What a Woman Gets

by Judi Fennell

  He grabbed two of the containers and shifted them to the freezer—except he couldn’t. It was stuffed to the gills, too.

  “Looks like you’re set for the apocalypse.”

  “Well, I guess I can take cooking off your payback methods.” He looked her up and down. “You do know how to cook, right?”

  She almost let him believe it, then decided she better not. Easiest way to get caught in a lie was to have to prove it. “Not really. Dad had chefs. They didn’t like kids in their way.”

  “And I’m sure coming up with menus is more important than learning to cook what’s on them at those finishing schools.”

  “I didn’t have any say in my schooling, you know.”

  He grabbed another box and broke it down, starting a stack on the island. “And you’re how old?”

  She sucked in a breath and was about to unleash a tirade but . . . didn’t. What was the point? They could argue all they wanted, but the truth was, she didn’t know how to cook and hadn’t considered it a necessity for moving out on her own. That’s what take-out was for.

  “What does it matter anyway? Your grandmother has made my culinary skills”—or lack thereof—“a non-issue.”

  “Okay, fine. So then you can move straight to straightening this place up.”

  Say what? “Your kitchen?”

  “For a start. Then the living room, the bedrooms, and the bathrooms. There are two downstairs and one up.”

  “There’s an upstairs? Where?”

  He pointed another box toward a spiral wrought-iron staircase. “Leads to the loft. Two bedrooms and a bath. Shouldn’t take long.”

  “Long to do what?”

  “To clean, of course.”

  She heard the words, but they weren’t making sense. “Wait. What? You want me to clean your house?”

  “Got it on the first try. Good. We shouldn’t have any communication issues, then.”

  She shook her head. “You want me to clean your house.”

  “Didn’t we just address that?”

  “But why?”

  He looked at her with an arched eyebrow. “Because the place is dirty?”

  “But why me? Don’t you have a Manley Maid to do it for you?”

  “I do, but why pay someone when you said you were going to pay me to stay here?” He stacked another flattened box on the countertop.

  She wasn’t liking his logic. Or his payback method. “Why can’t I pay you in cash?”

  “Do you have any?”

  “Well, no. But I will.”

  “Then we’ll discuss it when you do. In the meantime, you can save me some cash by doing it yourself.” He held out a box to her.

  “But I don’t know how to clean.”

  “Oh come on, Princess.” He shook the box when she didn’t take it. “It’s not that hard. I showed you where all the supplies are kept. You wipe up dust and vacuum up debris. A couple of chemicals in the bathroom. It’s not rocket science. If you can figure out how to play pinochle, I’m sure you can clean a toilet.”

  “How do you know I play pinochle?”

  “Isn’t that what all the finishing schools teach these days?”

  “Well, yeah, but I never liked it.”

  “But you know how to play it, don’t you?”

  Of course she did. She’d actually taken courses in bridge and pinochle and mahjong and a whole other assortment of pastimes considered suitable for the country club set.

  God, how pretentious they all seemed now. Where was the practical experience like . . . well, cooking and cleaning and managing money?

  And she was going to have to manage her money. When she got some, that was.

  Liam set the box—intact—on top of the stack. “Look, I have to get back. Your dad wants me to get to work on the condo across from yours, er, your old one, because he wants to sell it. The photographer is coming this evening to take pictures.”

  “Yeah, Dad’s big on taking moonlight photos. He spends a fortune on tiny white lights for all his patio gardens and loves how they’re reflected in the glass surfaces. Says it makes the place seem warm and inviting.”

  “It does.”

  “The outside maybe. Inside, it’s cold, austere, and utterly devoid of any personality.”

  Liam stared at her a heartbeat too long for her liking so she turned away. She probably shouldn’t divulge her inner angst to the man who wasn’t all that fond of her to begin with, but who, for whatever reason, had taken pity on her and taken her in.

  God, she hated pity.

  But it was all she had going for her right now because there was, literally, no one she could call. She hadn’t been exaggerating earlier. No one was going to want to help her and risk getting on Mitchell’s bad side. She knew it as surely as she was standing here.

  But then she almost wasn’t standing. The enormity of what Dad had done—and how she hadn’t seen it coming—washed over her again and, this time, her knees did buckle. She grabbed hold of the breakfast bar to stop herself from collapsing and managed to wiggle her way onto a bar stool there. She just needed a few moments to regain her composure. She’d be fine. Really.

  “You okay?” Liam walked around the bar, the concern on his face making her feel guilty because he’d already helped her more than he should have; she didn’t want to add concern to the rest of what he was doing for her.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Because you were as white as a ghost there for a second.”

  “Probably because I didn’t have breakfast.”

  “Well help yourself to what you want. Gran, I’m sure, brought quite the assortment. She usually does. Doesn’t want me to go hungry.” He patted his eight-pack. “As if that’d happen.”

  Cassidy wished he hadn’t slapped those rock-hard muscles. She didn’t want to notice them. She didn’t want to notice anything about him. Not when she’d be staying under his roof and feeling more grateful than was prudent.

  “Okay, so I’m going back to finish the job and should be home by six at the latest. The chicken should be done by then. If you want to throw on some rice and a vegetable, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Uh, sure.” Once she figured out how to cook rice, that was. She could probably manage some steamed broccoli.

  If she knew how to steam something . . .

  “Do you, uh, have a computer here that I could use since I don’t have my smart phone anymore?”

  “In the den. You can sign on under a guest account.” He walked over to the whiteboard above the desk area in the kitchen. “I don’t have a house phone, but you can IM me through the computer.” He wrote on board. “Here’s my cell. Holler if you get into trouble.”

  “I should have been hollering all the way here then, shouldn’t I?”

  A sexy little smile crossed Liam’s face and Cassidy so wished it hadn’t. She was indebted to this guy. Being attracted to him was not a smart idea.

  Tell that to her hormones and the stupid butterflies in her tummy that’d been dormant for months.

  “You’ll be fine for the next few days until something else comes along. Just get the place cleaned up and we’ll go from there.” He brushed past her and darn if she didn’t catch a really awesome scent of sandalwood and Liam. The man was a walking pheromone.

  Yepper . . . Staying here ought to be real interesting.

  * * *

  HAVING Cassidy Davenport at his place was going to be real interesting. Liam just prayed he didn’t strangle her.

  She didn’t know how to cook or clean. Seriously? How hard was it to figure out? He and his brothers had been young but they’d gotten it real quick that a rag and some furniture polish equaled hours of drudgery. But that same rag and polish also equaled a happy grandmother who made amazing chocolate chip cookies and smothered them with hugs for all their efforts. They’d hated cleaning, but had understood the mess they made was their responsibility. That they were all in it together and Gran couldn’t do everything. So they let her do what they couldn’t—coo
k amazing things—and they picked up the slack in other areas.

  Cassidy Davenport had probably never had to pick up slack in anything.

  Liam backed out of his driveway, praying he wasn’t making a mistake by having her here, but what else could he do? She had nowhere to go.

  God, wasn’t that ironic? The woman who’d had more money than he’d ever hope to see in his lifetime was homeless. And dropped by all her rich, so-called friends. Hell, with friends like that, who needed enemies? And the whole situation with her father . . . Didn’t people realize how special the relationship was between parents and children? How, once that other person was gone, there was no going back? He missed his parents every day of his life and he wouldn’t care whatever the fight was between them, he’d fix it in a heartbeat. But Cassidy and her father couldn’t. Or didn’t want to.

  Sad. Just sad.

  He turned right toward the penthouse. No. He was not going to feel sorry for her. It wasn’t his problem that she was a spoiled brat who’d taken everything for granted. Why wouldn’t she have any money of her own? Why not sock some of Daddy Dear’s allowance away into an account he’d know nothing about for just such a day?

  Because she’d probably been off partying in LA or Cannes or any one of those zillion jet-set places her friends were now staying at without her, not thinking that the money train would ever end.

  Just like Rachel. Spoiled, selfish users.

  Yet he’d just put her up in his home.

  To clean.

  Liam couldn’t stop the chuckle as he pulled into the underground garage at her father’s building—the one used for the “common folk.” The one without the painted concrete and pretty landscaping.

  Cassidy Davenport was at his home, right this minute, cleaning. He probably should have mentioned the box of rubber gloves on the top shelf. Wouldn’t want her to ruin her manicure.

  He nodded to Marco in the lobby as the guy was going on break from his elevator-operating job. Wonder how much he got paid to do that? Must be a nice sum if that was his main source of income.

  Liam shook his head. He’d never understand the super rich. But then, since he’d never be super rich, he didn’t have to. He was perfectly happy with the home he’d renovated, the ones he flipped, and his one indulgence—the vacation home on Kiawah Island in South Carolina. Not that he got there a lot, but it was there for him if he ever wanted to.

  Maybe he ought to let Cassidy stay there instead. That way, he wouldn’t have to worry about walking in and finding her in his bed.

  There was a thought. What would it be like to have her waiting for him at the end of a long day?

  He let himself indulge for a second. Okay, maybe thirty of them.

  It was a nice dream. A good fantasy. But this was Cassidy Davenport he was lusting over, the exact sort of woman he’d vowed to stay away from. The exact wrong sort of woman for him. Because she might say she’s not going to do what her father wants, but once reality set in, she’d go back. Her kind always did.

  The penthouse was eerily quiet when he entered. No yipping dog—Christ. He hoped that thing didn’t scratch his leather furniture.

  Liam walked through the living room, everything picture-perfect. No one would ever know it’d been the scene of someone’s life-changing moment. Of a fight so big between father and daughter that she’d been cut off. No phone, no credit cards, and no Mercedes.

  Okay, he wasn’t feeling all that sorry about the last part for her, but still . . . It sucked having everything yanked out from under you at once, as he and his siblings knew firsthand.

  He headed toward the dining room, a massive spread of glass and pastel upholstery with a birchwood credenza along the one solid wall in the room.

  He opened the bottom drawer and saw the paints, along with an assortment of power tools that was surprising, to say the least. As was the fact that nothing was stored with any sort of organization or care. Just like her kitchen cabinets, everything had been tossed into the drawer as if she’d been in a hurry.

  He looked down the hallway toward her bedroom. Were her dresser drawers just as messy?

  No, he was not going to snoop. The peach nightie and spiked heels had been enough; he didn’t need to imagine her in anything more. Or less. Or nothing—

  Hell.

  He turned back to the living room and took a few steps when he thought of something. The picture and bracelet.

  They had to have meant something to her for her to keep them all these years, though he didn’t know why she hadn’t taken them with her. Maybe she’d been too upset to remember. Maybe she’d even blocked them out—another parent abandoning her had to be tough. At least he and his siblings had known the reason they didn’t have their parents was because of the accident, not because they hadn’t wanted them.

  Liam knelt down beside Cassidy’s former bed and felt around under it until he found the items. Cassidy and her mother looked happy there on the beach. She had her mother’s smile. The same shaped face and the same nose. The eyes were different though, her mother’s much smaller and closer together than Cassidy’s wide green ones with lashes so thick people would probably think they were fake.

  He shoved the picture into his back pocket and tucked the bracelet in the front one. Enough about Cassidy’s looks and her thongs and anything else he had no business noticing. He was here to do a job and get out. One month and then he’d never have to see Cassidy Davenport agai—

  Except she was living with him. Hell. What had he gotten himself into?

  Chapter Nine

  SHE was in his bed.

  Liam looked heavenward. Really?

  He stood in the doorway to his bedroom after a long, fairly shitty day of cleaning, and ran his hand over his mouth. She was willing to pay with her body to get out of cleaning? Did she really think he’d fall for that? Memories of Rachel sashayed through his brain.

  The princess must have decided that this would be easier than an honest day’s work cleaning his place. Too bad she didn’t know him.

  She’s offering to know you very well.

  Not going to happen. He wasn’t the same idiot he’d been with Rachel.

  He walked toward the bed. “Who’s been sleeping in my bed?” he asked loudly.

  Cassidy sat up as if he’d electrified the sheets, her hair flying around her head in a mess of waves.

  A sexy mess of waves.

  Dammit.

  “Huh?” She blinked those green eyes at him.

  Double dammit. That act wasn’t put-on; she was too groggy to be trying to entice him.

  “I said, who’s been sleeping in my bed?”

  “Me?” Her eyes widened. “Oh my gosh. I’m sorry.” She scrambled off the bed. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Well, yes, obviously I thought I could just take a quick nap, but since you’re here—”

  She flipped her hair over her head with her forearm and it settled behind her like a fluffy cloud he wanted to tangle his fingers in—

  Dammit. Triple dammit.

  He took a step back from the bed. And another just to be safe. He was trying to do a good deed and help the woman out, and her sex appeal was following him around like a rain cloud. “So did anything get cleaned today?”

  “I did the kitchen, the living room, your bathroom, and I was cleaning in here when—”

  “When you decided to play Goldilocks?”

  “I did not. I’d just thought I’d”—she yawned—“take a five-minute or so catnap.”

  He looked at the mess her hair had become and the sleepy puffiness to her eyes. “I’ll go with the ‘or so’ option.”

  She winced then scratched her head. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t intend for you to find me on your bed.”

  Everyone knew the road to Hell was paved with good intentions, and she was practically dragging him down this one.

  “Oh, Liam, I was hoping I could ask you a favor.”

  Of course she was. Just like Rachel. If he ever stopped thinking with his d
ick, he’d remember that he couldn’t trust women like Rachel and Cassidy. Didn’t seem to stop his stupid libido from wanting them, though. Damn libido.

  “I’ll pay you back. I promise.”

  “Look, sugarbritches, not everything in my world is about money.”

  She winced and he, idiot that he was, felt bad about causing it. It’d make things easier if she made him angry, but no. With her, he got the guilts.

  “I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I just wanted you to know that I’m not expecting you to do things for me simply because you’re nice enough to do them. I will pay you back. I promise. It’s just that, today was . . . um, well, I’m not exactly on top of my game. It’s been kinda rough, you know?”

  “Yeah.” He didn’t want her to get to him, but he apparently didn’t have any more control over his empathy than he did his stupid libido. “So what’s your favor?”

  “I was wondering if I could borrow your truck.”

  “You want me to lend you my truck?”

  “Just for an hour or two.”

  “For?” What would a woman like her want with a truck? And did she even know how to drive or was she used to chauffeurs? He wasn’t giving her his truck for her to crash it into a tree.

  She turned her head to the left fast enough so that her hair swung in front of her face. “It’s, um . . .” She tucked the hair behind her ear with a big sigh and looked at him head on. “It’s for my furniture.”

  “I thought you said you left with just the clothes on your back. And your paints, of course. They’re out in my truck along with your power tools. Oh, and I grabbed a few things for you to wear.” The underwear had been an issue, but he’d sucked it up and grabbed a handful without going through the rest of her drawers—it was better than knowing she was walking around his home without any. “There was a pile of clothes at the bottom of your closet without any tags, so I figured your father wouldn’t be able to account for them.”

  “Oh wow. That’s so sweet of you. Thank you so much!” She hugged him.

  Hugged him. As if they were best friends.

  Or more.

  The moment got awkward in a hurry. Especially when his hands—no more under his control than his libido or his empathy apparently—stole up to her waist and hung on.