She offers the barest hesitation before she agrees. “Yes.”
“Good.” I wave my hand out the window. “Given the weather conditions, it’s impossible to move your things tonight, but see to it as soon as possible.”
“I will.”
A rustle tells me she’s standing up. “Thank you. I’ll be here in the morning bright and early.”
I scrunch my forehead. “I thought you understood. I need you to start tonight.”
“Tonight? But I don’t have—”
My brow curls up in objection. “I thought we just agreed.”
She makes a noise of some kind. Frustration, more than like. A hitched breath later, she says, “Fine. No problem.”
She’s learning. Good. When I give an order, I expect to be obeyed. Without questions. Without arguments. “My butler will assign you a room. He’s waiting outside for you. Dinner will be served promptly at seven. Don’t be late.”
“Very well.”
I nod toward the door. “You can leave now.”
Her retreating steps tell me she’s obeying my command. My imagination paints a picture of her firm ass as she makes her way toward the door. Not a guess on my part. My hand inadvertently brushed against it when she tripped and fell across my lap. Desire stirs. She’s roused a hunger, my new personal assistant. Inconvenient, but manageable. I don’t screw the help. Never have. Never will. Maybe it’s time to give the escort service a call and quench my passion in Minouette.
Chapter 3
______________
Caitlyn
I EMERGE FROM HIS OFFICE to find the butler waiting for me. He’s not as tall as Mr. MacKay, maybe about six feet, with a dash of gray at his temple and impeccably dressed in the livery of a servant. “Good afternoon, Ms. Bennett.”
How on earth does he know my name?
His eyes smile kindly on me. “You’re Mr. MacKay’s new assistant?”
“Yes, but how did you know?”
“Mr. MacKay rang me. A button on his desk buzzes in my office.”
That’s quite a trick, and one I didn’t catch.
“May I show you to your room?” he asks, waving his hand toward the curving staircase at the front of the house.
“Yes. Thank you.”
I follow him up the impressive stairs to the second floor and down a corridor. At the end of the hallway, he opens a gilded door. What I see takes my breath away. The room assigned to me is bigger than my whole apartment. Not only does it include a king-size bed, but a sitting area with a love seat, coffee tables, lamps.
“And here’s the bathroom.” He throws open a varnished portal on the far side of the room.
Holy crap! From its gilded mirrors to the gold-veined marbled floor, the place screams money. A Roman tub rests in the center of the space surrounded by three columns, while on the other side of the room I spot a glass-enclosed Romance shower. A rectangular gold gilt mirror hangs on the wall. And the commode? Oh, my gosh. With its high, gold-painted back, the fixture gives new meaning to sitting on the throne. “Wow.”
His mouth curls at one end before it returns to a noncommittal expression. I sense an ally in him. Good thing because my gut tells me I’m going to need one.
“Mr. MacKay provides robes to his guests. You will find one on the back of the door.”
Well, that will come in handy for sleeping, since I don’t have my pajamas with me.
“Thank you. I’m sorry. What is your name?”
“Moseley.”
“Thank you, Mr. Moseley.”
“Only Moseley, Miss Bennett. No need to add the mister.”
Allrighty now. “Thank you, Moseley.”
“I’ll leave you to it, shall I?”
“Okay.” My stomach grumbles. Darn it.
That kind smile resurfaces. “Dinner will be served in an hour, but maybe you’d like a small tray to tide you over until then?”
My face heats up. “No. I’ll wait. Thank you.” Last thing I want are special favors. I’m as much the help as he is.
After he leaves, I decide to fetch my emergency bag from my car, the one in which I keep an extra set of clothes. I manage to sneak out and return without anyone seeing me, and, in less than five minutes, I’m back in my room. After a quick bath, in the shower, not that decadent tub, I slip into the clothes from the bag.
A few minutes before seven, I report for dinner. The dining room is stunning. A glass-topped table twinkles with white and silver plates, elegant silver flatware, gorgeous crystal goblets. A crystal chandelier reigns over it all. Everything shines just like his office. The man loves sparkly things. So sad he can’t see them.
Mr. MacKay is already seated at the far side of the table, frowning at me. I’m beginning to think that expression is permanently edged into his features. Before I get a chance to sit down, he barks at me. “You’re wearing different clothes.”
Even though we’ve only been acquainted for a short time, I’ve learned barking out words is his modus operandus. And he enjoys watching me jump. So I’m not doing it, not this time. I take my time taking my seat and draping my napkin over my lap before I respond. “I had clean clothes in the back of my car.”
“You like to be prepared.” It’s not a question, but more of a statement.
Still, I feel a duty to respond. “Yes, I do.” I always carry a change of clothing in case my junker breaks down which it’s done more than once. Glad I had it tonight. That way I can switch outfits for a couple of days until I have a chance to fetch more things which I can’t d until the snow has been cleared from the roads. “How did you know I’d changed clothes?”
“The sound you made when you entered the room. It’s different. You’re not wearing that short skirt, but slacks of some kind.”
“Jeans.” Good lord. He has the ears of a bat.
“Someone in my staff can clean the clothes you wore this afternoon. You may arrange for that after dinner.”
“Okay. Thanks for the tip.” From the big, fat snowflakes falling outside the window, it looks like we’re in for a big storm. So I won’t be able to get back to my apartment and fetch more clothes any time soon. So it will be nice to have clean garments to wear until then.
“You’re wearing perfume. A musk of some kind.” His upper lip curls in distaste.
“Yes.” I’d picked it up at the drugstore around the corner from where I live. It smells good and had been on sale at the time.
“Don’t wear it anymore. I can’t abide strong scents.”
Sheesh. “Very well.”
The aroma of something delicious wafts in the air as the butler approaches with a tureen. When he ladles the soup into my bowl, my stomach growls. Again. I wish it’d cut it out. But honestly, what can I expect? I’ve eaten nothing since breakfast which consisted of a slice of dry toast. Embarrassed, I cover the noise with a slight cough.
Mr. MacKay snaps the napkin to his side before dropping it across his lap. “Do you have a passport?”
I pause with the soup spoon halfway to my mouth. “No. I’ve never had the need for one.”
“Well, you have a need now. I’ll have Anton call to get your details. We’ll put a rush on it. At month’s end you’ll be traveling overseas with me.” He dips the spoon into his soup, brings it to his mouth.
I’ve never studied men’s lips before. Too busy with school and work to pay much attention to guys. But I can’t help but stare at his. They’re perfectly shaped, like they’ve been carved from stone. When he curls them around the curve of the spoon and drinks from its bowl, I let out a trembling breath.
His gaze snaps up.
Oh, gosh. He heard me. Embarrassed to be caught drooling over him, I say the first thing that pops into my mind. “Umm, is there a job manual somewhere?” A fair question. He hadn’t been exactly expansive about the job requirements, and I’d like to excel at this job. Not only does my pride require it, but if I don’t do just that, my keister might be out on the street in record time. Mr. MacKay does not appear t
he type to suffer fools gladly.
“No. There isn’t. I want you to learn as you go along.”
I’m a fast learner and love a challenge, but it would be nice to have something or someone to ask questions about the job. “Was there a previous personal assistant?”
His spoon clatters to the edge of the plate, as his lip curls in derision. “Yes. She didn’t last long, just like the other three before her.”
My breath hitches. The thought of losing this job before I even start terrifies me. I need the money to pay my mother’s expensive medical bills. A year ago, after being diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer, she underwent an aggressive regime of chemo treatments and radiation therapy. The costs were staggering. Her insurance paid most but not all. Wanting the best for her, I signed a note, promising to pay the difference. Unfortunately, by the time they discovered the cancer she’d been too far gone. So the treatments only helped to prolong her misery. Toward the end, she couldn’t take it anymore and asked me to let her go. I honored her wishes and she passed away a few months ago. A wave of sadness sweeps over me and a stray tear rolls down my cheek. I use my napkin to mop up the moisture hoping neither he nor the butler noticed my loss of composure.
Illogical though it might be, a wave of resentment rises within me. He doesn’t know about my mother, so I can’t blame him for his lack of empathy, but you’d think he’d understand my need to do a good job. But he doesn’t. He’s eating his soup like he could care less. Maybe it’s just business as usual for him, but I need to know why his last PA left. “So what happened? Did she quit or . . .”
He snorts. “She left a month ago. Went home to marry her college sweetheart.” He rests his spoon again as if a thought just occurred to him. “You don’t have one, do you?”
I take offense at the personal question. What business is it of him if I have a boyfriend? But then logic comes to the rescue. Of course he needs to know. He’ll want to make sure I don’t up and quit on him like my predecessor did. “No. Between work and school, I was too busy for a social life.” And what little free time I had I spent at the nursing home watching my mother die. But I’m not revealing that part of my past. The pain’s too fresh, too intense to share.
“Where did you work?”
“I waited tables. Lousy pay, good tips.” I hadn’t listed my waitressing job on my resume. My college career adviser recommended against it since she didn’t think it would help me land a professional job.
“How long did you work there?”
“A year.” Against my mother’s wishes who preferred I focus on my studies, I’d gotten a job to help pay her hospital bills. When the cancer advanced to the point she needed more extensive care, she entered a hospice. That had been six months ago. Unable to swing both the rent and her more expensive treatments, I’d terminated the lease on the house we’d lived in since I was little, put our things in storage and found an apartment sharing situation. My part-time wages barely made rent and utilities, so I picked up extra shifts at the restaurant every chance I got. This job’s an answer to a prayer so I’ll do whatever it takes to make it work. Even if Sterling MacKay is difficult as all get out.
“Are you familiar with my business?”
Fine time for him to ask. After he’s hired me. “Yes. I researched MacKay Industries before the interview.”
He puts down the spoon again. At this rate, he’ll never finish the shrimp and corn chowder which is to die for. I’ve already polished off my bowl. Although I’m tempted to ask for seconds, I don’t. If the soup’s this delicious, God only knows what the main entree will taste like.
“So tell me about my company.”
“It’s a biotechnology firm. You develop technologies and products that help improve our lives and the health of our planet.”
He laughs. “Did you get that from the company’s website?”
I blush. “Yes. But I did further research on the internet.”
“Do you approve of my business, Ms. Bennett?”
Odd question that. “Yes. I do. You create useful food products, such as bread and cheese, combat rare diseases, figure out a way to use less and cleaner energy, and devise more efficient industrial manufacturing processes. What’s there not to approve?”
“Some people think it’s unnatural.”
“To use the assets in our planet to improve people’s lives? I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I. And yet, they’re out there.”
The butler removes my empty soup bowl, and Sterling MacKay’s which is half full. A shame. He needs to eat more. He’s too thin for his height.
“Is that a problem for you?” I ask.
He temples his hands over the table while waiting for the next course to be served and stares into nothing. “I don’t allow it to be a problem.”
Makes sense. He hasn’t gotten to where he is if he’d allow misguided opinions to interfere with his chosen course.
“What about me? Did you research me?”
His question thumps me back to earth. If I say no, he’ll know I’m lying. If I say yes, he’ll realize I was nosy enough to learn everything about him. Better go with the truth. “You graduated from Princeton, earned a master’s degree from the Wharton School of Business.”
“What about my personal life?”
Uh oh. That information I learned from gossip magazines. But in for a penny, in for a pound. “You enjoy adventure sports—skiing, deep sea diving, racing. That’s how you . . . got hurt. You crashed during an amateur car race.”
“I didn’t crash. Some idiot drove me into a retaining wall. I don’t race any more. Obviously.” His mouth twists.
It’s only then I notice the small scar at the right corner of his mouth. Did the racing car accident cause that or was it there before? Other scars dot his brow and the corner of his right eye, but they’re barely noticeable. Either the accident did not split open his face or he had one hell of a plastic surgeon. Probably a little of both if I had to guess.
“What else do you know about me?”
“You’re engaged to Meredith Duncan.” A socialite, heir to the Duncan fortune. They’d been together for a couple of years and then just before the accident, he’d proposed. The gossip rags reported the engagement ring, with its gigantic diamond, is worth over a hundred thousand dollars.
“Was engaged. We broke it off after the accident.”
Oh, geesh. Now I’ve put my foot in it. I hadn’t read anything in the magazines about that. Are they keeping the break up hush hush? To keep from thinking about the humongous gaffe I made, I butter my roll, tear off a piece and pop it into my mouth. The delicious bread practically melts in my mouth, and I moan.
“You haven’t drunk your wine.” His voice’s gone gravelly.
Curious how he determined that, I ask, “How do you know?”
“I didn’t hear you drink.”
Good lord. Not only do I have to watch what I say and do, but what I don’t. “Red wine gives me a headache.”
“What do you drink then?”
During Christmas, my roommate brought home a wine I’d liked, but other than its color, I didn’t notice what kind. “White?”
He waves a hand at his butler. “Moseley, bring up a bottle of the Domaine Leflaive Les Folatieres Cru.” He rattles off the name in flawless French.
“Yes, Mr. MacKay.” Moseley sketches a small bow before he exits through a door in the back of the dining room.
Folding his hands over his plate, he smiles. Clearly, I amuse him. Is that why he hired me? Because I make him laugh. I fiddle with my glass goblet, not sure if I should be offended or let it go.
When he brushes his hand against his brow and his lips twist in pain, I chastise myself for being so small minded. My behavior gives him a bit of joy. Who am I to take that small comfort from him?
We discuss the weather while we wait for Moseley. After a couple of minutes, he returns with the wine. “We’ll need to let it breathe a bit, Sir. Should I wait on the main course?”
“No. Serve it now.” He waves a hand in my direction. “I believe Ms. Bennett is hungry.”
I blush. So he’d noticed my inhaling the soup. Couldn’t help it. The shrimp and corn chowder was delicious.
“Very well, Mr. MacKay.” The butler disappears through the door which probably leads to the kitchen. He returns with a serving tray which holds two plates. One whiff of the beef bourguignon and the roasted potatoes almost brings me to tears.
When he serves me, I say, “Thank you, Moseley. It smells delicious.”
“You’re welcome, Miss Bennett.”
“You may serve the wine now.” Sterling MacKay clips out.
Did it bother him? That small exchange between his butler and me? I don’t see why. I can’t very well ignore the man, can I?
After Moseley fills our glasses with the wine, Sterling MacKay sniffs the spirit, takes a small sip and swirls it in his mouth.
Wanting to not appear a complete yokel, I follow suit. Oh, my Lord. The cool wine tastes of honey and some spice. It’s the best thing I’ve ever drunk. “Ummmmm.”
Both men stare at me like I’m some exotic animal.
“Sorry,” I say returning the wine goblet to the table.
“Don’t apologize, Miss Bennett. I’m glad you appreciate the wine.” Once more, he tucks his napkin over his lap like it’s in danger of slipping off.
The rest of the dinner consists of him asking me questions about my college life, my studies. I answer them as truthfully as I can while I gobble down the food. Dessert is chocolate cake. I almost faint with pleasure on my first bite.
Once our dessert plates and coffee service are removed, he asks me to leave. He probably doesn’t want me to see him stand. I gladly comply. For the food alone, I would put up with any amount of odd behavior on his part.
Up Close and Personal Page 2
