by Lynda Chance
Chapter Four
Two hours later, Natalie had showered and fixed her make-up and hair. She’d slipped into her favorite pair of jeans and a loose t-shirt. She was absentmindedly running a dust cloth over the furniture, her mind on the very probable tracking device in her phone and wandering what else he might have been capable of. Had he screwed with the computer he’d lent her? Were there nanny cams around the apartment?
Just as she was looking around, trying to do it inconspicuously, in case she was being watched, the intercom buzzer rang.
She pressed the button. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry to intrude on your day Miss Lambert, but Miss Wallace has something she’d like to bring up. May I send her up?” the concierge asked.
Natalie had no clue who Miss Wallace was, but whoever she was, she didn’t sound threatening. “Sure. And thank you.”
“You’re very welcome, Miss.”
Twenty seconds later, the elevator doors opened and a tall, blonde female dressed to the nines strolled in as if she owned the place. She glanced once at Natalie, and then dropped a box on the entry table before turning her penetrating stare on her completely. “That’s for Marco. Who the hell are you?”
“Natalie Lambert—Marco’s housekeeper.”
“Bullshit.” High-pitched venom laced the word.
“I’m sorry?”
“Marco hasn’t had a housekeeper since I’ve known him. He guards his privacy at all times and uses a cleaning service once a week, but that’s it.”
Natalie had no idea who this woman was, but she was getting the feeling that she was ‘the one who took care of that aspect of his life for him’. She steeled her nerves to answer. “I’ve worked for him for two weeks now.”
“And you call him Marco? That seems terribly disrespectful.”
Who the hell did this woman think she was? Natalie shrugged her shoulders at the question. “It’s the way he wants it,” she replied in an even tone.
“Are you here more than once a week?”
“Yep.”
“How often?”
“I’m a live-in.” As she said the words, Natalie knew the woman wouldn’t like her answer.
And she was right. Arrows of pure evil radiated from the woman’s eyes. “Are you fucking him?”
Natalie took a step back from the fury blasting out at her. “No. I just clean for him. And do the laundry.”
That answer seemed to calm the other woman down but only marginally. “Why would he need a housekeeper all of a sudden?” She asked the question almost of herself.
Natalie felt bad about the white lie she was about to tell even though she didn’t owe this woman anything. She and Marco had never discussed if they would or wouldn’t tell anyone about their ‘deal.’ She didn’t particularly want anyone to know she was his unpaid servant. “I don’t really know. I just know he hired me, and I clean for him. He’s rarely home.”
The other woman preened like a cat that had gotten the cream. “Yes, I know. He’s either at that stupid bank of his, or he’s in my bed, getting his brains screwed out.” Her face became shadowed and she frowned at Natalie as if something had just occurred to her. “How long did you say you’ve been working for him?”
“Two weeks.”
The frown intensified. “Just so you know, he’s mine. We’ve been dating for two years, and we’re getting married soon.”
Natalie felt a small stab of something she couldn’t identify. “Congratulations.”
“Yes, well, don’t congratulate me yet. I haven’t gotten him to commit completely. But he will.”
“That’s great.” Yes, just peachy.
“Call me Tanya. And I’ll call you Natalie?”
Natalie smiled and tried not to make it brittle. “Yes, of course.”
“Good. We’ll be seeing each other a lot because I’m here all the time. We’ll get along fine, just as long as you don’t try to take him. Not that you could. You’re not at all his type. Marco likes tall, beautiful women. And you aren’t that, are you?”
“Nope, no one could ever call me tall. Or beautiful, for that matter.” As soon as the words shot from her mouth, Natalie remembered what Marco had said earlier in the day—and the way he said it. A small shred of guilt crawled up her throat, even though she hadn’t done anything wrong. She didn’t know if he really believed what he’d said, or if he was trying to make some kind of point, but he’d certainly sounded as if he believed it. But the fact was, Natalie had never thought of herself as beautiful. Her mother was beautiful; she wasn’t.
“Well, you’re not so bad, you know. Okay, see you later. You’ll give him the box, right?”
“Yes, of course. It was nice to meet you.” Not.
“You too.”
****
Natalie was in the kitchen when she heard Marco come home that night. So far, this had been the most eventful day since the day they had wrecked. First, getting lost and the GPS incident, and then meeting Tanya Wallace.
Marco had been displeased when he’d left earlier in the day, displeased and scary, and now her nerves were a bit stretched as she waited to see if he would fall into his usual routine. He hadn’t requested a meal, and so she had prepared herself a salad earlier and was now straightening up before she slipped to her bedroom.
She heard his footsteps on the porcelain tile of the entry, and then the more subdued tread as he crossed the carpet. Within seconds she knew he stood in the doorway to the kitchen, even though her back was to him. She was aware of her heart beating loudly in her ears, and she closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath before turning to face him.
Gripping the counter behind her, she saw him studying her in silence. She knew she needed to speak, before the tension became even thicker. “Hi.”
He looked her over, top to bottom, and took his time before asking, “Are you okay?”
“Yes, why?”
“I don’t know. All alone—lost in Houston,” he said, referring to the incident earlier in the day.
He made it sound as if she were a ten-year-old, but she smiled weakly and stuck to the script screaming through her brain—not the one banging through her bloodstream demanding to know why he was keeping such close tabs on her. “It was broad daylight and I’m not a child.”
All softness left his expression and his eyes dropped to her chest. Flecks of red highlighted his cheekbones and his nostrils flared. An obdurate glimmer heated the eyes that lifted to hers.
If Natalie hadn’t been hanging on to the countertop, the flash of lust on his face would have probably brought her to her knees. It was by no means the first time she’d caught a sexual look on his face, but it was the first time it had been so completely unguarded, so intense it made her heart skip a beat before taking up a cadence in her chest that made breathing in a normal rhythm an impossible feat.
She licked her dry lips and attempted to take the edge off the situation. “Tanya came by today. She left a box for you.”
His eyes narrowed. “Tanya came here?” his voice was deep and hard, displeasure lacing his tone.
“Yes, she—”
Ropes of tension made deep lines around his mouth as he cut her off. “Did she say anything to upset you?”
She told me y’all were getting married. “We talked a bit—introduced ourselves. She left a box for you,” Natalie reiterated.
“You’re sure? She didn’t upset you?”
She asked me if I was fucking you. “No, of course not. She had a hard time believing you had a housekeeper now. I didn’t tell her anything about—about the wreck. I just told her that you’d hired me and that I’d been here for two weeks. I hope that was okay.”
“That’s fine.”
Natalie turned her mouth up and hoped it resembled a smile as she pushed away from the counter and attempted to slip past him and put this uncomfortable encounter behind her. “Goodnight, then.”
She thought she was home free as she walked by him. And then she felt her wrist lifted fro
m behind and encapsulated in the hard heat of his grip.
“Natalie.” His eyes were hot on hers, glittering down with both a beguiling question and scorching need that almost decimated her, making her bones melt where she stood.
His thumb caressed her pulse point as he slowly and firmly began to pull her toward him. His eyes fell to her lips and her brain began screaming at him in silent denial. Don’t do it! Don’t touch me. Don’t be that guy. Don’t touch me when you have a girlfriend. You have a girlfriend—a girlfriend—
Her eyes closed tightly against him and her body stiffened into lines of stubborn refusal. She felt his grip lessen, but not release her altogether. She opened her eyes to find him staring down at her, lines of tension bracketing his mouth.
She twisted her wrist, attempting to pull it from his grasp. “Goodnight, Marco.”
She managed to live through three of the longest seconds in her life until finally, he released her from his grip. “Goodnight.”
She turned and fled to the sanctuary of her bedroom.
****
Marco sat in his office the next day fighting a vicious headache. He tried to concentrate on the file that Joy had just given him, but it was next to impossible.
“What’s wrong with you?” his long-time assistant asked, a puzzled look on her face.
“Nothing—a headache.” He abandoned the file momentarily and leaned his face into his hands.
“It doesn’t look like nothing. You look pale. Are you sick?”
“Sick?” He sounded perplexed, as if the concept of being sick wasn’t something he’d even remotely considered. Other people got sick; he didn’t.
“Yes, Marco, sick.” Joy, an older woman and a grandmother to boot, moved around the desk and slapped a hand to his forehead, and he felt—not himself enough to let her do it. “You’re burning up. I bet your temperature is over a hundred. You need to go home.”
“I’m not going home. That’s insane,” he answered, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes.
“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, you don’t have anymore appointments today. Take the McMasters file with you if it will make you feel better and go home. Pop some meds and crawl in bed and get some rest.”
“No, absolutely not.”
“Marco, don’t be so stubborn. Go home. Have that new housekeeper of yours make you some soup and tuck you in.”
He lifted his hands away from his face and gave her a penetrating stare. “You really think I need to go home?”
“Yes. You don’t want all of us catching it, do you?”
“All right, I’ll go,” he acquiesced quickly, not at all like his usual self.
****
Natalie walked into the penthouse after a particularly grueling workout. She was sweaty from head to foot, and needed a shower desperately.
“Where’ve you been?”
The last thing she expected was for Marco to be home already, and she flinched from the accusation in his tone as her eyes went unerringly to the couch where he was sitting, facing the door, waiting for her to get home.
“Down in the gym,” she answered as mildly as she could.
“I needed you. You should have been here. I called your damn phone and heard it ringing over there.” He threw out his arm and motioned in the direction of the kitchen where it was charging.
She looked in the direction of the phone and then back again. She’d only been down there for forty-five minutes and truly hadn’t considered taking the phone. “You said it was okay for me to go down there.” She lifted her ponytail away from her neck, the sweat trickling down her spine. “Why are you home so early?”
“I’m sick,” he said in a tone that suggested it was all her fault.
“What’s wrong?” Natalie asked him, walking farther into the room.
“I have a headache and fever. Joy said you should make me soup.”
“How high is your fever?” she asked.
“I don’t know. How can you tell?” Again, his tone implied everything that was wrong was her fault.
“With a thermometer. Or otherwise, how bad you feel.” She would not get drawn into a fight by his bad attitude.
“I feel bad. It must be high,” he stated like a petulant child.
“Maybe you should go see a doctor.”
“Why would I do that? Won’t soup fix it?”
“Marco—never mind. I can’t just whip up soup instantaneously. Unless you want it out of a can?”
“What other kind is there?”
Natalie studied him to see if he was bullshitting her, but he didn’t seem to be. “Okay. I’ll fix you some soup. Do you want crackers or grilled cheese sandwiches?”
“You know how to make grilled cheese sandwiches?”
“I think I can probably manage some.”
“That sounds okay. Should I get in bed now?”
“If you’d like. There are trays under the cabinet. I can bring you one in bed if that’s what you’re used to.”
“I’m not used to anything. I’m never sick.”
He didn’t look or sound sick to her now, either, but she refrained from saying as much. “Okay. Can it wait fifteen minutes while I have a shower? I’m pretty disgusting.”
“Come over here and see how hot I am. Joy put her hand on my forehead; see what you think.”
Natalie bit the inside of her cheek and took a hesitant step toward him. He looked good enough to eat, even though his attitude sucked, and it was taking everything she had to remember he had a girlfriend. He might not refer to Tanya as such, but that’s the way Natalie saw it. She came to a halt in front of the couch where he lounged back. Bending at the waist, she reached out and put her hand softly to his forehead.
His arm snaked out and landed on her back, down low, his hand spread wide and his fingers splayed over the top swells of her buttocks. Her hand trembled over his forehead. “You feel okay to me. Maybe just a tad warm.” She really didn’t have much of a clue; she wasn’t a mother and she had no siblings, younger or otherwise. She didn’t think he had a fever at all—certainly nothing like the wave of heat his touch was instigating in her now.
She dropped her hand and tried to move away from him. His grip clenched tight over her flesh, holding her in place. “You smell so good, Natalie.”
A hot trickle of awareness began to spread like molten lava through her insides. Her tongue shot out and licked over her dry lips. “You must have a fever.” Her words were caustic. “You’re delirious. I’m disgusting, Marco. I’m covered in sweat.”
“You could never be disgusting—you’re beautiful.” Oh God, there was that word again. His hand slid up and down her spine, coming closer and closer with each swipe to the hollow between her cheeks.
She pulled away from him and put the distance of the room between them. “Why don’t you get in bed now? I’ll be there in twenty minutes with your soup.”
She turned away and headed to her room, not waiting to see if he did as she requested.
****
Thirty minutes later, Natalie took a deep breath and knocked on Marco’s opened door, balancing the tray in one hand.
“You’re late.” He sat up in the bed, pillows propped behind him, and Natalie had the vague thought he looked like a sultan ready to be served by his concubine. Shit. That made her the concubine.
She walked in and put the tray over his lap, saying the first thing that came to mind in an effort to sidetrack her brain from the picture he made sitting in the bed without a shirt on. “Remember, don’t judge the soup. I didn’t make it, I only opened the can.”
“It smells fantastic. I had no idea I was so hungry,” he said as he picked up the spoon.
She backed away toward the door as quickly as she could manage. She so needed to get away from him. The way he looked in that bed—“Okay, then. I’ll check on you after while.”
She was almost to the door when he stopped her. “Natalie?”
“Yes?” Was he actually going to tha
nk her for the soup? She turned back around to face him, a mildly expectant look on her face.
“Can you hand me the remote?”
****
Twenty minutes later, Marco rang her cell phone. She was just leaving her bedroom after finishing up the job of blow-drying her hair after her shower. Instead of answering it, she walked in his room. “What do you need?”
“Take the tray.”
She gritted her teeth as his abrupt tone, but walked over and picked the tray up from his lap. “Anything else?”
“No, just the tray.” He sat flipping through television channels and didn’t once glance her way.
She turned toward the kitchen.
Five minutes later her cell phone rang again, and again she didn’t answer it—she just walked to his room. “Yes?” This was getting old. Very quickly.
“I need more pillows.” The television was off, the remote sitting on the bedside table.
She gave him a fulminating look and turned away again, and walked to the hall closet.
A minute later, she was helping him with the extra pillows, pushing them behind his naked back. His shoulders were wide, and the hair on his chest was perfect—not too much but enough that running her hands down his pectorals would be amazing. Oh my God. And that wicked bunny trail that led south below the sheet. She needed to get away, and quickly. “Will that be all, sir?” she asked sarcastically.
He frowned at her. “Go then, if you’re in such a damn hurry.”
“I’m not in a hurry—”
“You’re not a normal woman. You’re not domesticated at all. You’re supposed to be fussing over me,” he lashed out.
“I’m sorry, did you not like the grilled cheese sandwiches?” she asked as her voice rose at the end.
“They were okay.”
“You certainly ate them all.”
“I’m burning up. Can you bring me a damp washcloth for my head?”
She crossed her arms over her chest and paused just long enough to let him know she wasn’t buying his ‘poor me’ act. Turning toward his bathroom, she retrieved a wet cloth and came back only moments later.
