Hers To Keep
THE QUINTESSENCE COLLECTION I
Serena Akeroyd
Copyright © 2019 by Serena Akeroyd
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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To my readers.
I’ll always strive to bring you as much weird as I possibly can.
Serena
xoxo
Contents
Charmed By Them
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Healed By Them
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Worshipped By Them
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Protected By Them
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Loved By Them
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Afterword
Also by Serena Akeroyd
Charmed By Them
One
As Sascha Dubois pulled up beside the large end terrace house in Kensington, she did a little wriggle in her seat. Not only was she on time, but there was an empty parking space right outside. Luck was with her it seemed.
She took a deep breath and stared up at the massive house.
The address alone made her want this job.
Her vintage Caddy, cherry red and gleaming chrome, stuck out like a sore thumb in these very swanky parts, but she didn’t care. That baby had cost her a fortune to import, but life in the UK would be very glum otherwise.
Dull weather, bland food… but the vibe? Jeez, nowhere compared. Especially London. It was a haven for all kinds of batshit craziness, and if anyone could embrace batshit, it was her.
As she swung her baby into reverse and parallel parked like a pro, the front door popped open. She cut her engine, and curiosity had her peeking through the window to spy the competition.
Another potential housekeeper, matronly as hell, was stomping out the door, a glower on her face as she toddled off, nose in the air, down the street. But Sascha wasn’t interested in her. Her focus was on the hottie at the top of the stairs.
She popped her shades down so she could view him in full Technicolor, then wolf whistled under her breath at the sight of him.
Was this Sean Hayward?
The Sean Hayward? Eminent criminologist? Adored by the media, and the cops who, love Sean or loathe him, had helped solve some nasty crimes over the past two years?
She’d heard of him but only seen him on the news, and boy, had she missed out.
Black hair, blue eyes. Yep, blue eyes. They were like a husky’s too. They pinned her in place because he’d finally spotted her, and as he caught her staring, he cocked a brow. They were dark, so not technically angel’s wings, but damn, they framed those brooding eyes to perfection. His mouth was lush, wide and flared on the bottom, a pouting upper curve on the top—a woman would kill for those lips. His hair was smoothed back in a rough, tousled quiff, and the salt and pepper kissing his sideburns was divine. He had to be in his thirties, maybe even forties.
Yum. She did love an older man.
He wore a black tee with dark navy jeans. He was barefoot.
Her eyes flared at the sight, and she decided she was relieved she’d worn her red pencil skirt and a white, tightly fitting cotton blouse with the frilly lapels.
Sascha had a fetish for all things vintage. She spent more time looking like she belonged on the set of Grease than the twenty-first century. Though her tastes were unusual, she usually received interested looks, from both sexes, and not just because she dressed a little strangely, but because she rocked her outfits. It was all about having confidence, she’d found. It didn’t matter if her own insecurities were eating her up on the inside, as long as no one else knew, she was doing A-Okay.
But now wasn’t the time to think about insecurities.
She’d wanted this job before. Now that she’d seen one of her potential bosses? To have that kind of eye candy around, she’d better sparkle during the interview.
As she climbed out of the Caddy, locking it up behind her, she clutched her purse and popped the keys inside. With her cell tucked away for safekeeping, she strode on high stilettos around the car and headed for the bottom step.
When their eyes met, she smiled, slowly.
He broke off to check her out, and she let him. Not moving so he could take in the whole effect. Small waist, large boobs, long legs. She had curly auburn hair, bright green eyes, lips painted a cherry red, and cheekbones so high, Marilyn Monroe would have been jealous.
She was hot, and she knew it, but it wasn’t like she had a big head or anything. She took care with her appearance because she enjoyed dressing up. It was fun, and what was life if not a chance to have fun and explore the various amusements that came one’s way? After spending an adolescence drowning in being Ms. Average, once college had come, she’d reinvented herself.
Gone were the days where she was ashamed of her red hair or her too curvy body. Now, she embraced all the parts of her that weren’t right for a society that wanted stick-thin blondes and brunettes, and made it her own.
“Sascha Dubois?” Sean asked, his voice deliciously low and rumbly.
She guessed she should think of him, even inwardly, as Mr. Hayward, but she’d never stood on ceremony. It wasn’t her way, and thankfully, most Brits forgave her for it because she was American. They seemed to expect her to be outspoken…although, she’d found they were far more liberal than they expected she’d be.
“That’s me,” she said brightly, carefully climbing the six steps to the gorgeous Edwardian property.
It was large, and in London, large meant expensive. She knew he was famous, but she was surprised at this display of wealth. Three sash windows wide, and three stories high from the outside, but four if, and she guessed there was, a basement kitchen.
The place was like a mini mansion. Hell, for London, it was.
White moldings decorated the sides of the building, and dark stone clad the walls in a simple, elegant manner. London, in the rich parts, was one of the most beautiful places she’d ever had the joy of exploring.
In her most fanciful moments, she could easily envision ladies in Empire-line dresses roaming these streets. Beau Brummell, Britain’s most elegant gent, striding to an appointment with the corpulent Prince Regent...
Sean held out a hand, breaking into her reverie. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Dubois.”
“Sascha, please,” she replied cheerfully, tucking her shades into her purse. “I don’t stand on ceremony.”
His lips twitched. “What if I do?”
“Then I guess we’re better off stopping this interview now.” She shrugged, but hid her disappointment. “I’m not that kind of girl.”
“What kind of girl are you?” he asked, curiosity strumming through each word.
Her grin was like quicksilver. “I’m sure you’ll find out if you hire me.”
He ducked his head, but she knew it was to hide his smile. This close, he was almost better looking because she could see his flaws. He had a kink in his nose that spoke of a bad break at some point, and his stubble was at that point when it was feathery soft. Her palms itched with the desire to touch it, to feel it against her skin. He had a scar on his bottom lip that cut into the tender morsel, and a few more dotted around his face.
A bad beating?
She really hoped not.
“Please, come in,” he invited but only after she’d looked her fill. His lips had been curved in a half smile all the while she checked him out.
Stepping inside, she whistled. “This place is gorgeous.”
The door opened onto a small porch sectioned off from the hall with stained glass partitions. The hall itself was dark, and a grand staircase with a thick carved bannister that snaked in wide loops to account for the landings overhead. A rather dowdy but appropriate carpet, a kind of dark navy, made it a little hard for her to walk thanks to her stilettos.
The walls were lined with various achievements. And as she passed them, reading the names, she realized they weren’t just for him.
Sean Hayward’s degree was up there, framed, but so was that of a Sawyer Bennett, a Kurt Yeller, an Andrei Kirov, and a Devon Jerome. Not just degrees were there either, but certificates, various cut outs from newspapers, and academic memorabilia that confused her.
Was this some kind of office building? She’d thought it was a private home.
Maybe he saw her confusion because his eyes sparkled when he led her down the hall to a doorway that opened up into a sitting room.
High ceilings with ornate moldings caught her attention first. A hearth complete with a roaring fire and an Adam’s fireplace took up a large chunk of one wall. Three chesterfield sofas were laid out in an open-ended square, a mahogany coffee table settled neatly between them.
One wall housed several tall, elegant windows that let in a glorious amount of daylight, while the other three had console tables lining them, each with a knick-knack upon them. A picture frame here, a trophy there. Overhead, a glorious chandelier hung pendulously. Large, delicately carved glass teardrops swayed and sparkled in the sunlight.
Sean headed for a sofa and waved a hand for her to follow him. She sat beside him, but he surprised her by lifting his leg and resting it on the cushion so that he could turn and see her better. It wasn’t the most professional of stances, and from that alone, she knew this interview was going to be relaxed—just her style.
On the coffee table there was a tea tray with fresh cups and saucers, a Thermos, and a couple of bottles of water. Also, biscuits—she’d grown out of thinking of them as cookies now. After way too many discussions/arguments with staff in coffee shops over the confusion between biscuits and scones—and what looked like homemade Battenberg cake if the wonky squares were anything to go by.
She blinked at that, finding it hard to believe Sean was a baker, and he spied where her attention was and asked, “Would you like some tea?”
“I’d prefer some cake,” she admitted sheepishly.
He grinned, but she knew she’d surprised him. “Help yourself. Andrei will be pleased to hear someone sampled his creation. Andrei’s one of the men who live here, by the way.”
“I’m the first to want cake?” she asked, astonished—what was wrong with the previous interviewees? She reached forward and using the cake slice, portioned herself off a too large piece and slid it onto a plate. She grabbed a small dessert fork and wedged off a bite with the edge. Sliding the morsel into her mouth, she moaned in delight at the rich almond-marzipan and creamy sponge. “That’s delicious.”
“Glad to hear it,” he replied, beaming at her.
After swallowing, she murmured, “I noticed an Andrei Kirov’s degree on the wall. I assume he and the baker are one and the same?”
“Well spotted.” Sean nodded. “There are five of us here, Sascha. We all reside in this house full time, but we each head off on our various pursuits occasionally. Ninety percent of the time, however, we live here.”
“So, I’d be keeping house for five men, not one.”
He nodded. “I thought I’d explained it well to the agency, but they seemed to have misunderstood.” He clucked his tongue with irritation. “Never mind. Though I do understand if the job doesn’t suit you.”
Slowly, she took another bite of cake, amused as he watched her mouth. After she’d finished, she asked, “Is this some kind of salon?”
“It’s a living room. Parlor, I suppose is the appropriate term.”
A snort escaped her. “I didn’t mean the kind of room, silly,” she said with a little giggle. “I meant in the intellectual sense. You all have rather impressive degrees and illustrious careers from what I saw… Is that why you live together?”
A salon was a select gathering of intellectuals where ideas were discussed, and concepts explored. They were rare in these times, but Sean seemed like he was a rare man.
An infamously famous criminologist who solved the nastiest murder cases and yet wore no shoes for an interview with a prospective housekeeper…
A guy who lived in the equivalent of a fancy-ass dorm house with his buds…
Yeah, this was no regular man.
His curiosity was piqued from her remarks. She could tell, could see it in his eyes, the intelligence brimming there as his gaze flickered around, seeing more than the image she portrayed. It made her wonder if he saw deeper, caught a glimpse of the real woman beneath the Grease-era get up.
Really, Brits seemed to think Americans were morons. She barely refrained from rolling her eyes when, slowly, he said, “I suppose it is in a sense. We all met at college. After, we stayed together. It suited us.”
It more than suited them. Sean had to be nearer forty than thirty, she decided, now she had a chance to get a better look at him… which, if all the men were similar ages, meant they were approaching ‘mid-life’ as it were. For successful men to choose to live together like this, well, it was a tad unusual.
Or was she just being pedantic?
“Does the notion of looking after five men bother you, Sascha?” he asked, breaking into her thoughts.
“Not particularly,” she replied. “What would my duties be?”
“The basics. I explained in the ad.”
“I know, but I’d assume if the agency managed to make a mistake in one aspect, they may have made other mistakes, too.”
“True,” he conceded as he rubbed his chin. “We have cleaners who actually clean the house, so you’d manage them. We’d prefer you to handle our laundry, however. We eat three to four times a day, and hold dinner parties from time to time for work—we’d expect you to cook for us daily, but if it’s too hard, you could find and manage the caterers for those special occasions.
“We’d give you access to a housekeeping account, and would expect you to manage the household bills. You’d need to see to any repairs, and negotiate with the council over them as this is a listed building so certain works require pre-approval.”
“You’d expect me to play the role of housewife then,” she said sultrily, enjoying how his eyes widened at her inappropriate comment—she was playing with fire, and wasn’t entirely sure why that was.
He laughed a little, and his arm came to rest on the back of the sofa. Close to her arm. A hairsbreadth away. “I suppose so. You’d be better paid than a housewife though.”
She grinned, liking the burn that came with teasing a living, breathing inferno of masculine hotness. “Would I have a day off? Vacation time? Do you expect me to work a set number
of hours?”
“Now, this is the complicated part. Four weeks’ vacation time a year, however, we’d expect you to agree to taking those days only in two or three-day chunks. It would be too much of an upheaval to do without you for even a week at a time.”
Though that was a little exaggerated, she could understand. “I can see that,” she confirmed, and was glad she did—the beam of a smile he sent her way had such wattage, her ovaries kick-started into hyperdrive.
“No particular day off in a week, but we don’t expect you to work all the damn time. If you need time to yourself, we’d expect you to take it. A half day on Saturday and Wednesday morning, though.”
She blinked at the strange requirement, then blinked even faster when he named her weekly salary. Coughing a little, she said, “Another mistake on the agency’s part.”
He frowned. “Really? What’s the point in an agency if they make so many damn mistakes? I’m going to complain,” he grumbled. “I refuse to pay for a service when they’re not providing me with that service.”
“I suppose they’ve taken their fees off the salary,” she tried to soothe, while still reeling from the difference in wages. With that kind of money going into her bank account, she’d be debt-free before the year was up!
Sean scowled at her. “If you take the job, we can work out an agreement outside of the agency.”
Hers To Keep: THE QUINTESSENCE COLLECTION I Page 1