He’d never tasted anything more delicious than Emmaline’s hot, wet mouth.
“It’s fucking roasting in here,” he muttered now, and crossed to the doors that led to the ocean-view patio. Throwing one open, he let the cool, salty breeze and the sound of the waves wash over him. He breathed deep, wondering if every minute in the presence of his butler was going to be just like this. Blistering. Frustrating.
Torture.
She made him hard, she made him want.
And he’d done her the fucking favor of hiring her to be his butler. Which included acting as his body servant. He’d spent the whole damn night trying not to think of that.
A light touch brushed his elbow.
He spun, and Emmaline stepped back, concern written all over her face. “Was your evening unpleasant then?”
“I…” He forked his fingers through his hair, recalling he’d told her he’d blame her if it went to hell. What kind of asshole boss did that?
“Mr. Curry?”
Closing his eyes, he struggled for control. “I wish you’d call me something else,” he muttered.
“Sir?”
Oh, shit. That sweet “sir” was not any easier to hear. He should demand she call him Lucas, like she would have if they’d carried on that night they’d met. She’d have begged him to make her come, his name on her lips before, during, and after. He’d have had her head on his shoulder as they calmed, his hand sifting through the glorious waves of her hair, her breasts pressed against his side. His body taking a short break before reviving for a Round Two.
Because once wouldn’t have been enough with Emmaline.
Which, if he was being honest, was probably why he continued with this farce—pretending he’d never had his tongue in her mouth, his hand crawling up her sleek thigh even with a cabbie just a few inches away.
It gave him control over something that had seemed to be careening toward the uncontrollable.
He’d always had a thing about keeping the power in a relationship. It didn’t take a genius to understand that maintaining the upper hand ensured he’d remain invulnerable.
Letting out a sigh, he stepped around her. “I’m going to bed,” he said, and started walking.
It took him a minute to realize this time she was trailing him. He glanced back. “What are you doing?”
“I’ll help you with the bowtie and the studs,” she said.
Because she was his body servant.
Yeah, he should have sent her away then, to scurry toward her quarters on the other side of the house, even if that meant he had to cut off the damn bow tie or at least sleep in it. Instead, he enjoyed the faint whiff of her perfume as she continued at his heels and thought about having her lush curves close to him again as she ministered to his needs.
He swallowed his groan, accepting the distinct possibility he was going to hell.
At his suite, it was no surprise to find she’d left on a low lamp and had turned down his side of the bed. He stared at the smooth expanse of fancy cotton, then sighed again.
“I suppose it’s pointless to ask you to stop ironing the sheets and pillowcases.” He glanced over his shoulder to see her uncertainly chewing on her bottom lip.
She was going to kill him.
“Never mind,” he said quickly. “Go to town, lady. Iron the hell out of anything you want.” Then he stopped short. “Except the socks.”
“Okay.” Her smile was that “I’ve-made-you-happy” kind.
“Or the bath towels,” he added, just in case.
“Nobody irons bath towels,” she said with a little laugh that was nearly a giggle. “Completely misses the point, as you want them fluffy.”
“Fine.” He made his way into the closet and flipped on the lights. They dazzled his eyes after the dimmer atmosphere of the bedroom, and he closed them for a second.
They were still closed when he felt her small hands tugging at the studs of his shirt. So he kept them that way, thinking it was probably safer not to stare into those long-lashed big browns of hers.
Then she’d reached the bow tie, and she made a cute little frustrated sound in her throat as she worked at it.
“I might have tugged at it a time or two,” he said in apology, and opened his eyes to look down at her.
“Poor man,” she said, glancing up.
That face. Broad forehead, exotic eyes, full lips, small square chin. “Fuck Emmaline, you’re so damn…good at what you do.”
He’d been going to say beautiful, but stopped himself just in time. Because, yeah, that would have been the wrong kind of boss move.
She shrugged and finally managed to free the bow tie.
“You don’t know that?” he asked, still thinking of her looks. “You must know that.”
She shrugged again.
“Emmaline, you’re fucking lovely.” Oh, shit. What was wrong with him? That shouldn’t have spilled out of his mouth. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I was out of line. Much too personal.”
“No worries.” Her fingers were at the stud fastening his collar. “I don’t take that kind of comment personally because I don’t take any credit for my appearance. Fortunate genes, is all. I was lucky that way.”
Then her lashes lowered, hiding her expression. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but decided her mind might be several miles away, because then she gripped his shirt and started tugging the long tails free of his pants.
Fucking God. The fabric slid against his dick like the soft stroke of a hand. Her hand.
“You understand,” she said now, continuing to gently pull, the light pressure against his growing erection excruciating. “You’re a very handsome man.”
“Emmaline.” He grabbed her hands to still them before he embarrassed them both with a solid dick that was interested in more than a discussion of pretty faces. One more second, and it would be demanding to get inside her, and he wasn’t sure he had the will to keep the wolf inside him at bay. “You need to get out of here. Now.”
Her chin jerked up, and she blinked those incredible eyes, before they suddenly flared wide. Her pulse began thrumming in her throat, and when she took in an unsteady breath he could see her nipples hardening, poking into the satin fabric of her nightgown and robe.
She swallowed, and a pretty flush broke across her amazing cheekbones. “I…”
He could smell her, the scent of Emmaline’s skin heating, and the scent of something else, far more dangerous. Her desire. It bloomed in the air, and in that betraying blush.
Her want of him.
Emmaline’s fingers trembled in his, and Lucas squeezed them, trying to reassure her. “Sweetheart,” he whispered. “Just go.”
Her head gave a jerky nod, and then she slipped from his hold, backing away on her bare feet. At the closet doorway, she found her voice. “Have a…have a good rest,” she said, and then rushed away, the hem of her robe fluttering behind her. The sash caught on the edge of the table by the bedroom door and slid free of the loops, but she didn’t slow, leaving it to fall to the rug.
Lucas watched her receding back, then crossed the floor to pick up the errant length of satin. Brushing it against his mouth, he tried to calm his clamoring libido.
Shit. Jet lag or not, he figured there wasn’t going to be any sleeping for him tonight. Instead, it would be long hours of running numbers.
Hours spent calculating which one of them was going to crack first under the pressure of their mutual desire.
Chapter 3
Emmaline felt like a kid let out of school for the summer as she joined the slow-moving traffic along the Pacific Coast Highway. Malibu’s twenty-something miles of coastline were a popular destination any time of year, but when the sand and temperatures heated up, so did the number of visitors. She’d read that between May and August, 7.5 million found their way to the place.
Tourist bureau hype? Maybe, but judging from the vast number of bumper-to-bumper cars on all lanes of the highway, she was inclined to believe the statistic.
Still, she didn’t mind joining the crowd. Mr. Curry had been called away for another trip—an overnight to San Francisco—and the only thing on her immediate agenda was meeting her two friends, Sara Smythe and Charlie Emerson, for lunch. Taking a cue from those around her, she cranked down her window, letting in the breeze-cooled, salty summer air. Diverse music from the different radio stations came together to create a wholly new and not altogether unpleasant cacophonous melody
With plenty of time to make her lunch date, Emmaline relaxed in her seat and hummed along with the summer song coming from her car’s speakers.
It was going to be a great day.
How could it not? She took in the blue sky above, the fish-scale silvery shade of the ocean to the west, the deceptive view of the abodes butting up against the PCH. If not altogether hidden by gates, they appeared nondescript, merely showing their backsides—garages. The structures didn’t hint at the luxuries beyond, such as impressive square footage, stunning views, and beach access that was close to private. She’d learned that allowing non-residents onto the sand in front of the homes and mansions was an ongoing battle. But the law stated that all beaches were public between the mean high tide line and the water. Mr. Curry had instructed her that unless something illegal was going on, she should leave to their pleasures the people who spread their towels and opened their shade umbrellas near his house.
Someone tooted their horn in more cheer than anger, and she noted the cars around her signaled their occupants were ready for summer delights, with surfboards and kayaks strapped on top of SUVs, bright beach towels and coolers packed in the rear cargo areas of family autos. Propped on the open passenger window of the vehicle beside hers was the tanned arm of a muscled young man. His fingers beat a tattoo on the roof, and then he glanced over, his gaze catching her looking.
He grinned, and the good-natured wiggle of his eyebrows made her feel young and carefree. Without those worries she’d carried with her for the past five years, even though Palm Springs was not much farther away than she could blow a kiss. Was it the beautiful surroundings—sun, beach, and pretty surfer boys—that made her so upbeat?
Palm Springs had its beauty, too, though. The bare desert mountains and the incredible lush greenness in the middle of all that, thanks to the underground water table. It was an oasis.
But now, she felt as if she’d found her own personal refuge. Within the walls of Mr. Curry’s house was security, despite the undercurrent of sexual attraction that unfortunately didn’t seem to be ebbing. She was resigned to it now, and doing pretty well taking it in stride, if she did say so herself.
Sure, it might mean that she avoided him as much as possible, but it was a small price for that sense of safety.
I’ve got you. Mr. Curry’s voice echoed in her head now, those words he’d said that first time they’d met. Nothing to worry about.
Okay, it might not be just the house, but also the man himself who made her feel oddly secure, despite the persistent sexual fascination.
But she put the unsettling notion away. Today, she didn’t have to deal with that inherent contradiction. Today she wasn’t going to be anxious about anything.
Flipping on her turn indicator, she edged a lane over and then turned in to the parking lot of a shopping strip. It took mere seconds to find someone just pulling out of a space, and she smiled. Another good omen.
Inside the nearby bustling restaurant, with its polished oval bar dominating the middle space and indoor and outdoor seating, the hostess directed her to find her party already at a table. Stepping onto the patio. Emmaline waved as she approached her friends, then dropped into her seat.
“What a great day,” she said, beaming.
Sara and Charlie exchanged a look, then smiled back.
“You’re quite jolly,” Sara said, her slight British accent clipping her syllables.
“I feel quite jolly.” Emmaline smoothed the pale green wrap skirt she wore over her knees, then adjusted the stack of stretch bracelets on her wrist.
“Jewelry,” Charlie said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear any since we entered the butler academy except for your watch and the authorized white-gold studs.”
“Mr. Curry asked me to leave off my uniform and dress more relaxed. So…different jewelry.” Before her friends could make any further comment about that, she asked Charlie a question sure to divert the other woman. “Tell me what’s going on with Wells.”
Wells Archer was the six-year-old son of Ethan Archer, for whom Charlie worked. His latest nanny had been a flake, and for now Charlie had added taking care of Wells to her household duties. Ethan made noises about it being too much of an imposition and beyond the scope of the tasks he hired her to manage, but Wells had lost his mom to cancer in recent years, and it was impossible not to be charmed by the kid.
“Zoo camp this week,” Charlie said now. “I’ve been getting daily updates on the different shapes and smells of wild animal poop.”
Emmaline grinned. “I bet you love that.” Elegant, put-together Charlie, never with a glossy hair out of place, didn’t seem like the woman to appreciate a little boy’s scatological fascinations. But a smile brightened her eyes, and it was clear that Wells could no wrong.
“You tell him I want to have another go at cornhole,” she said, mentioning the bean bag game they’d played one night.
“He’ll love to cream you again,” Charlie said.
Emmaline pretended to grimace, but another grin broke through. “I’ll be happy to make his day.” Then she turned to blonde Sara. “I didn’t hear how your date night went with Joaquin.”
“And I didn’t hear about Mr. Curry’s date.”
Okay, she’d walked right into that one. With a quick glance at Charlie, she shrugged. “I didn’t learn too much about it, though I know the group enjoyed their time at Top Shelf.”
“Roland likes the collar stays,” Charlie answered. “Nice touch.”
Roland was the valet guy. “I can give you the order information. One-day shipping.”
Charlie slipped her hand into her purse and pulled out her notebook and pencil.
Sara groaned. “Can’t you keep your lists on your phone like everyone else, Charlie?”
Ignoring the criticism, she passed the small book to Emmaline. “What happens if you lose your phone?” Charlie asked. “Drop it in the pool at Joaquin’s?”
“Mine are all backed in the cloud,” Sara said smugly.
It was an old argument, and before it escalated further—even though it was generally without real rancor—Emmaline turned the direction of the conversation again. “Wedding plans, Sara? Anything new?”
“My dad is coming to visit.” Sara was interrupted by the server arriving to take their lunch orders. When the woman had gone, Sara clasped her hands together, clearly excited. “He’s leaving his cottage in Costa Rica and coming here to meet Joaquin in person.”
“He’ll love him,” Emmaline said. “If only because it’s obvious how much the man adores you.”
“Dad’s also promised to help me stand up to Joaquin’s mother, Renata. We don’t want a big wedding, and she has visions of cathedral-length veils and a guest list numbering in the thousands.”
“Your dad will rein her in,” Emmaline assured her. She’d met Sara’s father before he retired, and he was rock-solid and 100 percent behind his girl. He wouldn’t let his daughter get pushed around.
Emmaline’s own male parent couldn’t be counted on in that same way. It was one of the reasons she’d run away from Palm Springs, practically trailing her cathedral-length train behind her. But that didn’t mean she didn’t care about him. In fact, she’d cared enough that she’d never communicated in any way, not even a postcard, in the five years since she’d left.
“What’s that face for?” Sara said, her gaze narrowing.
Emmaline smoothed away her frown. “It’s my ‘I’m-so-happy-Sara-has-an-awesome-pop’ face,” she said in her brightest voice.
> Both of her friends looked suspiciously at her now. Damn them for their keen intuitions! It was actually something the academy encouraged them to exercise. So much of what happened in a household was under the surface. A good butler could read expressions and body language and use the knowledge gained to find solutions to problems in the household or with its members.
Just then, the server showed up with their lunches, and Emmaline breathed a sigh of relief. They dug into their food, chatting about nothing, and her uneasiness vanished.
Finally stuffed, she put down her fork and leaned back in her chair.
“I’m so full.” She tilted her face to the sun and closed her eyes. “I could fall asleep right here, just like a lazy cat.”
“Not before you tell us what’s troubling you,” Charlie said.
Emmaline’s eyes popped open, and she groaned. “Really?”
“We’re best friends. You can tell us anything. You know that.” Charlie leaned forward. “What’s going on?”
Determined to avoid the conversation—no rain on her parade!—she glanced around the patio then spotted a familiar figure standing just inside the restaurant, all alone. As if she sensed Emmaline’s regard, Stella Curry half-turned. Her face lit up, and she waved.
Emmaline did too, standing up to gesture the young woman to their table. “You’re going to want to meet Mr. Curry’s sister,” she told her friends.
Emmaline threw her arms around Stella in an impulsive hug, noting a new slenderness.
“Hey,” she said, holding her away. “You need to come over for my famous lasagna dinner. We need to make sure your wedding dress will still fit in a few weeks.”
“Sure.” Stella moved back and sent a shy smile to Sara and Charlie.
Emmaline performed the introductions. “Do you want to sit down with us?”
“I’m not sure I can,” Stella said, spinning her engagement ring on her finger. “I’m supposed to meet Aaron for lunch, but he’s late.”
“We know you have nuptials coming up, and we’d love to hear all about them.” Charlie nudged the free chair away from the table. “Text him that you’re out here.”
The Seduction (Billionaire's Beach Book 5) Page 4
