The Best Next Thing

by Natasha Anders

  ALSO BY NATASHA ANDERS

  The Unwanted Series

  The Unwanted Wife

  A Husband’s Regret

  His Unlikely Lover

  Alpha Men Series

  The Wingman

  The Best Man

  The Wrong Man

  The Broken Pieces Duet

  More Than Anything

  Nothing But This

  A Ruthless Proposition

  Promises of Forever

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Natasha Anders

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN: 294-0-162-98275-3

  Cover: Designs By Dana

  Editors: Melody Guy and Suzanne Jefferies

  Formatting: Brenda Wright, Formatting Done Wright

  For Carmelita and Cheri-Lee.

  Thanks for being such awesome friends.

  Maybe I’ll name a couple of characters after you guys in the next book.

  Maybe.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  The shroud of darkness was accompanied—as always—by a terrifying inevitability. Each excruciating exhalation left her with even less air in her lungs. And while she fought to breathe, he was right there, applying ever more pressure.

  His sinister voice promised, “Tonight’s the night you die, Charity.”

  No!

  The panic and helplessness were familiar companions as she clawed her way back to the light.

  Charity awoke with a gasp and immediately kicked off the suffocating, restrictive bedcovers. Her nightgown was soaked through with sweat, her hair drenched, and she shivered uncontrollably. She swallowed down the small, distressed sounds coming from the back of her throat while she fought to regulate her breathing.

  “Get yourself together.” She hated the woman she became every time she had this nightmare. “It’s over. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

  She counted to ten, first in English, then in French and then—just for the hell of it—in Japanese, until she was sure she had a handle on her emotions. It was an odd quirk of hers; that ability to count to a hundred in several different languages, none of which she could actually speak or truly understand.

  “He can’t hurt you,” she told herself. “He can’t hurt you. He’s gone. He can’t hurt you.” Some nights it took longer than others to convince herself of that fact. But it was easier tonight. Perhaps because she hadn’t been asleep very long.

  She got out of bed, dragged her nightgown over her head and dumped it on

  the hardwood floor, before padding, naked, to the en suite. The sweat dried rapidly as the cold air hit her overheated flesh. She was still shivering uncontrollably as she stepped beneath the punishingly hot spray of her shower.

  The nightmare would be back, maybe not tonight or tomorrow, but eventually.

  It was inescapable.

  Absolute rest.

  That was what the doctor had ordered. Which was bullshit. Miles Henry Hollingsworth wasn’t a man who could sit on his arse and do nothing all day long. But his mother and sister had been concerned, and he knew that they would badger him endlessly if he didn’t take that prescribed “mental and physical” break. Miles was a bloody weakling when it came to denying the two most important women in his life.

  Which was why he had finished any outstanding business and left his COO,

  Bryan Yoshida, in charge of Hollingsworth Holdings Inc. Miles’s younger brother, a recently promoted junior exec, would assist Bryan. Hugh was eager to grow and learn, but Miles had been reluctant to give him more responsibility. Not because the young man was incompetent, but because Miles had a hard time ceding even the slightest control to anyone else. Bryan was Miles’s most trusted friend and colleague. The man would be a patient and wise mentor to Hugh.

  Consequently, Miles had boarded the corporate jet and fourteen hours later, here he was, at his isolated holiday home on the Garden Route in the Western Cape of South Africa. It was after three in the morning, pouring with rain and colder than a witch’s tit, but the weather suited his mood. He could have followed the sun and gone to his villa on the Amalfi Coast, but the Western Cape in winter was exactly what he was looking for. He knew the nearby tourist town would be quiet at this time of year, and he would be alone but for the staff he kept on retainer.

  The only individuals with whom he would have to interact would be Amos Moloi, the gardener; his driver, George Clark; and the dour live-in housekeeper, Mrs. Cole. The woman had worked and lived there for nearly three years, and nobody knew much about her other than she kept to herself for the most part, got her work done almost as if by magic, and excelled at wish fulfilment. No matter how crazy the request, Mrs. Cole could arrange it.

  Recommended by his attorney, the woman was a gem, and Miles guarded her jealously. This house was more hers than his. She lived here full-time, while he visited once or twice—if he was lucky—a year. There really was no need to have her here all year round but for the fact that Miles was afraid he’d lose her to a better position if he offered her only part-time employment. He’d rather pay her handsomely and retain her services full-time than lose her. When he found someone he could trust to do a job the way he wanted it done, he’d move heaven and earth to secure their loyalty.

  He had forgotten to let her know he was coming, but he had faith that Mrs. Cole wouldn’t miss a step. The house would be fully stocked and operational in no time at all.

  God, he was exhausted.

  His arrival to the house was quiet and there was no sign of Mrs. Cole when he disabled the alarm and stepped into the dark kitchen from the basement garage. While Miles thought nothing of waking her, he didn’t feel like interacting with anyone at the moment and wanted to avoid her till morning.

  He allowed George to carry his bags to his room before dismissing the man for the rest of the night. He needed a hot shower, some food in his belly, and sleep. Lots of it. Years of it.

  About five minutes after George left, Miles made his way down the long passageway from his suite to the huge rustic, country kitchen. He needed a sandwich or something before showering and crawling into bed. He hoped Mrs. Cole had stocked some of the basics. She had her own private wing, complete with a kitchen, a sitting room and study, so her personal grocery supply likely wouldn’t be stocked in this kitchen. Still, he hoped there was something edible at least.

  He stopped dead in his tracks when he got to the kitchen and blinked at the sight that met his eyes.

  The previously dark room he had walked through a few moments before was now brightly lit. A tall, shapely, unmista
kably feminine figure stood framed—with her back to him—in the door of the large refrigerator. The mystery woman was wearing a pair of loose exercise shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt. She had strong, lean legs, leading to gorgeous firm thighs, and a round shapely bum, the lush fullness of which tapered into a tiny waist, slender back, and narrow shoulders. Her long, long hair cascaded almost to her waist and rippled with every move she made. She hummed softly to herself as she rummaged around in his fridge.

  Miles had no idea who this trespasser was or what she was doing there, but she gave him an instant, aching hard-on even before he saw her face, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit. This was not conducive to a peaceful holiday. He didn’t need the distraction of an unwelcome attraction to some intrusive stranger who had no business being in his house. At best, she was related to one of the staff—Mrs. Cole’s daughter, perhaps?—at worst, she was a trespasser. Either way, she was not welcome.

  She turned, her slender arms full of ingredients, and shut the fridge door behind her with a cheeky hip thrust. She lifted her head and hissed in shock when she saw him, and he took petty satisfaction in startling her as much as she had stunned him.

  She had brown eyes, he noted grimly, so dark and intense it was hard to differentiate between iris and pupil. Those disturbing eyes were set beneath lovely, perfectly arched dark brows and between thick, long lashes. Her face was a delicate oval, with lush, pink lips, a slightly dented chin, and high, perfect cheekbones. The only things marring all that perfection was the slightly crooked nose—but it gave her an appealing approachability—and an oddly shaped scar on her left temple, just beneath her hairline. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, past her breasts, wrapping around her like a cloak, and he marveled at the silken stuff. He’d known a lot of gorgeous women in his lifetime, but he couldn’t remember one ever having hair like hers. It was lovely. A sleek, black cascade that he wanted to wrap his fist in.

  There was a lovely dusky brown tone to her velvety looking skin, giving her a Middle Eastern or North African—possibly both? —appearance. She was singularly beautiful.

  And familiar. Very familiar. She had to be related to Mrs. Cole. He didn’t usually pay too much attention to his housekeeper. Not enough to notice details about her appearance…but her eyes were unmistakable. This woman had the same striking eyes.

  “Who the hell are you?” He finally found his voice, and was pleased to note that it didn’t betray an ounce of his fascination with her. He sounded cold and in control. “Why are you here? What are you doing in my house?”

  Charity blinked at the man glowering at her. Why was she here? Why was he here? She had received no word of his arrival. Why had nobody notified her? Warned her that he was coming?

  Gosh, he looked awful. He was a trim figure of a man, but had enough depth to his shoulders and definition to his body to make him appear bigger and stronger.

  Usually.

  Currently he was a husk of his former self. Too thin and also much too pale. It was summer in the UK, why was he so pale? His impeccably tailored suits always fitted him like a glove, yet this one hung from his frame with room to spare.

  She looked at her armful of groceries and grimaced, feeling at a disadvantage. She had kissed the notion of sleep goodbye after her nightmare and had been about to make herself a sandwich when her boss had scared her nearly to death. Aware that she looked completely unprofessional, she straightened her shoulders, tilted her chin, and schooled her face into its usual expressionless mask. There was nothing she could do about the way she was dressed but, even though she felt defenseless being seen without her usual armor in place, she did the best with what she had.

  “Mr. Hollingsworth, sir, I wasn’t expecting you tonight.” Or at all. “Can I fix you something to eat?”

  He scowled at her suspiciously before an expression close to disbelief settled on his face.

  “Mrs. Cole?”

  She didn’t respond, merely kept her gaze level, and her face impassive. He raked his incredulous glance up and down her body, and she strove not to cringe beneath that scorching appraisal.

  “Perhaps a sandwich, sir? I’m sorry, my refrigerator is on the fritz and the electrician hasn’t been in to fix it yet, and I’ve been keeping my groceries here for the time being. I’ll remove everything as soon as possible, of course.”

  Miles was having a hard time reconciling the barefoot goddess in front of him with the prim, practical Mrs. Cole, whom—for some reason—he had always assumed was closer to fifty than thirty. Yet this woman standing in front of him in those tiny shorts didn’t look much older than thirty. But her slightly aloof demeanor, her voice, the absolute professionalism, despite the way she was dressed, were hallmark Mrs. Cole.

  This was…bizarre.

  Miles would move heaven and earth to secure an accomplished employee like Mrs. Cole, confident in the knowledge that once she was working for him, he wouldn’t have to do anything more than check in on her occasionally. That’s the beauty of hiring the best.

  Mrs. Cole ran the house efficiently from behind the scenes, employing cleaning and catering services as needed, and communicating through texts and emails whenever she could. All while keeping herself determinedly invisible. She was like a phantom—the legendary Mrs. Cole who appeared only when needed and disappeared into the woodwork when her task was complete.

  It was easy to understand how he had not noticed this striking woman before. And yet, the transformation was still mind-boggling. How could the difference in dress and hair be so profound that it felt like he was looking at a completely different woman? In fact, Miles doubted even Vicki or Hugh—both usually a hell of a lot more observant than Miles when it came to people—had any idea what she really looked like.

  She was still talking about the refrigerator and he forced himself to focus on what she was saying.

  “I don’t give a damn where you keep your groceries, Mrs. Cole,” he said, forcing the incredulity out of his voice. If she could maintain her professionalism under these awkward circumstances, then so could he. “Just make sure I’m fed on time, the house is clean, and I remain undisturbed. That’s all I require.”

  “Will anybody be joining you, sir?”

  “No.”

  “And might I inquire as to how long you’ll be staying?”

  “Six weeks at the very least.” He sensed her surprise even though her expression remained stuck in neutral. He had never stayed here for longer than a week or ten days. His siblings and their friends usually stayed longer but the siren song of work always called him back sooner rather than later.

  “And yes, I’d like a sandwich.”

  “Very well, sir.” So much aplomb in that crisp voice. “Would you like me to bring it up to your room?”

  “I think that would be best.” He gave her another frowning once-over, before shaking his head, annoyed with her for being so disturbingly different. He trusted that she’d go back to her normal self by morning so that he could attempt to dismiss tonight as exhaustion playing tricks on his mind.

  He left without a backward glance, and Charity heaved a relieved sigh. She dashed into her room to scrape her long hair back into a bun and drag on a skirt. She didn’t allow herself to speculate over what he must have thought about her sloppy appearance, and definitely didn’t allow herself to dwell over the heat she’d seen smoldering in his steel gray eyes while he had been dragging his gaze over her face and body.

  He hadn’t recognized her, that much was clear and having him see her like that, without her usual protective shell in place, had left her feeling raw and defensive.

  Just get through tonight, she urged herself, heading back to the kitchen to quickly assemble a grilled ham and cheese sandwich. She added a side salad and a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows—his favorite nighttime drink—and placed everything onto a breakfast tray. She took a moment to compose herself, allowing tranquility to blanket her shattered nerves. After another deep breath, she felt centered enough to calmly w
alk the long, dimly lit corridor to his suite of rooms.

  There was no response to her initial knock on his bedroom door. After another perfunctory knock, she turned the handle and stepped into the room. It was illuminated by the bedside lamp, which shed only enough light for her to see that Mr. Hollingsworth was sprawled out and fast asleep in the center of his luxurious king-sized bed. She tried not to wince at the sight of the stripped-down bed, reminding herself that nobody had notified her of his imminent arrival. Impossible to be effective if she wasn’t kept appraised of the family’s intentions.

  She stared at her employer for a moment, wondering if it was best to let him sleep, but he was still wearing that hopelessly wrinkled gray pinstriped suit—and he had requested this sandwich. Charity had worked for him long enough to know that he would be displeased if she didn’t follow his instructions to the letter. He was an exacting, cold man who had no time for, or patience with, bad service.

  She set the tray on the bedside table and cleared her throat awkwardly.

  “Mr. Hollingsworth, I brought your sandwich,” she said. Nothing. Not even the flutter of an eyelid. Crap. She raised her voice, “Mr. Hollingsworth. Your sandwich.”

  Still nothing. She closed her eyes and inhaled nervously. She was going to have to touch him. She wiped her suddenly clammy palms on her skirt and swallowed back the bile that had risen in her throat. This wasn’t ideal. She should leave. Maybe he’d wake up on his own.

  “Mr. Hollingsworth!” She practically shouted in a last-ditch desperate attempt to avoid touching him. That did the trick. He leaped out of the bed like it was on fire and stood staring at her with wide eyes, his chest heaving as he assessed the situation, searching for the threat. When he realized that there was none and registered her presence, he stood upright and glared at her.

  Charity tried her best to appear unfazed even though his violent reaction had nearly sent her rabbiting out of the room like the coward she was. She held her hands clasped in front of her in an effort to hide their trembling from him.