by Judi Fennell
“Sure. Fine. I’ll be in the . . .” He flicked his hand toward the far corner. “Whatever that room is, finishing up.”
“Okay. See you then.”
“Fine.” He turned around.
“Uh, hey?”
“Yeah?” He looked back over his shoulder. Man, the way those pants hugged his butt . . .
“Your name? I didn’t catch it.”
“That’s ’cause I didn’t toss it.”
“Funny. So what is it?”
“Um . . . Sean.”
“Well, Um Sean, I’ll see you in a bit.”
* * *
SEAN felt her eyes on him all the way through the door.
Her gorgeous amber eyes. On a five-foot-nothing body of screaming sex appeal with more curves than a racetrack, lips ripe for kissing, a face that’d put Helen of Troy to shame, and all the attitude to back it up.
How was he supposed to kick her out of this place when his first instinct was to drag her over to the closest piece of furniture, rip those gypsy clothes off that delectable body, and devour her for hours on end? Grab those auburn curls that tumbled down her back like an invitation and wrap them around his fist, arching her neck so he could—
Sonofabitch. The private eye he’d hired to investigate the will’s stipulations hadn’t mentioned that the granddaughter was a babe.
He also hadn’t mentioned that she’d be moving in, or that they’d be the sole inhabitants of Casa Martinson. He’d thought living in was a good idea when Mac had gone over the job’s specs, but now . . .
Sean set the vacuum down and headed to the curio cabinet. With the way he reacted to her, he’d better find out what those stipulations were and soon. Failure was not an option. This property was going to make his name in the resort industry and validate everything he’d been working for. He was banking on it, to the tune of millions of dollars in revenue.
His Heritage Corporation bought historic buildings, most in disrepair, and brought them back to their former standard and beauty as bed & breakfasts. So far, it’d been a win-win situation. Localities loved saving their old buildings, and he loved the bottom line.
But his dream had always been to be bigger. He wanted luxury resorts. He wanted to be the destination in this part of the state, with an eye toward growing into other areas. To be as successful in his career as his siblings were in theirs.
The Martinson property was his chance to start expanding the company. The next tier of his dream. And as long as there was a chance to make it happen, he wasn’t about to call it quits.
So when Merriweather had thrown the wrench in, jeopardizing his name, his bank account, and his brothers’ money, his back was to the wall. He had to buy this place at the below-market-value price she’d promised or he’d lose everything. He really didn’t need her change of heart or his sense of misplaced lust screwing this up.
Screwing was a bad word choice.
Sean replaced the porcelain statues in the glass-fronted case, careful not to ding them against each other. There were some prize pieces here. What in God’s name had possessed the woman to leave this place to a granddaughter she’d never acknowledged? According to the detective, Mrs. Martinson hadn’t sent even a birthday card to her only living descendant. No contact even when her son, Olivia’s father, had died. Talk about cold. He hadn’t had a doubt that his plan would pan out as she’d promised.
Yet there was obviously no figuring what was in someone’s mind at the end of her life. And the old woman was thorough, dammit. His lawyer had tried to find some way to break the bequest, but no dice. It was airtight. Olivia Bombshell Carolla held all the cards.
The poker reference was ironically appropriate.
He’d thought Mac’s win was a homerun when he’d seen the Martinson name on her client list. He’d jumped at it; if Lady Luck had given him the means to secure the place for himself, he wasn’t one to question her.
Until now.
Because with millions at stake, a babe for a boss, and just under three weeks to kick her out of her home, instead of being lord of the manor, he was the freaking maid.
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