall oven, a Sub-Zero refrigerator, carved wood cabinets, subway tiles, and sandstone counters. The kitchen island was large enough to eat at. Mimi had detailed the renovation with her usual criticisms, thinly veiled envy, and boasts that Elliott had hired the top kitchen design company in the Hamptons. Dakota thought the kitchen rather nice and well laid out. The pendant light fixtures could be improved upon, though, an
d the paint color was all wrong.
Opening her notebook, she placed it on the counter and made a notation. “Does the kitchen suit you or would you like it redone?”
“The kitchen’s fine. I don’t cook much.”
She’d need to find out what he liked to eat, then, but before she could quiz him, he spoke.
“I need an espresso machine. The coffee I found in town was insipid.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Can’t remember.”
“I’ll give you a list of places. There’s the Golden Pear on Newtown Lane—that’s probably the closest. I often go to Sagtown Coffee in Sag Harbor. It’s a short drive during the off-season, and they’re very serious about their coffee. Any particular brand of machine?”
“I have a Marzocco in New York. It works well.”
At a price tag of $4,500, she certainly hoped it did. She wrote the espresso maker down.
“And in terms of food?”
“I’ll eat anything.” He paused. “Except liver.”
“Pâté?”
“No liver.”
For some odd reason his answer made her want to ruffle his wavy dark hair. What a ridiculous impulse. He had women aplenty to do that and more.
He was looking impatient. Time to move on. “How about I email you a list of foods, wines, and alcohols for you to check off?”
He nodded. “Sounds good.”
She thought of the bells and whistles that Mara Bridges, a realtor who used Premier Service to spruce up the houses she listed, claimed many wealthy buyers now considered absolute essentials. “The basement is large. Would you like a temperature-controlled wine cellar?”
“Sure.”
She jotted it down in her notebook and then, with her pen poised, asked, “With or without a tasting room?”
He gave her a long look. “Without.”
“And how about a fully automated home system? So the pool can be set at the desired temperature when you arrive? We can also fit the pool with a retractable cover.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Yes to all those. And the security system needs to be upgraded. And get an electrician in to check the wiring. Plus I’ll need an office. That room off the library should be fine.”