by Miranda Lee
‘You’re not Gail,’ were his first words, delivered with his now familiar lack of charm.
Lisa bristled inside, but maintained what she hoped was a professional expression.
‘You’re absolutely correct,’ came her crisp reply. ‘I’m Lisa Chapman from Clean-in-a-Day. Gail sprained her ankle yesterday and won’t be able to do your place today. I did try to explain this to you last night on the phone, but you hung up on me.’
He didn’t look embarrassed at all. He just shrugged. ‘Sorry. You should have said who you were up front.’
If apologies had been an Olympic event, his would not have even qualified for a semi-final.
‘You didn’t exactly give me much opportunity,’ she said with a tight little smile. ‘But not to worry. I’m here now and I’ll be doing your place today.’
‘You have to be kidding me.’
Lisa gritted her teeth. ‘Not at all.’
His eyes flicked over her again, this time with a coolly sceptical expression. ‘You’re going to clean in that get-up?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ came Lisa’s tart reply.
She had never subscribed to the theory that a cleaner had to look like a chimney sweep. Today she was wearing white stretch Capri pants, white trainers and a chocolate-brown singlet top which showed off her nicely toned arms and honey-coloured skin. Her platinum-blonde hair was up in a white scrunchie, the way she always wore it when cleaning. Her jewellery was a simple gold chain around her neck, a narrow gold watch on her wrist and small gold hoops in her ears. Her make-up was subtle and so was her perfume. In her roomy straw hold-all—currently slung over her shoulder—was a navy, chef-size apron and two pairs of cleaning gloves, along with her calorie-friendly packed lunch and a bottle of chilled mineral water.
‘I assure you I will leave here with your place spotless and without a mark on my clothes,’ she informed him, a tad haughtily.
‘You know what, sweetheart? I believe you.’
Lisa gritted her teeth. She was within a hair’s breadth of telling him she was not his sweetheart, but the owner of Clean-in-a-Day, when he stepped back and waved her inside.
The uninterrupted sight of the spectacular living area compelled Lisa to forget her irritation, her love of all things beautiful drawing her forward till she was standing in the middle of the spacious room, surrounded by the sort of place she dreamt about owning one day. She almost sighed over the huge tinted windows, the amazing view, the acres of cream marble tiles and the wonderfully clean lines of the furniture. Nothing fussy. Everything classy and expensive. Cool leathers, in cream and a muted gold colour. The coffee-and side-tables were made of a pale wood. The rugs blended in. Nothing bright or gaudy.
Ever since she’d been a child, Lisa had hated bright colours, both in décor and clothes. She could not bear the recent fashion of putting loud, clashing colours together, oranges with pinks, and electric blues with lime greens. She literally shuddered whenever she saw red anywhere near purple.
‘I do realise that there are a lot of tiles to clean,’ he said abruptly from just behind her. ‘But Gail never had a problem.’
Lisa swung round to face him, grateful that he hadn’t thought she’d been envying him his house.
‘They won’t be any problem to me, either,’ she said swiftly. ‘I’ve been cleaning houses for years.’
‘You continue to amaze me. You look like you’ve never had a chipped fingernail in your life.’
‘Looks can be deceiving, Cassidy.’
‘For pity’s sake, call me Jack. Now, a few instructions before I get back to work. Do you know about the extras I like done?’
‘You wish your sheets and towels to be changed, washed, dried and put away.’
His eyebrows lifted, then fell, his expression betraying a slight disappointment that he hadn’t caught her out in some way.
‘You’ll find everything you need in the laundry,’ he told her. ‘My bedroom is the last door on the left down that hallway,’ he said, pointing to his right. ‘My study is the first door. Did Gail warn you I don’t like to be disturbed when I work?’
‘She did mention it. She said you were a writer of some sort.’
Lisa almost asked him what kind of books he wrote, but pulled herself up in time. She’d always instructed her cleaners during their training never to become too familiar with male clients, especially ones who were in the house whilst they cleaned.
The corner of his mouth lifted in a wry fashion. ‘Yeah. A writer of some sort just about describes me at the moment.’
The sound of a telephone ringing somewhere in the penthouse brought a scowl to his face. ‘Damn! I should have switched on the answering machine. Still, I doubt it’s telemarketers at this hour in the morning. I’d better answer the darned thing,’ he grumbled before turning and marching off down the hallway to his right. ‘You might not see me later,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘I’m on a deadly deadline. Your money’s on the kitchen counter. If I don’t surface, just leave when you’re finished.’
When he disappeared into his study and shut the door after him Lisa was flooded by a weird wave of disappointment.
The realisation that she’d actually been enjoying their conversation shocked her. What was there to like about it? Or about him?
Absolutely nothing, she decided emphatically as she whirled and went in search of the laundry.
CHAPTER THREE
JACKplonked himself down in front of his computer before snatching up the nearby phone.
‘Jack Cassidy,’ he answered, leaning back into his large and very comfy office chair.
‘Jack, it’s Helene.’
‘I had a feeling it might be you,’ he said drily. Helene hadn’t become a top literary agent by letting her clients fall down on the job. This was her fourth call this week.
‘Have you finished the book yet?’
‘I’m on the last chapter.’
‘Your publisher in London has been on to me again. He said if you don’t deliver that manuscript by the end of this week, he might not be able to get it on the shelves for the British and North American summers. And you know what that means. Lower sales.’
‘It’ll be there, Helene. Tonight.’
‘Is that a promise?’
‘Have I ever let you down before?’
‘No. But that’s because I hound you to death. Which brings me to the other reason for this call. The annual literary-awards dinner is tomorrow night. You’re the hot favourite for the Golden Gun award again, so you will show up, won’t you?’
‘Wild horses won’t keep me away, Helene.’
Although he wasn’t overly fond of award nights, Jack was actually looking forward to going out tomorrow night. It had been weeks since he’d socialised in any way, shape or form. Weeks, too, since he’d slept with a woman, a fact brought home to him this morning when he’d answered the door and found a drop-dead gorgeous blonde standing there, instead of plump, homely Gail.
Despite her hoity-toity, touch-me-not manner, Lisa Chapman had certainly reminded him that there was more to life than work.
Too bad she was married. Jack’s observant eyes had noted the rings on her left hand within seconds of her introducing herself.
‘Jack! Are you there?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m here, Helene. Just wool-gathering.’
‘Thinking about that last chapter, I hope.’
‘All the time.’
Jack hated last chapters. He had a tendency to want to end his stories with a happily-ever-after scene. But that would be so wrong for a Hal Hunter book, especially at this stage in the series. Jack needed to come up with something seriously anti-heroish for his hero to do this time to finish up on. Couldn’t have his readers start thinking Hal was some kind of saint, just because he went around making sure the baddies got their comeuppances.
Jack knew that it was Hal’s political incorrectness which appealed to his fans. They enjoyed Hal doing what they would never dare do themselves. Th
ey thrilled to his ruthlessness, plus his uncompromising sense of justice and vengeance.
‘I’d better get back to work, Helene.’
‘Fine. But one last thing about tomorrow night. Do try to bring a girl who’s read a book this time, will you?’
Jack laughed. The blonde he’d taken to the awards dinner last year had been none too bright, something he hadn’t realised when he’d first met her on Bondi Beach and asked her to come with him. He’d been distracted at the time by how well she’d filled out her bikini.
By the end of the evening, any desire he’d originally felt for her had well and truly disappeared. He’d taken her straight home, much to her obvious disappointment.
‘Look, I’ll probably come alone.’
‘I find that hard to believe. Jack Cassidy, without a gorgeous blonde on his arm?’
‘I don’t just take out blondes,’ he protested.
‘Yes, you do. The same way Hal does.’
Jack’s eyebrows rose. He hadn’t realised.
Still, there was no gorgeous blonde in his life at the moment, except for the very beautiful girl who was currently cleaning his penthouse.
If only she wasn’t married…
Some people tagged Jack as a womaniser. But he wasn’t. Married women were off limits in his view, no matter how attractive they were.
On the other hand, Halwas a womaniser. The so-called hero in Jack’s books wouldn’t have cared less if Lisa Chapman was married. Not one iota.
This last thought flashed a light on in Jack’s head.
‘Get off the phone, Helene. I’ve just had a brilliant idea for my last chapter.’
‘Can I take any credit?’
‘None whatsoever. I’ll see you tomorrow night.’
Jack hung up and set to work with renewed gusto, plunging into the final chapter, smiling wickedly to himself as Hal blotted his hero status with the beautiful blonde housemaid who’d come to change the linen in his hotel room. She was married, of course. But she forgot about that once Hal went into seduction mode. The girl knew that he was just using her. But the fiery passion in his kisses proved irresistible. She felt powerless to say no, powerless to stop him.
Hal made love to her several times, making her do things she’d never done before. But she thrilled to her own unexpected wantonness.
The last page saw her dressing afterwards, then bending over the bed to kiss the tattoo on Hal’s bare shoulder.
He didn’t stir. He seemed to be asleep. He didn’t want her any more and she knew it. She sighed as she left the room. Only then did Hal roll over and reach for a cigarette. He lit up and dragged in deeply. His eyes were blank and cold.
‘Done!’ Jack muttered as he punched in ‘THE END’, then copied everything onto two flash discs, putting one in his top-drawer and the other into the lead-lined safe he’d had built into the bottom drawer. Jack believed in solid security. He would read the last chapter through again later this afternoon before emailing the manuscript to London, but he felt sure he’d got it right.
Of course, there would be a hue and cry from his editor. She’d complain that his hero was getting too dark. But he’d weather the storm and have his way. And his readers would love it.
Jack chuckled when he thought of Hollywood’s reaction. But they’d just have to like it or lump it as well. Helene had done a fabulous job, not only selling options for all the Hal Hunter books—including those not written yet—to a top movie studio for an absolute fortune, but also in forcing them to sign a rock-solid contract. They had to bring his books to the screen as he’d written them. No changes in titles, plot-lines, settings or characters. Definitely no changes to endings.
Jack wondered who they’d cast for the blonde in this last scene. Not anyone obvious or voluptuous, he hoped. Someone slender and classy-looking. Someone like Hoity-Toity out there.
Damn, but she’d stirred his hormones. A lot.
For a split-second, Jack toyed with the temptation of making her an indecent proposition. But he quickly got over it.
He was not Hal. He did not seduce married women.
Neither did he right the dreadful wrongs in this world.
That only happened in fiction. In the real world, the baddies didn’t get their comeuppances. They lived on with their millions and their mistresses. They destroyed countries and slaughtered innocent people, but rarely faced punishment.
Jack grimaced. Not that bandwagon again, he lectured himself. There was nothing you could do back then. Nothing you couldever do. None of it was your fault.
Jack’s brain knew that. But his heart didn’t always feel the same, that unexpectedly sensitive heart which had been stripped bare by his experiences in the army.
Despite not having worn a soldier’s uniform for six years, the memories of all Jack had witnessed still haunted him. He would never forget. Or forgive.
But at least now, with the success of his books, he’d rediscovered some pleasure in living.
Which brought him right back to one pleasure he’d been doing without lately.
‘What you need is to get laid,’ he muttered to himself as he rose from his chair and left his study.
Lisa was bending over, about to take the towels out of the front-loading washing machine, when she sensed someone standing behind her.
Even before she straightened and spun around, she knew it was Jack Cassidy.
He was standing in the laundry doorway, watching her with those steely grey eyes of his.
‘Can I help you?’ she snapped, annoyed with the way her heart had started pounding.
‘I didn’t mean to startle you,’ he returned. ‘You can put my study on your cleaning list as well now. I’ve finished my book.’
‘You want me to clean your study on top of everything else?’ she asked, her voice still sharp.
‘I’ll pay you extra.’
‘It’s not a matter of money, Cassidy, but time. I have to be gone from here by two-thirty to pick up my son from school.’
‘I see. You can’t get anyone else to pick him up?’
‘No. I can’t.’
‘Could you come back tomorrow perhaps? My study hasn’t been cleaned for a few weeks, and frankly, it’s a mess.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t do it tomorrow, either.’ Lisa was beginning to regret not telling him she was the owner of Clean-in-a-Day, not just a contract cleaner. But it was too late now. He’d think she was weird for not mentioning it sooner.
‘Why not?’ he persisted. ‘Will your husband object, is that it?’
‘What? No. No, I don’t have a husband,’ she confessed.
‘But you’re wearing a wedding ring,’ he said, confusion in his face and voice.
‘I’m a widow.’
CHAPTER FOUR
JACKhoped he didn’t look as gobsmacked by this news as he felt. Or as excited.
A widow no less. Now, that was a different ball game entirely.
‘But you’re so young,’ he remarked whilst his brain started making plans which his body definitely approved of.
‘I’m thirty,’ she retorted.
‘You don’t look it.’
‘I’ve always looked young for my age.’
‘What happened to your husband?’
‘He died in an accident, five years ago.’
‘A car accident?’
‘No. He fell off the roof of our house.’
‘Good lord. That must have been dreadful for you.’
‘It was,’ she replied stiffly.
‘Do you have any other children?’
‘No. Just the one,’ she told him. ‘Cory. He’s nine.’
Nine! She must have married very young. Either that, or she’d fallen pregnantbefore the wedding.
No. Jack didn’t think that would have happened. Lisa Chapman wasn’t the sort of girl who had unplanned pregnancies.
‘Is your son the problem, then?’ he asked. ‘Can’t you get someone to look after him tomorrow morning?’
‘No, I
can’t.’
Mmm. No live-in boyfriend, then.
He was tempted to suggest she bring the boy with her, but decided that was going a bit fast. Jack was smart enough to realise that was not the way to go with this particular lady. She was what he and his mates in the army had used to call an ice princess. Back then, they’d all steered well clear of ice princesses, none of them having the money or the time it took to melt them.
If he wanted to know his cleaner better—and his body kept screaming at him that he did—Jack would have to be super-patient. And super-subtle.
