by S. Ann Cole
“Do you—” I’m cut off when one long finger strikes up, and he raises his eyes without raising his head. Slowly, he shakes his head from side to side, before returning his attention to his plate.
Got it. No talking while he eats. Here’s a man who’s seriously serious about his food. Restraining myself from cracking a smart-ass remark, I pluck up my fork and dig in, too.
Quarter way through my dinner, Noah’s dish is clean, including the saucer that’d held a huge chunk of chocolate cake. Damn, he’s good. And, he’s back to staring, sipping a glass of water.
Feeling full, and I haven’t even touched my cake yet, I sit back and sip my own water. “We’re not in a board room, you know. You can quit it with the intimidating stare down.”
His eyebrows stretch slightly upward, and then, those green weapons get all soft and warm and melty. Oh dear. A deep, sexy chuckle leaves his chest as he asks, “You think this is my boardroom stare?”
To protect myself, I force images of elephants vomiting while mating to the forefront of my mind, because despite the devil voice in my head urging me to inquire what kind of stare it is if not his boardroom stare, the angel voice in my head is reminding me that I’m still on the run from the last hot guy with a hot stare that I fell for, and I would be an idiot to do this all over again.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s rude to stare, period. Your Mom didn’t tell you that?” Yeah, I know, that’s a lame line; I can so do better than that. But under the circumstances—circumstances being the wetness between my thighs and the warm tingly feeling in my belly—that’s the most I can come up with.
“Does it make you nervous?”
‘Lotty,’ Rational Lotty warns through gritted teeth.
‘Hmmm, yummmm,’ moans Reckless Lotty, rising from her year-long slumber.
‘Well, hello, nice to see you again, Reckless Lotty!’ This hoe of a subconscious has abandoned me for nearly a year, and now that there’s a new hot bod with money in the picture, she comes moaning out of nowhere? See? Even your own subconscious can be an asshole.
“Do I look like the kind of girl who gets nervous from a guy’s stare?”
“But I’m not just any guy.” A half grin. “You want me to take my shirt off again? Remind you how much I’ve been kissed by the gods of obscene perfection?”
I pause, my glass half-way to my lips. “Did…Did you really just say that?”
A full mega-watt grin now. “Plus, I live in a penthouse.”
“Oh my God,” I mutter, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.
“And I’m rich.”
“Okay,” I drag out, setting my glass down. “I’m officially repulsed. I’m so profoundly allergic to arrogant douchebags, I can’t even.”
Amusement coloring his voice, he keeps going. “What if I told you I own a helicopter?”
“That’s it.” Pushing my chair back, I stand to clear the table. “I’m out of can’ts to even.”
“Good,” he says, grin full-fledge, “because I don’t own a helicopter.”
His mood is clearly in the clouds today.
Shooting him an annoyed look, I round to him and clear his empty dishes. “It takes none of that and more than that to make me nervous, Mr. Van Der Wells.”
After clearing the table, I settle at the sink to do the dishes so I can sign off and be done.
“Your advance has been deposited in your account,” I hear from behind me.
He’s sitting at the island.
Got to admit, the news of dough in my bank account makes me want to do a back-flip and a fist pump. With that overly-generous advance, I could flee to Brazil tomorrow if I wanted. But it wouldn’t be enough to keep me afloat. Have to save up some more for school.
“Yeah?” I mutter. “Thanks.”
Silence for a bit, then, “Did you get a chance to read over the contract?”
Why’s he lingering? Doesn’t Mr-King-of-the-universe-kissed-by-the-gods-of-obscene-perfection have better things to do than stand here chit-chatting with his teenage housemaid?
“Yep,” I lie.
“Did you?” There’s a trace of distrust in his tone.
“Do I look like someone who lies for fun?” Of course, I do. I lie. I lie fast and easily. I lie like it’s the truth.
He doesn’t bother to respond, his footsteps echoing away. Finally.
I’m just not in mood to be tempted. Noah is all kinds of hot and sexy and intense and annoyingly tempting. And I’m just a defenseless red-blooded woman. He’s not even the type I usually go for—well, before Andrew, that is. And the one time I went for that type, well…you know the rest.
Never making that mistake again, I can tell you that much. The less time I spend in Noah’s presence, the better.
I’m also tired and desperately longing for a hot bath and that bed, that oh-so-comfy bed. The coming days won’t be as taxing as today, as I’ve done a massive full-house cleaning and will need only to maintain from now on. But today’s cleaning was exhausting.
Finishing up the dishes, I turn to leave the kitchen and am startled to see Noah leaning against the kitchen counter. Save for his suit pants, the rest of his attire seems to have magically melted off him. My eyes involuntarily drift to his bare chest. Smooth and taut and sun-kissed. I want to walk right up to him and press my lips between his pecs. Maybe trail the tip of my tongue from nipple to nipple.
That chest.
His right hand movement, from my peripheral vision, snags my leering gaze from his chest. From the counter, he takes up a white box. A HTC phone box.
“Picked this up for you today.” He holds the box out to me.
At these words, I bring my eyes to his face.
“You bought me a phone?” I look at the box again. “Why?”
“Because it’s the twenty-first century and you don’t have one?”
Eyes back to his. “You said my advance has been deposited, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then I’ll buy my own phone.”
He frowns at the box in his hand. “You don’t like Androids.”
“I don’t care if it’s Android or flamboid,” I answer, “I’m currently trying this new thing where I don’t take things from people, men in general, unless I’ve earned it. Last time I took gifts from someone, I got stuck.”
Noah folds his lips, contemplates this, one long finger tapping the side of the box.
“Alright,” he mumbles, pensive. “Well, seeing as I need to be able to get in contact with you without using the concierge as a message bird, and my landline is currently disconnected, consider this the house phone. As the housemaid, you are required to have this phone on you at all times.” He pauses, watches me, and waits for a dispute. I glare. He smiles. “This amendment will be made to the contract.”
I continue to glare, telling him in a deathly quiet voice, “There’s something on my tongue. Something bitter, nasty, bilious, that I want spit right at you.” I snatch the box from his hand. “But you see, because I really need this job, I’ll refrain.”
Delight dances in his green pools. “Wise of you.”
Moving past him, my shoulder brushing his arm, I ignore the searing heat there and start in the direction of my room, before stopping a few feet off and turning back around. Yep, he’s watching me leave with that non-boardroom stare of his. Ignoring that, too, I say, “Remember how you said you stopped hiring female housemaids because you always end up sleeping with them?”
His stare is his answer, a slight curve to his lips.
“Well,” I go on, “for future reference—obviously because that won’t be happening with me—it helps if you don’t make a habit of watching her with your ‘non-boardroom’ stare while you’re half-dressed.”
This has him tipping his head to the side, an “aha” gleam in his eyes. He appears to waver on something, before striding toward me. Right up to me, so his chest is in my face.
Oh, sweet marmalade.
‘Lick it! Lick it!’ Reckless Lotty urg
es me. ‘Press your palms to his pecs and licccckkk. Hmmm.’
‘Turn around and walk away or step back to allow space,’ Rational Lotty voice advises. ‘Nothing good can come of this. Stay. Focused.’
Because I’m still in vex mode with Reckless Lotty, I take Rational Lotty’s advice and step back two feet, if only to breathe.
“So, that’s it then,” he murmurs, eyes twinkling with mischief.
I’m confused. “Huh?”
“What makes you nervous,” he clarifies.
Taking another step back, I forbid my cheeks to flush, needing more air. Yes. Yes. His goddamn chest does make me nervous when he has it right in my goddamn face and smirking down his goddamn nose at me, and I can feel the heat of his body and smell the fading scent of him—the same entrancing, ineffable scent from his closet.
But I’ll never admit that. Nope. Nopety nope.
Smiling sweetly, I ask, “Can you kindly get your chest out of my face, please?”
“Why?” he shoots back in a mocking voice. “Does it make you nervous?”
“Nope.” I make a face, hoping it lands somewhere between a smirk and revulsion. A revolted smirk. Ha! “It’s just a little too pubescent for my tastes.”
Noah bursts out laughing, knowing, of course, that I’m full of shit.
When he catches a breath, he actually voices, “You’re so full of shit,” then brushes past me as I did to him minutes ago, sending a jolt of paralyzing heat through me again. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Charlotte. If you need me, I’ll be in my room.”
What does he mean ‘if I need him?’ No. No, I won’t be needing him. For anything. At all. Ever. Except for my paycheck, of course.
‘Who are you kidding?’ Reckless Lotty taunts. ‘You so ‘need’ him. How else do you explain the throbbing down south?’
‘Ignore her,’ Rational Lotty advises. ‘She’s a slut. All she ever does is get us into trouble.’
‘Hot, naughty, sexy trouble,’ Reckless Lotty counters sultrily.
Rational Lotty cocks her head and gives Reckless Lotty a pointed glare. ‘And how exactly do you explain Andrew?’
‘He was so sweeeet in the beginning, and not to mention sexy as sex,’ Reckless Lotty defends. ‘How could I have known the guy was woman-beating, philandering asshole?’
‘Nuff said,’ mumbles Rational Lotty, closing the argument.
Reckless Lotty huffs.
Turning, I scowl at Noah’s retreating back. “I won’t be needing you. For any reason whatsoever. And if you happen to need me, Mr. Van Der Wells, my door will be locked, and my domestic services will not be available until six. So if you accidentally knot yourself too tight to the bedpost, or mistake glue for lubricant during your bedtime masturbation a la American Pie, you are on your own until then. Six AM.”
To this, Noah laughs. All the way up the stairs.
SEVEN
IN THE NEXT two weeks that follow, I’m left with plenty of time to plan my great escape, check into my classes on time, never missing a lecture, and even more time to twiddle my thumbs.
By 8 AM, I have breakfast prepared, dinner by 6:30 PM. I clean up after a messy Noah, do his laundry, take his expensive suits to the dry-cleaners on the ground floor, and…that’s about it. My job is pretty darn easy.
As for the man himself: sometimes he’s talkative, jovial, and purposely pushes my buttons to get a rise out of me, and other times he’ll come home in brood mode and murders me with silence and stare-downs. I’m used to his mercurial disposition by now, though. Knowing when to leave him be.
Today is Saturday, and my to-do list is blank. Noah normally works from home on Saturdays and doesn’t require me getting up at dawn, but today he’s traveling to California on a two-day business trip, so I’m up at the usual time preparing breakfast while he’s out running.
On a side note, I eventually filled Kiera in on my new job and living arrangements but have held back on the truth about Andrew. That bit is something she needs to hear in person, considering she’s held Andrew in such high regard all this time.
To ascertain I’m truly as okay as I claim to be, she’s been pressing to see me, but I’ve been stalling for two reasons: one, under no circumstances, never, not ever, am I leaving this apartment unless it’s straight to the airport. Two, I’m embarrassed. To face my best friend and spill about my ugly relationship with Andrew is not exactly something I’m bouncing on my heels to do. But like ripping off a Band-Aid, it’s better to just do it and get it over with.
Noah isn’t aware of this—yet—but when he leaves the Amex for me to go grocery shopping, I order those babies in.
I know Andrew, so I know he’s scouring the place in search of me. Maybe one day he’ll give up, but that day is not anytime this week, month, or year. Leaving this haven is a massive risk I’m just not taking.
Now that Noah will be absent for a bit, I’m thinking of asking him if I’m allowed to have a friend over for a visit, knowing how strict some people are about their living space.
I’m in the kitchen pouring myself a cup of coffee when the elevator pings. Seconds later, Noah strolls in, all sweat and bare-chest and muscles and abs.
My hearts sighs.
‘Oh, sweet mozzarella,’ Reckless Lotty moans.
‘Okay, even I have to admit,’ Rational Lotty begrudgingly mutters, ‘that man is scrumptious to the Nth degree.’
Oh dear, it’s never a good sign when Reckless Lotty and Rational Lotty both agree on something.
I watch Noah’s chest get closer. Can’t help it, but I’m never able to focus on anything else when he’s shirtless.
This, this is my utmost favorite part of the day. The mornings. When the boss returns from running. I wake up for this. To hear the ping of the elevator and know what comes next around the bend. A body, and a face, I want to lick every last drop of sweat from.
It’s getting harder and harder for me, as time passes, to look him in the eye and stab him with smart-ass remarks. Why? Because as much as I shouldn’t, I want him. Want to open my legs and invite him between them. Want to feel his weight press down on top of me. Want to feel that stare fixed on me while he moves inside me…Dear God, I want him.
And I shouldn’t. Not just because I’m still on the run from another hot, sexy monster, but also because he’s my boss, and I can’t afford to have him sleep with me and then dismiss me like all my predecessors.
But sweet rosary chain clutched in a Catholic palm, it’s getting more and more difficult to focus and be my mouthy self when he’s around.
Feeling hot liquid wet the top of my feet, I jump back and glance down. Oh, crap, crappity crap!
The mug is full and overflowing on the counter, running a sloppy path off the marble counter and onto my shoes.
“Dammit,” I curse, annoyed with myself. This isn’t me! I don’t do klutzy. See what I mean? No. Focus. So distracted was I by Noah’s chest that I didn’t even realize the cup was full.
Arrghh!
“Something on your mind?” Noah asks, voice dipped in amusement.
I glance up. His forearms are now braced on the counter, his breathing still a little uneven from his run. He watches me—of course—with a knowing gleam. He knows. He knows I want to jump him. And the bastard is reveling in it.
Setting the coffee pot down, I rip off some paper-towels and begin undoing my mess.
“Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night.” Lie. I slept like a baby with its thumb in its mouth and its butt in the air last night, so freaking comfortable is my bed with six pillows.
“So…had something on your mind last night?”
Yes. Him.
In fact, I touched myself thinking about his throat last night. And I came, hard. Which also contributed to my sleeping like a baby with its thumb in its mouth and its butt in the air.
‘Such a nasty little slut you are,’ Reckless Lotty teases.
‘Oh, boy’, Rational Lotty comments, sighing in resignation. ‘Here we go again.’
>
“No,” I murmur to the counter as I sop up the mess. “New environment, you know? Not entirely acclimatized just yet.”
Noah’s lip twitches, and although he doesn’t voice it, I know he’s thinking it: You are so full of shit.
To get his attention off me, I stir up shit, “So, how’s Sienna? Haven’t seen her back here since her threat. What, she’s busy screwing her driver this time?”
Noah’s eyebrows push together. “Threat?”
“Yeah.” Tossing the paper towels in the trash, I pick up my coffee, pour some out in the sink, and use another paper towel to clean around the sides. “She says you’re hers, and that if I so much as think about sleeping with you, she’ll make my life a living hell.”
Amusement fleeing, the corners of his eyes tighten. “She threatened you?”
Uh-oh. Not quite liking the insane look he’s wearing now, I don’t answer. I meant only to stir up crap to get the attention off me, not complain. Not at all am I intimidated by Sienna and her empty threats because her making them to begin with proves she is intimidated by me. Noah, however, doesn’t appear to find Sienna’s threat to me amusing.
He grits through his teeth, “She doesn’t own me.”
Taking a sip of my coffee, I shrug. “Don’t care. It’s none of my business whether she does or doesn’t o—”
“She doesn’t own me,” he repeats with vehement emphasis, cutting me off, leaning further over the counter toward me, as if to make sure I get it. “Sienna is nothing to me anymore but a warm convenience for my dick.”
Whoa. Okay. Um, who is this man? This asshole-ish, jaw-tightening, hard-eyes alphahole? How many sides are there to him?
“Well,” I say cautiously, setting down my coffee, “maybe you should tell her that. Because, obviously, she’s on a whole different page than you are with this.”
“She can’t touch you,” he assures me.
“First off, I’m just your housemaid, nothing more, that you should feel the need to defend me,” I tell him. “Second, Sienna won’t have a reason to touch me because I don’t plan on sleeping with you anyway.”
