Power Play: The Complete Collection

by Selena Kitt

  The first place he hired came in with a whole crew, did a lot of work and carried out Hefty bags full of trash when they were done. They also charged him five hundred dollars for the job, which was far too hefty a price to pay on a regular basis, as far as he was concerned. His daughter came over that weekend and looked around with big eyes, as if she’d just entered some alternate dimension she wasn’t quite sure was real.

  Of course, two weeks later, the damned place was a mess again. He was surprised how fast dirt could build up. So he started through the phone book, calling places and asking for quotes and picked the cheapest one. Two old women showed up to clean. They were both older than his own mother and he felt awful sitting at his computer while they dusted and vacuumed and scrubbed the floors. When he wrote out a check at the end of the day—it took them that long—he gave them both a big tip out of guilt and swore he wouldn’t call them again.

  But the house kept getting dirty, in spite of his efforts. He was bagging up the garbage, loading the dishwasher right away, and still, dust accumulated, toilets got dirty. Houses, apparently, wouldn’t just stay clean. He abandoned his phone book idea and decided to ask an old friend for a referral.

  “Jeannie, I need a favor.” He hated asking her—it felt like putting her in the middle, knowing she still saw Anne on occasion—but he couldn’t think of anyone else who might know. Jeannie Christo had been his friend first, way back in college, before he even met Anne, so he supposed he had “dibs,” as far as that went, but it still felt weird involving her in something so personal as housecleaning. Besides, he didn’t want word getting back to Anne, so he qualified his statement. “But you can’t tell Anne.”

  “Of course!” Jeannie agreed readily enough. “What’s up?”

  “I need to hire someone to clean the house.” Damn, just saying it was like admitting defeat. “Who do you use?”

  Jeannie laughed. “Me. I use me.”

  “Oh.” He felt color rising in his cheeks. She was married to an engineer, had two kids, and belonged to the same country club as Anne and her new husband—he’d assumed she hired someone to clean that giant McMansion of hers.

  “But as a matter of fact, I do know someone.”

  “Someone good?”

  “Do you remember Elena Horton?”

  “From high school?” He felt a jolt at the mention of her name. “That Elena Horton?”

  “Well, she was Elena McKinney for a while, but she’s moved back here after a nasty divorce, I guess. I talked to her yesterday at Whole Foods and she gave me her card. She’s trying to start her own cleaning service.”

  “Well I can be her first client then. Give me her number.”

  After a few more pleasantries, he ended the call, and sat for a while with his phone in his hand, thinking about Elena Horton. High school was a million years away. Universes had collapsed, galaxies had been born, billions of stars had died between then and now, he was sure. Elena Horton would probably not even remember him or what had happened up in the tree fort on a hot, humid summer afternoon back when they were just freshmen. He couldn’t even drive back then.

  The more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself. Elena McKinney nee Horton had been married and divorced. They hadn’t seen in each other in years. She might have some vague memory of Don Hammond from high school, but they hadn’t moved in the same circles. He’d been a jock—wrestling, baseball, and cross-country—and Elena had ended up running with the burnout crowd. She’d dyed her fine, lovely blond hair black, then blue, then purple, and then he’d lost track. He’d also lost track of the piercings she’d had by the time they graduated, most of them done herself, or by friends, since her parents refused to consent.

  They’d had their hands full with Elena.

  He dialed, admitting he was curious about her as he listened to the phone ring. How had her life turned out? Obviously not so great, if she was recently divorced, but of course, he couldn’t judge. He was recently divorced himself.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Elena?” It was. He remembered her voice. It settled into his gut, a warm memory burning in his belly. “This is Don Hammond. Jeannie Christo gave me your number.”

  “Don Hammond?” Just the way she said his name, surprised but with an edge of warmth, told him she remembered. In fact, she was remembering right now. He was too.

  “Yeah. Um…” He cleared his throat, swallowed past the memory of her mouth on his, the taste of cherry lip gloss. “She mentioned you’re starting a business?”

  “Oh. Yes. Cleaning houses.” She gave a little, embarrassed laugh. “It’s something I know I can do. Anyone can clean, right?”

  “Right.” He agreed, glancing around at the mess he’d made around his computer while writing—half a Snickers bar, a Hot Pockets sleeve, three empty cans of Diet Coke—realizing not everyone knew how to clean. He obviously didn’t. “Well I happen to have a house. And it definitely needs cleaning.”

  “That bad, huh?” Her laugh. So light and sweet. He could almost taste the slippery wet crush of cherry lip gloss.

  “Well I’ve been a little distracted since my wife left me.”

  “Oh no, I’m so sorry.” Her tone surprised him. Most people just said that, perfunctory. But Elena sounded like she knew exactly how he felt—and she probably did. “How long has it been?”

  “About a year.”

  “So you’ve got a year’s worth of dust?” The smile in her voice was infectious. He was sitting there, grinning like an idiot.

  “Well lucky for you, I already had the worst of it cleaned up,” he told her. “And pest control for the bugs. And the mice.”

  “Yikes!” she exclaimed. “Must have been a hell of a breakup.”

  “Well, there is a bright side. I’ve got a twelve-year-old daughter.”

  “Kids make it worth it,” she murmured after a slight hesitation. It made him curious.

  “Jeannie mentioned you were recently divorced. Do you have kids?”

  “No, we didn’t have any.” Her voice was soft now, not as bright. “But we were only married for two years.”

  “I’m sorry.” He hoped he sounded like he, too, knew her pain—because he did. He really did.

  “I’m not.” She sounded resolute. And a little resigned. “Having kids with Rick would have been a disaster. So when do you want me?”

  “Excuse me?” He blinked in surprise and felt his cock jump against his zipper. When do you want me? Hell, if his dick had its way, right fucking now would be just great! But of course, she wasn’t asking that. She was talking about the job. He knew that. Logically, he knew that. But it didn’t prevent his mind from wandering and his cock from throbbing.

  “To clean.” She didn’t sound offended. In fact, she sounded like she was smiling.

  “Right.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I work from home, so any time is good. I have Diana every other weekend.”

  “From home? Lucky you! What do you do?”

  “I’m a writer.” He always felt strange telling people that, even after fifteen years of doing it and eight books on bookstore shelves.

  “You were always such a great writer,” she replied. “I loved your poems. Remember Mrs. Greenlee in creative writing?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled, remembering. It was a million years ago when he stood in front of Mrs. Greenlee’s class as he read his maudlin, adolescent poems. And Elena had liked them.

  “So would I have read anything you’ve written?”

  “Maybe, if you like sci-fi and fantasy. My pen name is Ray Blake.”

  That was met with silence. A very long, strange silence.

  “Elena?” He finally prompted.

  “I’ve read everything you’ve ever written!” Her voice was a hoarse whisper, like she was revealing a secret. “And I had no idea it was you. Why didn’t you write under your real name?”

  “Anne…” He winced at that memory. “She didn’t want me to sully my real name with ‘that fantasy stuff.’ She wanted
me to save it for my serious novel.”

  “Oh, Don!” Elena sighed. “I love your books.”

  “Well thanks.” He still felt a little embarrassed about writing ‘that fantasy stuff,’ and when people gushed over how much they loved it, it somehow made it worse.

  “It’s good to hear from you again, Don.” Her voice was soft, a caress. His cock liked that. A lot. And was also getting off on the fact that Elena had read and loved his books. His head might protest, but his body knew exactly what it liked.

  “It’s good to hear from you too,” he agreed.

  “How’s Wednesday?” She went back to all-business again. The switch made his head spin. “I can come in the morning, be done around lunch time.”

  “That works for me.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you then.” The smile in her voice. He wanted to see it. He would see it. Soon. Then her voice went all soft again. “We can catch up.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  He was.

  * * * *

  He made it through a month of Wednesdays before he broke.

  Elena breezed into his house that first Wednesday afternoon looking just like the girl he’d spent the afternoon kissing in the tree fort their freshman year. Gone was the dyed hair and coal-black eyeliner. She didn’t have any piercings at all he could see—except two little silver studs in her earlobes—and she was dressed like a spring day in a powder blue dress with little yellow flowers on it. It was like going back in time. In fact, time had been good to Elena Horton, at least physically. She was still bright and fresh and simply beautiful, especially when she smiled.

  Of course, that wasn’t a lot. Not at first. She swept through the house that first Wednesday with a determined grimace, scrubbing walls and floors with a vengeance. Don stayed out of her way at first—it felt weird to be paying someone to clean his house, especially someone he used to know—but it was like she was a little magnet, pulling him in. They talked about everything. Old things like high school and friends—including Jeannie, who they both liked because of her sarcastic and snarky view on the world—to new things like jobs and relationships and divorces.

  The impression he got was that her ex, Rick, wasn’t such a great guy. Don never could figure out why women chose the “bad boys” who treated them like crap and kicked them to the curb. Although in Elena’s case, she had been the one to leave. There hadn’t been another woman or any precipitating event she would talk about. Elena said, “I just couldn’t do it anymore.” And that was that. Of course, he told her about Anne. About the smarmy, rich lawyer, the man who now called himself Diana’s stepfather. It was on the third Wednesday when they had the discussion about his writing.

  “But you must make a lot of money writing books!” Elena exclaimed, dishcloth in hand as she rubbed the stainless steel front of the fridge spotless.

  “I’m a midlist sci-fi author.” He tried to ignore the flush in his cheeks as he said it. “I’m no Stephen King or Isaac Asimov. I make twelve percent royalties and while it’s a pretty good living—enough to pay the mortgage—I don’t make country club kind of money.”

  “You know what?” Elena’s eyes brightened. “You should get your rights back and self-publish!”

  Don watched her down on her knees—jean short shorts, riding achingly up into the crack of her ass as she knelt to get the bottom half of the fridge—and didn’t really register what she said until she went on. There was too much blood rushing to his crotch. He was surprised the kitchen table hadn’t risen several feet off the ground. That was how hard he was.

  “I have a friend back in Albuquerque who did that. She wrote mysteries. A ton of them. She got her rights back and just published them herself. She made so much more money doing it herself. I can connect you if you want.”

  Elena cocked her head and looked over at him, half-smiling at the way he was staring at her. She knew he was staring, he could tell. And he was. He couldn’t help it.

  “Sure,” he murmured as she stood, going over to the sink to rinse off her rag. “I’m open to anything.”

  Anything.

  She gave him a sly smile when he said that and he wondered if she knew, exactly, what she was doing to him. If she did, she was a sadist who loved to torture him. And he was almost sure she did, because of the way she accidentally rubbed up against him as she edged by him in the kitchen, the way she teetered on the step stool to dust the top of the bookshelves, allowing him a dizzying view up her skirts—which got shorter and shorter as the weeks went by. He was almost disappointed in the short-shorts on week three, but week four. Oh, week four. That final, tempting, irresistible week.

  He told himself, after the conversation about his writing, he should back off. She was recently divorced, on the rebound, and not only that, she was a fan. It wasn’t a good idea to get involved. Even if it was just harmless flirting. So he told Elena he had a lot of work to do—writing, of course—and he was going to stay locked up in his little office with his laptop. The look of disappointment on her face made his heart drop to his knees but she covered it quickly, smiling and saying, “Of course! I won’t bother you at all!” shooing him into his office and closing the door behind him.

  And then he was trapped. By his own stupid plan. He opened his latest work, a familiar landscape, and there were lots of words left to write, but he couldn’t seem to do it. Instead, he surfed the web, played a few games of solitaire while he listened to the distant whir of the vacuum, and read his email. Elena had passed his email on to her author friend. He had an email in his box from the woman, very long and detailed and interesting, about her success in the self-publishing world. They had been writing back and forth—he had lots of questions—before Elena showed up with her “green” cleaning supplies, her mop and broom and bucket today, and he had almost made up his mind to do it.

  Now Elena was here, and he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Why had he decided to hide away in his office, again? He’d made some stupid, arbitrary decision to protect her, when in reality, he was protecting himself. He realized that as he sat there, missing her chatter, her laugh, missing the gentle sway of her hips. My god, those hips. He was missing those hips, especially today, in the tight, short black skirt. He didn’t even know how she could clean in something so tight, so short, but it didn’t matter, not really. Not to him. It was a delightful distraction. Even from all the way in here, just thinking about her stretching to reach the top shelf while she dusted, made his cock so hard it hurt.

  He glanced at his laptop, considering a Google search for porn—maids, of course, little blonde maids with long legs and generous tits—and a final, quick release. But the thought of jacking off with Elena in the house, of looking at another woman, felt like sacrilege. It was Elena he wanted.

  It was Elena he wanted.

  Don groaned softly, shutting his laptop and looking out the upstairs window at the yard below. He glimpsed her, arms full of lilacs, smile bright as the sun as she carried them into the house. She filled vases all through the house. He discovered it when he crept out to use the bathroom. He didn’t want to see her, knew she had to be hurt by his clear rejection, locking himself away in his office. She had gotten the message, loud and clear, and there was no taking it back now.

  Thank god the phone rang. It was the perfect distraction.

  “Hey, Jeannie.” He knew who it was from the caller I.D.

  “Hey stud, how’s it hanging?”

  He snorted. “Does your husband know you talk to me like that?”

  “I’m more worried about Elena.” Jeannie laughed. “She’d probably rip my head off if she heard me talking about your hot bod. But she sure talks about it enough!”

  “She does?” He raised his eyebrows at the phone.

  “Oops, I said too much.” Jeannie was grinning, he could hear it in her voice. “Hey, so are you going to go through with that self-publishing thing?”

  “I don’t know.” He frowned at his closed office door, still thinking abou
t Elena. She’d talked about him to Jeannie? “I think so. I mean, I can’t see what I have to lose. Hatchette has no rights to my sequels. I made sure my agent put that in my contract just in case.”

  His publisher, Hatchette, had offered him his first deal years ago and so far, he’d stuck with them, more out of loyalty than anything else, but his agent, Muriel, a sharp, New York talking woman, had talked about shopping his work around elsewhere a few times over the years.

  “Well then do it!” Jeannie exclaimed. “I’ve done a little digging and there are authors making a ton of bank self-publishing.”

  “Yeah, I’m seeing the same thing.” He still felt strange about it. The history of self-publishing, to him, stank of vanity publishers who charged you to publish your work. But this wasn’t that. This was different. “But you know, there’s a lot of work involved. Editing, cover art, formatting. It’s complicated.”

  “And you know, Elena has a degree in graphic arts. I bet she could do a cover for you.”

  “She does?” Don blinked in surprise. “I didn’t know that.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about her.”

  “Are you matchmaking, Jeannie?”

  “Who, me?” That grin in her voice was back. “Listen, the reason I’m calling—we’re having a housewarming party a week from Sunday.”

  “Didn’t you move in like six months ago?”

  “Oh shut up.” She snorted. “I want you to come. Bring something. Potato salad from the grocery store, I don’t care. It’s a potluck.”

  “All right,” he agreed. “How about I bring beer?”

  Jeannie’s husband was a beer snob and he couldn’t stand all that dark German crap.

  “Fine, whatever. Just be there.” She sniffed. “In the meantime, publish that book!”

  “Okay, okay.” He laughed.

  “I want to hear all about it when you come,” she insisted. “Oh… and Elena’s coming. Maybe you want to give her a ride?”

  Don rolled his eyes. “You’re about as subtle as a nuclear bomb.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She was grinning again. “Week from Sunday. See you then.”