The Scandal (Billionaire's Beach Book 4)

by Christie Ridgway

  But at times Joaquin still felt as if half of him was missing. Instead of saying so, he wished his old buddy the best. What else could he do? “When you’re next in Southern California…”

  “I’ll look you up.”

  Joaquin ended the call knowing Mick’s last line to be a lie. The other man was moving on, and who could blame him, if he’d found the ability to do so?

  Sandra. Good for Mick. Good for her. Good for them both.

  He sat back in his chair, closing his eyes again, attempting to recapture his earlier sense of paradise. A breeze brushed by him, and he smelled Sara’s light fragrance on it. Breathing the scent in, he smiled. This morning he’d woken in her sheets and had been aware of that same perfume lingering on his skin.

  Opening his eyes, he saw her standing beside him. He shifted in his chair and pulled her into his lap.

  She yelped, instantly flustered. “Essie—”

  “Anywhere around?”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Sara shook her head. “No.”

  “Perfect.” He nuzzled the spot where her neck and shoulder met and then nipped at the skin.

  She jumped, and when she bounced back down her hip met his burgeoning dick. Groaning, he circled her waist with one arm and used the other hand to angle her face toward his. Their mouths met.

  This is how to forget about everything but the now. Maybe Mick is on to something. Distraction via a woman. Diversion via sex.

  “We should do it in a closet,” he said against her mouth.

  She lifted her lips from his. “What?”

  “Wouldn’t you like that? Having sex somewhere where it smells of laundry soap and starch?”

  Her eyes narrowed, but she was smiling. “You’re strange, you know that?”

  He laughed and bussed her once more on that curving mouth. “And strangely feeling pretty damn good.” With Sara in his arms, the clouds on his horizon had retreated once more.

  Then she leaped to her feet, her expression closing down. Smoothing out the skirt of her apron, she glanced over his shoulder, then back at Joaquin. “Company,” she said.

  “Lulu and RJ?” he asked, turning. Then he froze as his sister came onto the deck followed by a middle-aged couple.

  Wary, he slowly stood. “Renata. Martin.”

  His mother swept up and delivered a lavish embrace. Stepping back, he noticed she looked as lovely as always, her hair shining, her make-up perfect. Joaquin turned to Martin and shook the older man’s hand. He had a golfer’s deep tan, but other than that his features were unremarkable.

  The guy was a genius at making money, though, which kept his wife happy.

  “Can I bring anyone coffee or tea?” Sara asked in her smooth butler voice.

  Joaquin introduced her to the newcomers. She kept her distance, nodding politely, then headed off to the kitchen when the married couple said a cup of coffee would be welcome.

  “This is quite the place,” Renata said, placing one manicured hand on the deck railing as she looked about. “George did all this?”

  “He bought the property some years ago, but it was really Sara who brought it to life in the last few months.” The woman in question returned, carrying a tray that she set on the nearby table. It included a plate of tiny shortbread cookies.

  “Please. Sit down,” Joaquin said, indicating the chairs.

  Sara passed over the two coffees and set sweeteners and cream nearby. Then she drifted back toward the kitchen. Joaquin watched her go and saw the swift glance she sent him over her shoulder.

  He didn’t know exactly what she meant to communicate, but he felt it like the squeeze of her hand in his.

  “So, Renata,” he said, turning to the older woman. “Back from Mexico earlier than planned?”

  “We missed Essie,” she said, sending her daughter a fond look.

  The teenager didn’t appear as pleased. Without comment, her attention returned to her phone.

  Renata released a tiny sigh and glanced at her husband. Martin patted his wife’s fingers but addressed the girl. “Essie, sweets, you know our rule is no phone at the table.”

  Joaquin wished he’d known that. He’d been thinking of asking Sara to set it a place at every meal. But his sister obeyed the edict, slipping the device into her pocket with a small grimace.

  “Sorry, Daddy.” Then she directed her attention to her mother. “Does this mean I have to go back to our house now? I was supposed to have more time with Joaquin. I’d like to stay.”

  It gratified him to hear that, it really did, though it might be her devotion to her phone that prompted the request.

  “Well…” Renata turned her gaze on him.

  He shrugged. “It’s fine with me. I enjoy her company.”

  “Then maybe you wouldn’t mind some more,” his mother ventured. “The Bel-Air house is being painted, and it would be lovely to spend a few days with you here at the beach.”

  As the family group continued to converse on the deck, Sara headed upstairs to check that the largest of the free guest rooms was properly prepared. She carried with her a pair of small crystal vases in which she’d arranged some hastily gathered flowers.

  One container she set on the bureau and the other on the small writing desk beneath the window. Clean towels hung from the rods in the bathroom. The sheets on the bed were freshly laundered as well, so she only gave a plump to the pillows and then took a peek in the closet. Empty, but with plenty of hangers.

  Soon she’d bring the Nichols’s bags into the house, and if they agreed, unpack for the pair.

  Their arrival had knocked some timely sense into her head.

  Allowing Joaquin into her bed the night before had been a big blunder on her part. After that moment when she’d imagined herself in love with him following the get-together at Charlie’s, Sara had done her best to go about her business and keep the relationship out of the personal zone.

  But then Essie had shared about his health situation, and Sara had been scared enough to react instead of maintain her distance. Her face heated even now as she recalled just how intimate they had been. Waking in the morning to find herself curled up against his side had been wonderful instead of woeful. While she’d made herself get up immediately to begin her chores, she’d lingered in the doorway a long moment to look at him, allowing herself to fantasize about another life.

  She’d still been under the influence of that fantasy as they breakfasted together—another dangerous act. Joaquin retrieving more coffee and Essie helping with the dishes only underscored how the situation had gotten out of hand. The butler didn’t get cozy with the household. The household didn’t take on the butler’s tasks.

  Joaquin’s mother and her husband’s visit to Nueva Vida provided Sara with the much-needed prod to step back into her place. On her side of the line, she’d recall who she was and what she couldn’t have.

  By night, she decided now, she’d be over Joaquin.

  “What are you mumbling to yourself about?”

  Whirling, she turned toward the doorway. “Nothing,” she said to Joaquin, swallowing hard. “Nothing at all.”

  He sauntered toward her, the expression on his face curious. Without meaning to, Sara scurried back until her spine pressed against the bureau. She gripped its edge with both hands and attempted to look composed as he came much too near.

  She cleared her throat. “Do you think they’ll be comfortable in this room? It’s the largest, but I can choose another, perhaps the one with the—”

  “This is fine,” Joaquin replied, standing close enough that she could smell his soap and shampoo. “Which is more than I can say for my mood at the idea of their impromptu visit.”

  She held tighter to the furniture instead of lifting her hand to smooth the frown forming between his brows.

  “And it just makes additional work for you,” he said.

  Taking a side step, she put more room between their bodies and then walked to the bed to fuss with the pillows again. “It’s no problem wh
atsoever. This is my job.”

  When he didn’t answer, she glanced back to see his frown had gone even more ferocious.

  “Your job,” he muttered. “Yeah.”

  “Speaking of which,” Sara said, bending to smooth the spread. “Are there any dietary restrictions for either one of them?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  Swallowing her sigh, she straightened. “I was thinking of a dinner menu of grilled salmon on a cedar plank, rice pilaf, and steamed vegetables.”

  He groaned. “Go ahead, why don’t you? Pile on.”

  “You’ll like it,” Sara said. “I promise.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “If I agree to fish and vegetables for dinner, what do I get for dessert?”

  And then I’m going to swallow all that sweet cream down. The best kind of dessert.

  The back of her neck burned at the memory, even though she didn’t think he intended her to recall that moment. “Well—”

  He snapped his fingers. “I know. That chocolate cake you made before Essie spilled the beans about my visit to the doctor.”

  Now she frowned. “Sweets aren’t good for you.”

  “But it’s the deal, doll. Salmon and what’s-it. Then chocolate cake. Oh, and you make sure you set the table for five.”

  No, she thought, he didn’t mean… She cleared her throat. “Are you…are you expecting someone else for dinner?”

  He ambled closer. “Just me, you, and the other three.”

  Her eyes popped. “No. That’s not right.”

  “It’s right for me,” he said, breezy.

  “Your mother…her husband…” She glared at Joaquin. “They’ll think it’s odd.”

  “Why?”

  “Because…because I work for you.”

  He frowned. “That argument again?”

  “But I do work for you.”

  “So does my assistant Patrick, and they’ve had dinner with him before.”

  Why was he being so dense? “Joaquin, come on. I’m the help.”

  “Right. And you’re going to help me by being by my side when I have to get through this damn meal.”

  She wanted to redouble her protest, but there was something about his demeanor that made her resolve weaken. A new tenseness was waving off him, and he seemed exhausted, tired in way he hadn’t been at the breakfast table. Oh, she thought, since when had she turned into a great big marshmallow?

  But resigned, she sighed. “You’re telling me this is part of my job.”

  “That’s right. That’s exactly right.” He drew a fingertip along her jawline, leaving a wave of goose bumps in its wake. “As we’ve so often discussed, doll, you’re at my service.”

  That evening, whatever Renata and Martin Nichols thought of Sara’s presence at the dining room table, they were polite enough not to comment. Instead they only praised her on the presentation of the food as she and Joaquin slid plates in front of them. Yes, he’d insisted on helping her serve.

  Like they were a couple.

  And only more so when he pulled out her chair, then halted her from sitting with a hand on her arm. “Apron,” he said, then tugged on the strings himself.

  “Oh,” she said, blushing as he drew it over her head.

  When Sara finally took her seat, she became aware of Renata studying her. Trying not to squirm, Sara smoothed her napkin over the skirt of her floral dress. Was the garment too casual? Joaquin’s mother wore linen slacks and a silk blouse that were lovely, but nowhere near formal.

  Did the woman instead wonder about her son’s familiarity toward the help? Did she discern that they’d been…intimate?

  Would she guess that Sara was almost-but-not-quite over him?

  Then another thought chilled her. Was it possible Renata recognized Sara from the coverage of the scandal?

  “Do I know you?” she asked Sara. “Where are you from?”

  “Um…” Oh, why had she let down her guard? For a while now, since that incident with Imogen, she’d put from her mind all the London ugliness. But perhaps she shouldn’t have returned to her regular hair color. Going raven-wing black would have been smarter.

  Except she’d wanted Joaquin to see the real her.

  Remembering the older woman was waiting for an answer, Sara kept her gaze on her plate. “I went to school in Michigan.”

  “That’s not a Michigan accent I hear,” Renata replied.

  “Yes, well, my father is from the U.K.” Sara speared a bite of fish but didn’t dare place it anywhere near her dry mouth.

  Joaquin’s mother frowned. “Hmm. A cold, damp country.”

  “Renata likes her creature comforts,” Joaquin said.

  And not as if it was a compliment. Renata realized that, too. Sara could see it in her little twitch.

  “Speaking of comfort,” Sara hurried to say, “I hope you find the guest room pleasing.”

  “Of course.” Renata relaxed. “The flowers are lovely, by the way.”

  “Sara grows them,” Joaquin added. “She did all the landscape design at the estate herself, and she tends the flowers like a good mother would tend to her children.”

  Renata twitched again. “I…see.” Her hand trembled as it reached for her wine.

  Sara sent Joaquin a glance. While he’d admitted he and his mother weren’t on the best terms, she was surprised by his barbs. Was it merely Renata’s presence that gave him this unfamiliar edge, or had something else happened?

  She thought back to his phone call that morning. Then, she’d suspected something was off. As Essie’s parents turned to the teenager to hear about her Malibu adventures, under cover of the girl’s chatter she touched Joaquin’s thigh.

  He glanced over, his expression set. “What?”

  “Are you okay?”

  His demeanor seemed to soften. “Yeah. Okay. Even better when I get a big old slab of chocolate cake under my belt.”

  Her lips twitched. “I made it with carob.”

  “No. That’s too mean.”

  She waved a hand. “You won’t even know the difference.”

  His eyes narrowed. “If I do…” he threatened.

  “And you, Joaquin?” Renata said from across the table.

  He looked up. “And me, what?”

  “Essie was just telling us about what her Zachary has been up to. It has me wondering if there’s someone special in your life as well.”

  “No,” he said shortly.

  Sara returned her attention on her plate.

  “That’s too bad. I do hate to think of you all alone—”

  “If I am, it’s because I like it that way,” her son ground out, and Sara could feel tension humming from him, like angry bees about to swarm.

  Renata carefully set down her fork, clearly having more to say.

  Drop it, Sara thought, trying to urgently deliver mental direction to the older woman. Don’t say another word on that subject. He’s clearly touchy right now.

  “Son.” She leaned forward. “I wish so much more for you. If only you would—”

  “Your ‘if onlys’ are too late, Renata,” Joaquin said, his voice hard. “And you lost the right to tell me how to live my life a long time ago. I believe I was seven.”

  “Joaquin,” Martin said in a warning tone as the color drained from his wife’s face, and she went absolutely still.

  Kill shot, Sara thought.

  Joaquin must have realized it too, because he forked a hand through his hair. “Christ,” he muttered. Looking down at the table, he breathed roughly through his nose.

  Sara touched his thigh again, found his muscles strung tight.

  “You’re right, of course,” Renata said. “And I can’t try to un-do the past now.”

  Joaquin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m having a rough day. Give me a second to smooth out.”

  “I’m sorry for that, too.”

  He looked up. “No, that’s on me. I take responsibility for my own screw-ups
.”

  “No, Joaquin.” His mother shook her head, this time tears springing into her eyes. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “We both know I did.” He held her gaze and there was no missing that silent messages were being sent back and forth.

  “No,” she repeated.

  The stare down continued for several more moments. Then Essie, who had been uncommonly quiet during the exchange between mother and son, scooted out her chair and jumped to her feet. “I have this party I need to get to. May I be excused?”

  Renata’s attention snapped to her daughter. “What party?”

  “A beach party. Everybody I know is going.”

  Martin frowned. “Esmerelda, I don’t think so.”

  His daughter’s mouth pursed, and temper kindled in her eyes. “Teenagers need independence and a social life. There are studies.”

  “No, Essie.”

  “But Zachary will be at the party. This is his first night home, and I want to see him.”

  “He can come here,” Martin said, his tone reasonable.

  “He doesn’t want to come here. He wants to go to the beach, and so do I.”

  “Well, this is our first night home too and—”

  “That’s not fair!” Essie protested

  Then parents and child entered into a teenage angst-fueled skirmish. Joaquin looked at Sara, Sara looked back, and as one they escaped around the corner to the kitchen, leaving the battle behind.

  At the island, they huddled over generous slices of cake.

  “Better now?” she asked him as he chewed his first bite.

  “I can be an ass.”

  “You don’t say.”

  He shot her a tepid grin. “Saucy wench.”

  As he took up another bite, she studied him. Definitely tired. Definitely stressed. Definitely in the painful grip of something that tore at him.

  Was this love that made his hurt tug at her own heart?

  Of course it was. Sara sighed. She should have known she couldn’t order herself out of the feeling. All the songs, the stories, and the movies were apparently right. Love didn’t listen to sense, reason, or rules.

  Even those stated in plain black and white in the Continental Butler Academy’s classic textbook.