Not that she’d have anything to do with it. They hadn’t wanted her as a child; she sure as hell didn’t want them as an adult.
“Hello? Rupert? Jeeves?” What was his name? She stepped farther into the silent entranceway.
“No Rupert or Jeeves here.”
She jumped as a guy walked out of the doorway on the left. Tall, dark, and yummy, with the body of an Olympic athlete and the face of one of their gods, he had wavy black hair that swept the top of his collar and set off a pair of eyes so blue they might have been fake—except there was nothing fake about this guy. From the set of shoulders that appeared to have been created solely for the purpose of wrapping strong arms around a woman, to washboard abs that had her mouth watering, to legs with muscles that strained the seams of his pants, this guy was all man.
“What can I do for you?”
There was probably a lot he could do for her. And to her, and with her . . .
“Who are you?” She tugged the front of her blouse closed over her camisole, but it was kind of hard to do one-handed.
“Who are you?” he shot back, hefting a . . . vacuum? in his hands.
“I asked you first.” What was he doing with a vacuum?
“You . . . what?”
“Uh, I mean . . .” She tossed her curls and raised her chin, trying to make herself appear taller. Not that she was ashamed of her height—or lack thereof—but it helped when she was feeling out of her element. And she definitely was, because being in this place, with a hot guy holding a vacuum cleaner, was so foreign she wouldn’t be surprised if she had fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole. “I, um, asked you a question.”
“And?” He set the canister down, then leaned on the wand attachment.
“And I’d like an answer.”
“And I’d like to be hanging out on a tropical beach, but we don’t always get what we want now, do we?”
“You know, you’re pretty cheeky for the pool boy.”
“In case it’s escaped your notice, this,” he rattled the wand, “is not a skimming net. It’s a vacuum cleaner.”
“So that makes you, what? The maid?”
He glanced away. Score one for her.
“Look, who are you and what do you want? I don’t have time to stand here all day.” His jaw was doing some furious ticking.
“Why? Got some shelves to dust?”
Red crept up his neck from where his mint green polo shirt opened in a V, revealing some nice curly black chest hair just to the left of the insignia . . .
Manley Maids.
Oh, man. He was the maid. This was just perfect!
“Look, miss. Is there something you need?”
Uh . . . yeah. She bit her lip trying to swallow a smile. Her grandmother obviously had had one hell of a sense of humor. Maybe it wasn’t such a good thing she’d never gotten to know the old battle-axe. “Okay. Sorry. It’s just that I’m Livvy Carolla and I was looking for the guy who runs this mausoleum.”
“You’re Livvy Carolla? Olivia Carolla?”
She hated that name. Olive, Oliver Twist, Olivia Fig Newton-John . . . The nicknames hadn’t been fun. Boarding school “chums” were simply better-dressed playground bullies.
“I prefer Livvy. And, yes, that’s me. Why?”
Pool Boy—Maid Man—groaned.
“Hey, really, it’s not cause for a meltdown. The name’s Livvy and I need to see Jeeves. Rupert. Whatever.”
“It figures,” muttered Pool Boy, er, Maid Man.
She wished he was the pool boy—much better uniform. “I’d like to get settled, so if you could point me in his direction, I’d much appreciate it.”
She set Orwell’s cage on the floor to readjust the strap of her duffel. A few feathers and seed husks puffed out from beneath the cover to scatter on the floor.
“Hey, I just cleaned that,” Pool Boy said.
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not.” An eyebrow went north. “And it was a pain to do, so if you wouldn’t mind cleaning that up, I’d appreciate that.”
He looked so indignant. “Okay, Mr. Belvedere, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll clean up the mess if you tell Rupert I’m here.”
“Sorry, lady, right now it’s just me, and, well, me.”
“You.”
“Me.”
She raised her eyebrows. She’d been working on raising just one, but so far that trick had eluded her. “So, you’re running the place then?”
“Princess, running this place is nothing compared to what I do in real life.”
“Oh? So this is some fantasy you’re acting out? Not quite the maid’s outfit that typically goes along with that sort of thing, but whatever floats your boat. Just don’t call me Princess.”
“Sorry.” Pool Boy scratched his chin. “Okay, so here’s the deal. The will pensioned off every single employee. Right down to the ten-year-old newspaper delivery boy. No one’s here but me. And now you. And as I understand it, you’re now in possession of this, what’d you call it? Mausoleum?”
She nodded, her amusement tempered. Everyone was gone? Was this some challenge the old battle-axe was issuing from the grave? Something to make Livvy prove she was worthy of the Martinson name?
Or to prove she wasn’t?
Well, she wasn’t about to jump to that woman’s tune, especially not in death. In fact, Livvy was glad everyone was gone. That way she wouldn’t have to fire them when she sold the place, which she would do as soon as she found out what stupid stipulations her grandmother had come up with to force her to live here for two weeks.
Okay, so maybe she was still jumping a little bit to the woman’s tune. But not for much longer. Soon she’d be home free with millions to do with as she wanted. And she wanted to do so much good with them. Unlike her illustrious so-called family.
“So.” Livvy hiked the duffel onto her shoulder and knelt to scoop the feathers into her hand. “This changes things. I was hoping the butler could show me the ropes, but I guess that’s not happening.” She repositioned the duffel as she stood.
“The only ropes I’ve seen are tying back some curtains in the living room, though I think there’s a real bellpull in the chapel tower,” said Hot Guy With A Vacuum.
“Yeah. It rings obnoxiously early, too.” Oh how she remembered waking to it one Sunday morning. She still couldn’t believe there was an actual chapel on the other side of the property. That seemed more than a little overboard even for her family.
Pool Boy smiled. “Actually, it’s been quiet since I got here. No one to ring it.”
She shared the smile. “A plus to the situation. Very good. Well, in that case, why don’t I get my stuff upstairs”—she hefted the duffel and cage—“then I’ll come back down and we can chat.”
“Sure. Fine. I’ll be in the . . .” He flicked his hand toward the far corner. “Whatever that room is, finishing up.”
“Okay. See you then.”
“Fine.” He turned around.
“Uh, hey?”
“Yeah?” He looked back over his shoulder. Man, the way those pants hugged his butt . . .
“Your name? I didn’t catch it.”
“That’s ’cause I didn’t toss it.”
“Funny. So what is it?”
“Um . . . Sean.”
“Well, Um Sean, I’ll see you in a bit.”
SEAN felt her eyes on him all the way through the door.
Her gorgeous amber eyes. On a five-foot-nothing body of screaming sex appeal with more curves than a racetrack, lips ripe for kissing, a face that’d put Helen of Troy to shame, and all the attitude to back it up.
How was he supposed to kick her out of this place when his first instinct was to drag her over to the closest piece of furniture, rip those gypsy clothes off that delectable body, and devour her for hours on end? Grab
those auburn curls that tumbled down her back like an invitation and wrap them around his fist, arching her neck so he could—
Sonofabitch. The private eye he’d hired to investigate the will’s stipulations hadn’t mentioned that the granddaughter was a babe.
He also hadn’t mentioned that she’d be moving in, or that they’d be the sole inhabitants of Casa Martinson. He’d thought living in was a good idea when Mac had gone over the job’s specs, but now . . .
Sean set the vacuum down and headed to the curio cabinet. With the way he reacted to her, he’d better find out what those stipulations were and soon. Failure was not an option. This property was going to make his name in the resort industry and validate everything he’d been working for. He was banking on it, to the tune of millions of dollars in revenue.
His Heritage Corporation bought historic buildings, most in disrepair, and brought them back to their former standard and beauty as bed & breakfasts. So far, it’d been a win-win situation. Localities loved saving their old buildings, and he loved the bottom line.
But his dream had always been to be bigger. He wanted luxury resorts. He wanted to be the destination in this part of the state, with an eye toward growing into other areas. To be as successful in his career as his siblings were in theirs.
The Martinson property was his chance to start expanding the company. The next tier of his dream. And as long as there was a chance to make it happen, he wasn’t about to call it quits.
So when Merriweather had thrown the wrench in, jeopardizing his name, his bank account, and his brothers’ money, his back was to the wall. He had to buy this place at the below-market-value price she’d promised or he’d lose everything. He really didn’t need her change of heart or his sense of misplaced lust screwing this up.
Screwing was a bad word choice.
Sean replaced the porcelain statues in the glass-fronted case, careful not to ding them against each other. There were some prize pieces here. What in God’s name had possessed the woman to leave this place to a granddaughter she’d never acknowledged? According to the detective, Mrs. Martinson hadn’t sent even a birthday card to her only living descendant. No contact even when her son, Olivia’s father, had died. Talk about cold. He hadn’t had a doubt that his plan would pan out as she’d promised.
Yet there was obviously no figuring what was in someone’s mind at the end of her life. And the old woman was thorough, dammit. His lawyer had tried to find some way to break the bequest, but no dice. It was airtight. Olivia Bombshell Carolla held all the cards.
The poker reference was ironically appropriate.
He’d thought Mac’s win was a homerun when he’d seen the Martinson name on her client list. He’d jumped at it; if Lady Luck had given him the means to secure the place for himself, he wasn’t one to question her.
Until now.
Because with millions at stake, a babe for a boss, and just under three weeks to kick her out of her home, instead of being lord of the manor, he was the freaking maid.
Chapter Two
WINDING through the indoor maze of corridors that made up the second floor, Livvy paused to glance out one of the arched windows. Yep, the outdoor maze was still there. She’d gotten lost in the hedgerow monstrosity during that one visit all those years ago. The thing still creeped her out, just like the rest of this place. She couldn’t believe she was descended from these people. If not for Mom’s fling with the local rich boy on summer break, she wouldn’t be.
That maze had to go. Along with the free-range peacocks. Peacocks were notoriously nasty and she did have her babies to consider.
But Pool Boy? She’d keep him around awhile. There was definitely something to be said for eye candy.
She placed her bag and Orwell’s cage in the first room she found after climbing the curved staircase, the Blue Room, or some other bland misnomer, she was sure. Pale-blue-to-the-point-of-being-white curtains against cream walls, cranberry carpet and gilded French provincial furniture so ornate it was a testament to Pool Boy’s cleaning expertise that dust bunnies hadn’t set up colonies in the curlicues.
She removed the cover from the cage, bracing herself for the parrot’s rendition of “Just a Gigolo,” his favorite wake-up song. She gave him some water and herself a quick once-over in the Roman bath of a bathroom to remove travel ick from her face, buttoned her blouse, then headed out to take a look at The Inheritance.
At the top of the stairs, she took one step down and stopped. She looked at the banister, glanced around, and smiled. No one would know and, for all intents and purposes, this was her house, right?
Right.
In the dimming rays of daylight streaming into the foyer through a massive oval window, Livvy hiked her skirt between her thighs and slung one leg over the banister. She unbuttoned her blouse so she could get a good grip on the banister, looked behind her, then shoved off.
The rush tickled her tummy like her hair did her cheeks as she sailed down backwards. She’d wanted to do this every day of the ten she’d stayed here during that long-ago visit, but with a butler whose face could’ve outwrinkled a raisin and a housekeeper whose disposition made a lemon seem sweet, there’d been only one opportunity. And Dragonlady had caught her.
Livvy reached the bottom without incident, banister surfing being one good skill she’d learned in boarding school. Dragonlady. Funny, she’d forgotten that nickname for the woman.
At the bottom, she landed on one foot and started to swing the other over the banister, but her skirt tangled in her combat boot. She grabbed hold of the closest spindle, twisting it as she tried to prevent herself from falling, while simultaneously attempting to unlatch the fabric from the rivet before one or both ripped.
Apparently her banister surfing skills were a bit rusty. Thankfully, though, no one was around to witness them.
The door to the whatever room opened and out stepped Um Sean.
Figured.
“You didn’t really slide down, did you?” His laughter did not detract from his hot-guy saunter across the marble floor.
“Sure I did. What kind of kid wouldn’t want to do that? I finally got the chance.”
He bent down to unhook the hem of her skirt while she did a mad scramble to make sure all pertinent parts were covered.
Sapphire eyes met hers through the spindles, his glance resting briefly on the turned one. “What would Grandmama say?” He stood up with a tsk-tsk and set the baluster to rights.
“Well, what Grandmama doesn’t know won’t hurt her, now will it?” Shrugging, Livvy yanked the strap of her camisole back into place and crossed the edges of her blouse over her stomach.
“So, Um Sean.” She tried a dignified march down the last step to the black-veined white marble floor, wishing she was wearing something more glamorous than combat boots. “What exactly are your duties around here? Have you been running this place for Merriweather for long?”
Sean slid his hands into the side pockets of the cotton work pants. “Long? No. Running the place, well, that’d depend on your definition of running it.” He swept his hand toward the far corridor. “You want something to eat? I was just going to get lunch.”
“Works for me. Lead on, MacDuff.” She swept out her hand for him to precede her.
“Princess, it’s Irish, not Scots.”
Black-haired, blue-eyed, sexy, skin-shivering Irish.
They passed an old suit of armor her grandmother’s former housekeeper, Mrs. Tidwell, had told her was haunted. Someone had probably rigged the thing to move its arm with fishing line or something to scare the old sourpuss. Livvy remembered being terrified of the housekeeper as a child. Merriweather certainly had had a lot of old cronies around her back then. Old cronies and no children.
That one visit had been enough. Funny that she was now the sole beneficiary. She hadn’t expected it, though she’d be the first to admit Merriweather ow
ed it to her.
Oh, sure, the self-appointed matriarch had picked up the boarding school bills, but Livvy wasn’t talking about what, to her grandmother, had been a mere pittance. No, the woman owed her for Mom’s untimely, sauce-induced demise, brought on by the free time the kiss-off money had afforded her after Merriweather’s attorneys had swooped in to take custody of Livvy.
Livvy shoved that nightmare back into the farthest closet of her mind. The worst part had been that she’d known what was going on—even at the tender age of five when they’d packed her off. If only Merriweather had given her a semblance of love. Hell, pity would’ve been something, but the silent indifference had gnawed at her all those years. Why wasn’t she good enough to be called a Martinson? What sin had she committed? Why take the anger at her parents out on her, an innocent victim from all parties involved?
There’d been no answers, and after a while Livvy had stopped asking the questions. Stopped writing letters. Stopped hoping to belong. Instead, she’d found the determination in her soul to make a different life for herself. And once all the Is were dotted and Ts crossed, she’d have the money to invest in proper facilities and equipment to make her organic bakery products and to give herself the life she’d always wanted, Martinsons be damned.
The archway into the banquet hall, aka the dining room, took longer to traverse than the entire farmhouse where she lived.
“Memories?” A deep voice behind her yanked her from her thoughts.
The toe of one of her boots caught the heel of the other. Memories. “I guess you could call them that.”
The arched door leading to the kitchen was ajar. Tsk-tsk, indeed. Jeeves/Rupert had never allowed the door to be unlatched. Why, the kitchen was where the help did all the nasty work. He’d always made sure to secure that door whenever she’d skipped in for a treat.
Or maybe he’d been under orders to keep her contained. Who knew, but with the family’s wish to keep the heir’s little indiscretion from becoming tabloid fodder, it certainly was feasible.
What a Woman Wants (A Manley Maids Novel) Page 2
