Blue Clouds

by Patricia Rice

  Rumors abounded, of course. Rumors always did, especially around Seth Wyatt, Pippa decided wryly. She’d seen a magazine article calling Tarant Mott a hermit after a tragic accident that had left him half blind and disfigured and had cost him his wife. Another squib had speculated that his son was dying of an undiagnosed wasting disease. If she thought hard enough, she supposed she could remember more, but she could see the basis of the rumors had very little relation to fact.

  Miss MacGregor pulled up to the mansion and handed Pippa over to the housekeeper. As Mrs. Jones threw open the door to her new bedroom, Pippa decided the public could have all the rumors it wanted. She’d come home.

  Apparently every room in the house had a spectacular view. Whoever had designed the gothic exterior hadn’t had a hand in the interior beyond the strange public entrance with wood where stone should be and vice versa. The door opened into an entire suite of rooms, she realized as Mrs. Jones walked through, opening doors. Sparsely decorated in simple Mission style, the suite contained all the basic necessities and nothing more, which suited Pippa just fine. She smoothed her hand over the fine old wood of the long dresser, admired the crocheted duvet cover on the bed, and stared in awe at the climactic landscape of tumbling rock and cliff outside the patio window. Patio window. She had her own deck overlooking the canyon.

  She must have died and gone to heaven. Not noticing when the housekeeper left, Pippa strolled through a closet large enough to hold an entire bedroom, admired the Jacuzzi in the bath, and breathed a sigh of pleasure over the spacious sitting room. A simple wooden sofa held cushions of natural woven linen. A hemp rug served as carpet. Spare bookshelves lined either side of a small hearth. The shelves held an assortment of natural ornaments: seashells, dried grasses, items seemingly plucked from the land and left here to be admired. The few books had titles like Moby Dick or Scarlet Letter, but she could excuse the designer that faux pas in a house owned by a horror writer. A classic would put her asleep faster than a nightmare story.

  Just in case she developed any strange ideas that she had walked into a free California vacation, the phone on the streamlined desk in the corner rang.

  Well, no one could live on fantasy forever.

  Picking up the receiver, she listened to the voice on the other end.

  “Dinner is at seven. Don’t wear perfume. Chad has a cold. Check his temperature and see if he needs a doctor.”

  The click on the other end didn’t allow any reply.

  Chapter 6

  Wondering if she should drop bread crumbs so she could find her way back, Pippa wandered through the guest wing, across the central block overlooking the two-story foyer, and down the long hall she hoped led to Chad’s room. She supposed if her mind weren’t already so thoroughly occupied by thoughts of her employer and this new job, she might enjoy a leisurely stroll through mahogany and marble, priceless Oriental carpets, and stunning artwork. But she couldn’t concentrate on objects right now.

  No matter how casually she had treated Wyatt’s offer, she needed this job as desperately as he needed her services. Until she’d lost it, she hadn’t realized how much she had depended on her job as a reason for living. Without the constant daily demands of people she knew, she felt like a kite without a tail. Grimly, she faced the fact that she was one of those stupid women who needed to be needed. She didn’t like believing that at the grand old age of thirty, she could be washed up, worthless, unneeded by anyone.

  Pippa couldn’t even excuse her desperation as an escape from Billy. She figured she’d pretty well escaped all on her own. She hadn’t reached total incompetence yet. But the horror stories of abusive men who chased their wives and girlfriends until they killed them haunted her. This fortress Seth Wyatt called home could protect her. She liked the solidity of these stone and mahogany walls.

  So when Pippa entered the boy’s room to the splat of a water gun drenching her hair and new dress, she managed a smile quite effortlessly.

  “Good shot, cowboy, but didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s against the Code of the West to shoot unarmed, defenseless women?” Briskly swiping the bright orange machine gun from his hands, she turned the barrel on him and pulled the trigger.

  Chad yowled. He screamed bloody murder. He pounded his fists against his wheelchair, then charged forward in Pippa’s direction. She dodged it expertly, grabbed the handles, and swung it in an arc toward the open balcony doors.

  “We can play water games out here. I don’t think the floor in your room can handle a flood. Do you have another water pistol or do I get to use the watering can?”

  When Chad didn’t immediately stop screaming, Pippa shoved the gun back in his hands and picked up the watering can. “Count to three or shoot anytime?”

  He shut up. Eyeing her warily, he aimed the pistol. Pippa smiled and dodged the squirt of water. Whistling, she anointed him with a spray from the can. Truly furious now, Chad swung his chair and shot again, following her steadily everywhere she jumped. Within minutes, they were both drenched head to foot and Chad had started sneezing.

  “Okay, cowboy, that did it. The first one who sneezes, dies. Let’s get you into your coffin.” With the assurance learned from years of dealing with temperamental doctors, Pippa removed the water gun from the boy’s hands, dropped it on the balcony, and spun him back into his room.

  “I’m not dead,” he complained, sneezing again.

  “Are too. I’m burying you on Boot Hill.” Expertly, she lifted him from the chair, dropped him on the massive playground she assumed was his bed, and began stripping off his wet clothes.

  He couldn’t kick his legs, but he twisted and turned and fought her every step of the way. Still, a forty-pound six-year-old didn’t have the strength or stamina of a two-hundred- pound man, and she’d fought patients bigger than that before. She had him out of his wet clothes, dried off, and into a pair of cowboy pajamas before his screams alerted the entire household.

  “What in hell is going on?” Seth demanded, stomping through the doorway with murder in his eyes.

  “I’m burying Cowboy Bob on Boot Hill,” Pippa replied calmly, applying a towel for one final drying to Chad’s hair. “If you’ve got some decongestant medicine, he could probably use a spoonful before we tuck him in. Corpses shouldn’t sneeze all night.”

  Seth eyed her drenched dress and cheerful expression with the same wariness his son had earlier. “I see. I take it Chad lost the gunfight at the OK Corral?”

  “I did not! She cheated,” Chad protested from his throne among the pillows and stuffed animals. “Dead men don’t sneeze.”

  Pippa thought she detected the hint of a curve on Wyatt’s chiseled lips, just enough to send something wickedly delicious plummeting fast and furious through her middle. Startled by her primal reaction to his proximity, she turned her attention back to the boy. For all she knew, Seth Wyatt was a dangerous psychopath. She should be afraid of him, not attracted. She had sick hormones and lousy taste in men.

  “Okay, so I lied,” she said breezily, dismissing her unpleasant thoughts. “Dead men don’t sneeze. We’ll fight it out again tomorrow, and you can make the rules. But I want the machine gun next time.”

  “The machine gun’s mine,” Chad grumbled, snuggling back into the pillows and making a face as his father spooned the medicine down his throat.

  “Then I’m going to look for a hose,” she warned.

  Chad gave her an evil look that would have done his father proud.

  “Good night, cowboy. I’ve got to go change, before I join you on Boot Hill.” Pippa hoped that was a small snicker she heard as she swept out. If her new charge didn’t have a sense of humor, she would have her job cut out for her. Surely he hadn’t lost all his humor by the age of six, even in this grim prison.

  Seth caught up with her as she reached the open library overlooking the foyer below. “Miss Cochran, wait a minute. I must apologize for my son.”

  She halted and gave him a quizzical look, grateful for the dim li
ghting. She still felt as if a catfish bellyflopped in her stomach when she looked at Seth Wyatt. Perhaps it was the penetrating arctic eyes beneath those craggy brows that had her feeling as if she’d just been hooked and reeled in. She needed to be afraid of him for more than one reason.

  “Your son has nothing to apologize for except an excess of pent-up energy. Does he have access to a gym or pool?”

  Seth stopped short and glared down at her. “What in hell would he do with a gym?”

  Pippa stared at him in disbelief, her concern instantly diverted to the child and away from the father. “Hasn’t his doctor recommended a competent physical therapist? She would put together an exercise plan that would strengthen his muscles as well as work off some of that energy. You can’t keep a growing boy confined to his room.”

  She couldn’t read Wyatt’s expression. She suspected that even if the room contained more light than the dusk currently glimmering through stained glass, she wouldn’t discern a hint of emotion behind that stony mask.

  “The doctor says his lungs are too weak for vigorous exercise and that encouraging him beyond his physical capabilities would only traumatize him further.”

  “Then get another doctor. That one’s a quack.” Not having patience for a man who gave up so easily, and not having patience for her own jangling nerve endings, Pippa left her new boss leaning on the library railing, staring after her.

  She really should quit arguing with her employers, she told herself. Look at where it had led last time. Instead of firing the incompetent hacks who sat quietly drinking coffee at their desks, doing as they were told, the hospital had fired the troublemaker first. Would she never learn?

  Still, she couldn’t leave that child cooped up in his miniature palace for the rest of his life. She couldn’t live with herself if she did. Of course, if she insisted on arguing with Wyatt, she’d find herself bounced out on her nose. What good could she do the boy then?

  The age-old question. Sighing, Pippa struggled out of her wet dress as soon as she hit her room. Was there any point in going down to dinner now?

  But if she didn’t, she would not only starve, she would lose her last chance to have Miss MacGregor show her the ropes before the woman left in the morning. Pippa seriously suspected it would be much easier forming a clear idea of her duties from the efficient secretary than her taciturn employer.

  Wishing for a map like the ones convention hotels handed out, Pippa eventually wended her way through the maze of rooms to the dining chamber. She could only call it a chamber. The light from the antique crystal chandelier danced over a table long enough to host a state dinner. Idly, she wondered if the servants wore roller blades. Pedometers maybe. Then they could be paid by the mile.

  Deciding the businesslike red suit Meg had insisted looked spectacular with her complexion was definitely not the choice for a formal evening in the Reaper’s mansion, Pippa hesitated on the threshold.

  Crystal and china place settings for two glittered in the light of the chandelier. An acre of starched linen covered the table, an enormous floral arrangement occupied the center, but the settings had been placed only at one end. Perhaps they expected her in the kitchen.

  “Debating which silver to use, Miss Cochran?”

  Pippa nearly jumped out of her shoes at the sound of the voice behind her. Swinging around, she glared at the man standing with arms crossed over his chest. He’d at least changed from the turtleneck to a fitted white dress shirt, although the contrast with his dark coloring created dancing images in her head that were far from businesslike. Pippa detected a mocking smirk on his glacial features. “Debating which table to use, Mr. Wyatt. I think I prefer the kitchen.”

  Damn. She had just done it again—flapped her tongue before putting her brain in gear. There was just something about this man that rubbed her in all the wrong ways.

  “Miss MacGregor prefers eating in her room. Since I have no business to go over with her this evening, I didn’t object. You, however, will need to take notes.”

  When she didn’t immediately leave the doorway, he gave her a pointed glare rather than ask her to move.

  Pippa hurriedly stepped out of Wyatt’s way. She held her tongue also, although the question of whether pen and paper came as part of the cutlery scorched the roof of her mouth.

  Sure enough, he snapped open a leather notebook and handed her a Mont Blanc pen as soon as she took her place.

  “Miss MacGregor wants you to drive her to the airport at eight tomorrow morning. Allowing for traffic, you should be back by two. Miss MacGregor hasn’t had time to edit the last two chapters. They’re still sitting on her desk. You’ll start with those. I’ll have another before you’re through.”

  The first course arrived. Ignoring the pen and notebook, Pippa sipped the delicious onion soup and wondered if the omnipotent Mrs. Jones managed the kitchen, as well as the house and nursery.

  “Your responsibilities include sorting and answering the mail, taking all phone calls, and directing to me only those from people on the list on your desk. I’m on deadline and haven’t time for trivial questions. You will handle all other calls.”

  Pippa tasted the wine and tried not to grimace. She had never developed a taste for alcohol. The sparkling water suited her better. Blind obedience came hard, and swallowing all the questions and protests burning her tongue made her thirsty.

  “You haven’t written a word of this down,” he accused as grilled swordfish and sautéed asparagus replaced the soup.

  Pippa didn’t think she’d ever eaten swordfish or asparagus. She wouldn’t have known what they were without the neatly printed menu card in front of her. She wondered if one of her responsibilities was printing these little cards every day. After tasting the vegetable, she decided she would make a point of going into town and filling up on French fries the nights asparagus appeared on the list.

  The icy silence from beyond her left elbow warned Tyrant Tarant had finished another lecture. Giving him a brief smile, she answered, “I have a tape-deck memory. It records everything I hear.”

  “A tape-deck memory?” The question dripped sarcasm.

  Pippa shrugged. “Other people have photographic memories. What would you call it?”

  “A tape-deck memory.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Do you want to reel everything I’ve said back by me?”

  “Not particularly. It was spectacularly boring. Where in the schedule does Chad fit in? I promised him a return bout.”

  “Chad amuses himself. Nana is available if he needs anything. You might check on his cold before you begin work on the chapters, I suppose. And it probably wouldn’t hurt to drop in on him before dinner as you did tonight. Your duties with Chad will be quite light.”

  Rebellion raised its ugly head, and Pippa finally focused her attention on her employer’s forbidding features. “Your damned book is more important than your son?”

  Wyatt’s face shuttered more than before, if that was possible. “I am available to my son every moment of the day, which is more than most parents can say. I did not hire you to question my parenting, Miss Cochran.”

  “He’s six years old. He should be in school making friends.” Pippa had heard the ominous tone in his voice, but she couldn’t help herself. Getting fired the first day on the job wasn’t part of her game plan, but her conscience wouldn’t let her leave the subject alone.

  “He has a tutor. His intellectual skills are well beyond those of most six-year-olds, Miss Cochran. I ask you to refrain from any further interference with my son.”

  She bit her tongue until it hurt. She beamed a smile at him and nibbled at the sugar biscuit accompanying the raspberry sorbet that had just arrived.

  “Aye, aye, Captain. I won’t be around when he turns thirteen and burns this place to the ground. He’s all yours.”

  The look he gave her was definitely suspicious and on the fair side of venomous. She should be terrified of living in a lunatic asylum with a potential murderer in charge. Appare
ntly the beauty of the countryside had given her a false sense of security. She simply couldn’t fear a man as desperate as she was.

  Pippa had ten dozen questions she could have asked, but like Scheherazade, she thought she’d drag them out for a thousand nights or so and avoid beheading. Some of the answers she could find out for herself. As her brusque host finally took his towering frame off to whatever cave he inhabited, Pippa went in search of her new office. Thoughtless of him not to show it to her, but she had already begun to suspect thoughtless was just the tip of the descriptive iceberg for Mr. Seth Wyatt.

  ***

  In his office, Seth glared at his computer screen. The words swimming before him could have been little white lines for all he noticed. Instead of focusing on the gore and havoc wreaked by a deadly gopher run amuck, his inner eye produced visions of a redhead with a blinding smile.

  He’d have to write angel books if this continued. Grunting in dissatisfaction, Seth rocked his chair back and took another sip of coffee. He wasn’t even certain he could bed a woman with a smile like that. Did she smile when she was on her back and between the sheets?

  Contemplating Phillippa Cochran naked wasn’t conducive to concentration either.

  Dammit! He knew this would happen. His libido always churned into overdrive when he’d gone without sex for a while. He’d have to arrange to go into L.A. for a few days.

  But he didn’t like leaving Chad that long, especially with a new member of the household. And he really didn’t fancy coming within reach of Tracey’s claws again. She’d accommodated him more than once since his divorce, but she was developing dangerously territorial habits. The last time, he’d practically had to lock her in the house to stop her from following him. He definitely did not want another predatory female in his life.

  Seth glared at the computer screen a minute more, then popped open the lid of a can of hard-coated English toffees and helped himself to one. He’d given up cigarettes when the doctor had told him Chad had weak lungs and would suffer from the secondhand smoke. But the damned candies were every bit as addictive.