What a Woman Needs

by Judi Fennell

  Sharon. The maid. The one he was here to replace.

  Liam glanced at the bucket of cleaning supplies and vacuum cleaner as if he’d never seen them before.

  That’s right. He was here to clean house; not play house.

  Liam bit back a chuckle. As if she’d be interested in him that way. He’d forgotten he was in the green golf shirt and cotton pants that constituted a Manley Maid uniform. He didn’t feel very manly in it, and with the vibe he wasn’t getting from Cassidy Davenport, he probably didn’t look it, either.

  He should be glad. He could get through this nightmare without having to fight off a society babe who thought she’d have some fun with the help. Been there, done that, ripped off her diamond-studded T-shirts. He wished he could have shredded them, but he’d been the one shredded.

  He adjusted his grip on the bucket, took a deep breath, and headed into Cassidy Davenport’s bedroom. If he wasn’t involved with a woman, going into her bedroom should be no big deal. And if he couldn’t even stand to be in the same room with that woman, her bedroom was just another room.

  Then he saw the silky baby-blue robe tossed over a padded chair. A piece of black lace peeking out from the top of a dresser drawer. Something peach and frothy lying in a puddle beneath the flowered bench at the end of her rumpled bed. It had landed near a pair of shoes.

  Black shoes.

  With really high heels.

  And ankle straps.

  Black lace. Peach nightie. High heels. The spiked kind.

  Cassidy bumped into him from behind.

  He’d called this just another room? He seriously needed to have his head examined and his sense of smell shut off because the scent of her—still of millions but this time with a good dose of woman threaded through—wrapped around him the way that silk robe had embraced her curves.

  And those curves, the ones her unbuttoned shirt hinted at, were every bit as lush and soft as he’d expect—except that he hadn’t expected them to be lush and soft. Most women in her income bracket underwent the knife as if it were a day out with the girls, but the few nanoseconds she was plastered against him were enough for Liam to learn that she hadn’t subscribed to that particular social custom.

  She jumped back. “Why’d you stop?”

  Because the image of her in those heels and that nightie, all wrapped up in silk, had nailed him to the floor.

  “You don’t make your bed?” Anger was always good for dispelling tension, sexual or otherwise, and right now, Liam knew which one he needed to focus on. Not focus on. Whatever.

  “I forgot you were coming.”

  Did she have to use that particular word? ’Cause Liam thought he just might.

  God. What was wrong with him? He didn’t even like the woman.

  “Are you going to hover over me while I do this?” He wouldn’t mind her hovering over him, but he wasn’t talking about cleaning.

  This was going to be a really long, hard four weeks.

  He so wished he hadn’t used those words.

  And when he saw the look on her face—fleeting though it was—he wished he hadn’t used that tone. It wasn’t her fault that he’d reacted this way to her.

  “Um . . . well, no.” She backed up, her green eyes wide and—shit—teary.

  God, he would have thought he’d learned his lesson when it came to women’s tears.

  “I guess I’ll leave you to it.” She spun around on her sexy-as-hell stilettos and strode out of the room, her ass-hugging pants leaving nothing to his imagination. Which sent it into overdrive.

  Liam cursed beneath his breath and turned around—

  To stare at the rumpled, unmade bed with sheets that had been wrapped around that curvy ass, those long-as-sin legs, and her perfectly natural breasts, and Liam didn’t know if he was going to make it four hours in this place let alone four weeks.