“While I’m gratified to hear that,” Emmaline said, wishing she’d taken off her sandals before trekking through the sand toward the house where Joaquin and Sara lived, “you know that Valerie is going to find out you were full of baloney.”
“How so?” He switched the large insulated bag that held the lasagnas from his left hand to his right.
“Stella knows the truth. Valerie’s cousin Aaron is aware I’m your butler.” Emmaline allowed herself a mental grimace at the thought of the other man. She didn’t like the guy, but then, he wasn’t going to be her husband. “How will she feel when the facts are revealed?”
He shrugged. “Like she shouldn’t presume to show up at someone’s house she barely knows to invade his privacy.”
On a sigh, Emmaline hiked her soft cotton shopping bag higher on her shoulder. It contained two foil-wrapped loaves of garlic bread, another of her specialties.
“Let me take that for you,” he said, tugging at the straps.
“It’s fine.” Then a gull dove close and she jumped, her feet slipping on the cooling sand.
Mr. Curry’s hand grabbed her arm, steadying her. “I’ve got you.”
“Thank you.” She glared at the bird as it took a second pass.
“I understand, pal,” Mr. Curry said, waving it off as it flew by again. “I’m about to snatch up a slice of that garlicy goodness I’m smelling.”
Emmaline tucked the bag nearer her body. “No feathered fiend is getting my famous bread.”
Mr. Curry slid his arm around her, pulling her to him so their hips bumped. “Nothing to worry about. I’ll protect you.”
I’ve got you.
Nothing to worry about.
Dangerously, her mind made the leap to that night at the airport when she’d invited Mr. Curry back to her hotel room. She’d never propositioned a man in her life—never once had she made even the slightest, mildest first move. Of course, she hadn’t had much opportunity. She’d become engaged at a naïve and sheltered nineteen to Vincenzo Abelli, eight years her senior. After her escape from Enzo, she’d moved about Europe and kept strictly to herself.
Until meeting Charlie and Sara at the Continental Butler Academy and relaxing into a wonderful friendship with the other women. They didn’t know about the skeletons in her closet, but that was fine. It was enough they kept her centered and in the here-and-now.
“Tell me who’s going to be at this dinner,” Mr. Curry said.
She cleared her throat. “Joaquin and Sara. Sara’s dad used to be in service as a chauffeur and now has retired to Costa Rica. My other butler friend Charlie, who lives farther down the beach, past where we’re going.”
“I’m looking forward to the evening.”
She glanced at him curiously. “You’re not kidding?”
“Why would I joke about that? I could stand to get my head out of my own work.”
This was true, she knew. “I heard you moving about the kitchen in the early morning hours. Are you having trouble sleeping?”
His arm tightened on her shoulders as he directed her around a guy in board shorts who was squinting at the screen of his phone, oblivious to everything and everyone. “Maybe.”
“The merger keeping you awake?” He’d explained that over ten years he’d morphed his father’s just-making-it computer security business into one that employed white-hat hackers—IT people companies paid to breach their firewalls in order to learn how to prevent nefarious forces from doing the same. The demand for his company’s services had exploded in the last seven years, and the unification with another similar entity had been designed to take most of the administrative weight off his shoulders.
Mr. Curry slanted her a look. “That’s part of my insomnia, I suppose,” he said, then changed the subject. “I can’t wait to taste the food that’s torturing me with its delicious smell.”
“You’ll only find it more delicious on a fork,” Emmaline promised, and decided to be glad he was accompanying her tonight, too. A good butler looked out for her employer, and the man deserved an evening away from his usual concerns.
So did she.
And surrounded by her friends she’d be safe from wandering into any wild and dangerous “domestic partnership” fantasies.
They climbed the steps to Joaquin and Sara’s beachside terrace to find the party already underway. The host took their burdens into the kitchen then returned to hand a beer to Mr. Curry and a glass of wine to Emmaline. She took a seat next to Charlie while her employer seemed content enough shooting the breeze with Joaquin a few feet away.
Sara came out of the house, a plate of appetizers in one hand and her other tucked into her father’s elbow. Emmaline jumped to her feet to greet her friend and to hug the older man. He squeezed back, and she beamed at him as she situated a chair for him to get the best view of the oncoming sunset.
“How sweet you are,” he said, cupping her cheek in his palm for a brief moment before sitting down.
Emmaline placed her own hand in that same place and closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the paternal gesture.
“Are you okay?” Mr. Curry murmured into her ear.
Her eyes popped open, and she wondered how he’d managed to suddenly materialize at her side. “I’m fine.”
“Sure?” He gazed into her eyes. “Because I’m paying attention to you, Emmaline.” His voice was for her only. “And you look a little sad.”
I’m paying attention to you.
She wanted to savor that, too.
But instead she began moving toward the kitchen, her movements brisk. “I need to make sure the oven’s heating to the right temperature.”
In a minute or two Sara followed her in, carrying her wine and Emmaline’s, too. “Why are you hiding in here?”
“I’m not,” she said automatically, but as she took her beverage from the other woman she continued to stare out the window, watching Joaquin and Mr. Curry interacting again. “They look friendly.” She gestured with her wine glass.
“Quite,” Sara answered. “Joaquin said they got off to a stiff start, though…something about him presuming you were ‘entertaining’ when he unexpectedly came across the two of you?”
“It was nothing.”
“Joaquin thought it was something. Something very interesting.”
“Oh, him,” Emmaline said, waving it off with her free hand.
Sara placed her fingers over her mouth, but it didn’t completely stifle what sounded like a giggle. “Have you perhaps found that hunky master of the house you were hoping for not long ago?”
Had she really said something like that? God, there it was, abject proof you should be careful what you wish for. “If I did say such a thing, I was temporarily drugged by all the pheromones floating in the air between you and your man.”
“You don’t think an employer and his butler…” Sara started, but then her voice trailed off as they both noticed the newcomers to the party—Ethan Archer, Charlie’s boss, and his six-year-old son, Wells.
“I didn’t know they were coming,” Emmaline said, watching as the boy raced to Charlie.
She appeared to listen to his chatter before he raced off again. Then her gaze shifted to Ethan, now talking with the other men.
If Charlie knew anyone was looking, her face would be a perfectly smooth, perfectly elegant mask. But at this moment, she unknowingly gave away what she usually concealed…her absolute longing for the person who signed her paychecks.
“He treats her like a favored niece,” Sara said, her voice low.
“I’ve seen it,” Emmaline whispered, and as they watched, Ethan detached from the men and moved to pick up Charlie’s sweater that had slipped off the back of her chair. He tucked it around her shoulders now, and then chucked her chin, an avuncular smile on his face the entire time.
Sara and Emmaline groaned together.
Charlie might mask her misery with that practiced half-smile she was wearing now, but her friends knew better.
Thank go
odness, Emmaline thought, I’m managing to keep the relationship between Mr. Curry and me formal and professional. The line between them was still distinctly drawn, even though she’d given up her uniform. Life was so much safer that way.
To that end, when it came time to eat the meal, she took a seat far from his. Though he complimented her food as effusively as the rest of the party, it was easy to be gracious yet impersonal from a table’s-length distance.
When the dinner was over, Sara’s Joaquin suggested they play horseshoes on the sand. Everyone went along with the idea eagerly enough, except Emmaline.
“We all know I’ll be terrible at this and no one will want me on their team,” she protested.
Only Wells agreed—he who had demolished her at cornhole—and she was dragged with the others onto the beach. Joaquin turned on the floodlights that illuminated the cool sand to a near-silver shade and made bright white lace out of the foam of the crashing waves.
Emmaline dutifully took her turn at a few practice tosses, then the rest of the group unanimously agreed that she could be exempt from the game. Yes, you are that bad, Mr. Curry said, the comment devoid of charity. With a roll of her eyes, she left them to it, and wandered back up to the house. Habit had her clearing the table and putting away leftovers in the kitchen, and she smiled while she did so, the taunts and teases and laughter of the horseshoes squad filtering through the open windows.
As she dried some dishes, footsteps sounded behind her, and she looked around to see Mr. Curry strolling into the room.
“The party’s winding down,” he said, and scanned the countertops. “What can I do?”
“Oh, nothing. This is my work to do, not yours.”
“I’m not your boss tonight, Emmaline,” he said, frowning. “You’re not the butler.”
“It’s not wise to think that way,” she told him, and swept out of the room to say good night to Ethan and his son Wells who were just about to start off for home.
In short minutes more, with additional goodbyes behind them, she and Mr. Curry headed northward toward his house. The meager moonlight made it hard to distinguish the hazards on the sand, and Emmaline tripped over a half-buried clump of seaweed. The bag she carried slid from her shoulder to the ground, but Mr. Curry managed to keep her upright with the warm clasp of his hand around her upper arm.
“Careful,” he cautioned, then swooped for the fallen bag. He peered at it closely. “Is this some of your needlework I see?”
“I made it from some old tea towels I found at a second-hand shop,” she said.
Then she’d embroidered around some of the faded flowers with embroidery thread. Taking the item from him, she settled it securely once more on her shoulder and began walking again.
“How did you learn how to sew?” he asked.
“My mother started teaching me when I was little. And her mother was taught by nuns at a convent school she attended as a little girl.”
“Where are they, your mother, your grandmother?”
“Both dead now,” Emmaline said. They were only faded memories, little more substantial than the lingering scents of a fragile perfume.
“I’m sorry to hear that. And your fa—”
“When I attended the butler academy, I took sewing classes,” she said, hoping to divert him from more talk of her relatives. “And I was happy to find a good machine at your house when I moved in.”
“Left by the previous resident,” he said as they climbed the steps to his house. Once inside, they both headed for the kitchen where they deposited the bags and one of the now-clean lasagna pans. The other had been left at Sara and Joaquin’s.
Then Emmaline turned to her employer. “Well, I guess it’s time to say good night to you, as well.”
He inclined his head. “I had a good time. Your friends were welcoming, Joaquin and Ethan included, even though I handed them their asses at horseshoes.”
She frowned at him. “Is that why I saw money exchange hands before we left?”
“Well…”
Mr. Curry rubbed his chin, and she heard the scratch of whiskers against skin.
For some reason, the sound trailed like a fingertip down her spine.
“Four bucks,” he finally said.
“Four dollars?” She laughed. “That was the bet?”
“We had a kid in the mix,” he said. “Didn’t want to role model bad habits.”
Emmaline recalled the poker games hosted by her father at their Palm Springs home. Booze and cigar smoke. Women in skimpy dresses and men with bulges under their coats. Her dad had directed her to stay away, but she’d seen things, heard things.
Dark threats.
Breaking glass.
Gunshots.
“You’re sad again.” Mr. Curry said.
“Oh.” She turned away, in the direction of the hall that led past the laundry room to her quarters. “Just tired.”
No warning bells sounded as he followed her toward the entrance to her rooms. It seemed fitting that he’d politely ensure she made it there safely. With her hand on the knob, she glanced over her shoulder. “Have a good rest, sir,” she said.
He sighed. “Emmaline. Don’t you think you should start calling me Lucas?”
“I…no.” She opened her door and slipped inside. When she began to swing the door shut, he was still there, a frustrated expression on his face. “Is there anything else?” she asked, all courteous butler.
His eyes bored into hers. “Call me by my first name.”
“Mr. Curry—”
“I can’t keep up this pretense any longer,” he said.
A chill rushed over her skin. “W-what pretense?”
His gaze turned skyward, as if seeking relief. “Emmaline. For God’s sake.”
She clutched the edge of the door, staring at him in alarm.
His eyes turned back to her. “You can’t think that I’d really forgotten…or didn’t recognize you…or whatever story has been going on inside that head of yours.”
“You…” Emmaline swallowed. “You…you…”
“You and I,” Mr. Curry said sharply. “You and I were a heartbeat away from setting fire to the sheets in that hotel room. There’s no way I’ve forgotten any of that, Emmaline Rossi. Or you.”
Emmaline clutched her phone more tightly to her ear. “Then I shut the door in his face.”
“Oh, dear,” Charlie said. “What happened after that?”
“Nothing. I ran into the bathroom and wished him away.” Like a child, Emmaline thought, grimacing.
“You wished him away,” Charlie repeated.
“Yes. And he went away, I suppose. In any case, I took a shower, got ready for bed, tried sleeping. Now it’s morning, and he’s gone from the house and I have no idea what I’m going to do.”
“Emmaline.” Charlie sighed. “What were you thinking taking the job in the first place?”
“I needed a position. I needed to be near my friends.” Her family. Her support. She’d been so tired of wandering. So lonely.
“Tell me again how this all happened,” Charlie said. “And this time don’t rush through the details or skip any of the important ones.”
“Jeez,” Emmaline complained, wishing she’d called Sara instead, who’d been told the bones of the story more than a month back. “Your time playing mommy for Wells has paid off. You’re good at this. Too good.”
“Grumbling at me won’t give you any solutions.”
Which is exactly what she needed. Solutions. Plans. Some sort of strategic response to Mr. Curry who had swept her feet out from under her last night. You and I were a heartbeat away from setting fire to the sheets.
“Emmaline…”
“Okay, okay! But the fact is…I don’t have words to explain why I did what I did. You know I avoid dating.”
“As well as one-night stands,” Charlie added. “We’ve seen you approached in the pubs and clubs dozens of times and you never seemed tempted.”
“I wasn’t tempted.” Pro
bably because she knew long-term romance presented difficult problems having to do with a fake identity and forged documents. As for short-term flings, she’d always been of the attitude that there was no point to them.
Which made her a hopeless romantic, she supposed, one who didn’t find purpose in scratching itches and popping corks with temporary companions when she’d learned to do it all by herself, single-handedly.
Then there was the niggle of concern that her one-and-only lover might be right about her skills—or lack thereof—as a bed partner. She’d not wanted to set herself up for more criticism like Enzo had dispensed. Or maybe worse, put some kind man into the position of pretending she was any good in bed when she was not.
“Except then I saw Mr. Curry,” Emmaline said, shrugging, helpless to explain the impact he’d had on her—his rangy form, the tired blue eyes that had brightened when he’d looked down at her, the sensation of his hands on her arms. His low voice in her ear. I’ve got you. Nothing to worry about.
Yes, she’d been helpless against the sudden onslaught of attraction and arousal. Having never experienced the power of such feelings before, she’d been without any proper defenses.
And given the self-doubt she’d been left with thanks to Enzo, in that moment she’d decided to see if this stranger could do something about her lack of sexual confidence. Half-thrilled and half-fearful, she’d cast caution aside.
“I…” she began, trying to find the words. “I could only think about getting close to him. Closer. So when he offered me coffee, I asked him to the hotel room I’d reserved.”
Her whole body went hot remembering it. She’d been burning up then, too, her nerves jumping and her heart pounding so hard she’d hardly been able to breathe.
“He took you up on it.”
“Right.” She decided against describing the ride in the taxi, the sumptuous kissing and the near-desperate groping. But she recalled her mouth on his throat, her tongue finding the line where his whiskers turned to smooth, hot skin. It was possible she’d bitten him there.
The Seduction (Billionaire's Beach Book 5) Page 6
