Her Man Friday

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  Yet as an adult holding an MBA from Harvard that enriched his BS in mechanical engineering from MIT, as a man who had worked and sweated and sacrificed to build an empire from nothing, Schuyler scorned everything that smacked of welfare. He was a staunch Republican and conservative, and he showed nothing but contempt for people who had fallen on hard times. Although he spent lavishly on things to enrich his own lifestyle, he was otherwise a parsimonious hoarder of every nickel he made.

  And for the life of her, Lily couldn't imagine why he would want to deny someone who was needy the basic essentials of life. Especially since he knew firsthand just how terrifying and soul-emptying such a way of life could be.

  As she always did when pondering the puzzle of Schuyler Kimball, Lily sighed and pushed her troubling thoughts away. She'd made a promise to him a long time ago, and he had made one to her. So far, they had both stuck to their words with no problem. Schuyler was a big boy now; it wasn't up to Lily to be his conscience. It wasn't up to her to remind him what was right and what was wrong. It wasn't up to her to tell him what a big, fat jerk he could be sometimes.

  Nor, she told herself further as she considered her options for dress again, was it up to her to be Leonard Freiberger's… anything. She snatched the black dress from its hanger and tossed it onto the bed, then went about changing her identity from social secretary to dinner hostess. Because even though, technically, it was Schuyler who owned and operated Ashling, he and Lily really had a partnership in that respect. Schuyler owned the estate. Lily operated it. It was an arrangement that worked out quite nicely.

  As she made her way back downstairs to Ashling's generous dining room, she realized she still wasn't certain whether or not Schuyler would be joining the rest of the household for dinner. She knew he was home and had been for over an hour, had in fact known that from the moment he'd set foot in the house. Not just because he'd screamed, "Lileee! Darlüing! What happened while I was gone?" the moment he was inside the front door, the way he always did when he returned from a trip. But because the entire estate seemed to hum with energy and activity whenever Schuyler was in residence. It was as if there was simply too much to the man for his body to contain it all, so whatever it was that made him Schuyler spilled out over everything—and everybody—else.

  He was, quite simply, a remarkable human being. Everyone knew that. Especially Schuyler. And there was no point in anyone trying to dissuade him of the idea.

  The dining room, when Lily entered it, shone like an African landscape at sunset. Its sweeping paneled walls of bird's-eye maple glowed like warm honey beneath the gentle light of a spectacular chandelier reigning over the room—a massive, ornate oval of pale gold glass that spanned the length of a banquet-sized table. The three dozen chairs lining the table were upholstered in faux leopard, the expansive rug beneath it patterned in a surprisingly realistic-looking zebra stripe. On the walls where men of lesser conscience would have mounted dead animals, Schuyler had opted for tribal decorations instead—masks, carvings, textiles, and seemingly primitive, but very elegant, weaponry.

  Although Schuyler himself had never hunted in his life—the sight of blood and the mere suggestion of violence generally made him throw up—it didn't prevent him from being caught up in the whole Ernest Hemingway/Teddy Roosevelt manly man sort of thing that seemed so popular with testosterone-driven units these days. And he had been to Africa on a number of occasions, though he usually viewed the vistas from a climate-controlled Land Rover driven by someone named Omar, while he and someone of the feminine persuasion sat in the back sipping martinis and listening to the soundtrack from The Lion King.

  All of that, however, was immaterial, because mystique, to Schuyler, was everything. Well, mystique and mood were everything. Mystique and mood and money. And image, too. Okay, so maybe mystique wasn't quite everything. But it did count for quite a lot where Schuyler Kimball was concerned. And Ashling reflected mystique—and mood and money and image—in every room.

  The table, Lily noted as she approached it, was set with very fine china for eight instead of the customary six—a population of less than one quarter its capacity—and she wasn't much surprised to realize that someone else, in addition to Mr. Freiberger, would be joining them tonight. A woman, no doubt. With big hair, big bosoms, big assets… and a very tiny brain. Schuyler never came home from a trip alone. And he never brought with him women who indulged in activities as unnecessary and mundane as thinking.

  "Miss Rigby."

  Lily's own thoughts were interrupted by the quiet summons, and she spun quickly around to find Mr. Freiberger standing framed by the entrance to the dining room. He'd donned his icky gray tweed jacket again, and had straightened his ugly blue necktie, but he still looked adorably rumpled.

  Well, maybe not adorably rumpled, she amended. It was, after all, rather difficult for a man who evoked notions of a construction crew on a hot day to appear adorable. And not exactly rumpled, either. No, what Mr. Freiberger appeared to be, she decided upon further inspection, was rather sexily mussed, as if he'd just tumbled out of bed after a raucous and very satisfying experience.

  "Good evening, Mr. Freiberger," she hastened to greet him, before the image in her head could proceed any further and become more graphic.

  Oops. Too late.

  Just like that, a very graphic image exploded in her brain, so graphic that she saw quite clearly what Mr. Freiberger wasn't wearing, and who he had tumbled before leaving his imaginary bed. And Lily was absolutely certain she'd never seen herself smiling quite like that before.

  "I'm so glad you could stay for, um… dinner," she said, stumbling over the last word.

  Even across the expanse of the dining room, she saw his smile turn sexy, and she wondered if he'd guessed what she'd been thinking about. "I wouldn't miss um-dinner for the world," he told her, his voice laced with an unmistakable intent.

  Oh, dear. Evidently he had guessed what she'd been thinking about. Well, some of it, anyway. She doubted he could have figured out that part where the two of them had been coiled around each other, doing something she'd always wanted to try, but had never had the nerve to even—

  "The others should be along shortly," she hurried on, battling with questionable success the heat that was fast creeping up from her belly to her breasts and all points beyond. "Whenever Mr. Kimball is in residence, we always dine at precisely seven o'clock."

  Mr. Freiberger took a few idle steps forward, the soft scuffing of his shoes on the hardwood floor the only sound in the otherwise silent room. "And when Mr. Kimball isn't in residence?" he asked. "Whatever do you do then, Miss Rigby?"

  Just how the man made the question sound sexually charged, Lily couldn't have said, but somehow, it came across as exactly that. Mr. Freiberger seemed to be suggesting that Schuyler performed a service for her that gave the designation of social secretary a whole new meaning. It was that spark of something speculative in his eyes, she finally decided, a speculation that overflowed into the even timbre of his voice.

  Ever since he had shown up on Ashling's doorstep, Mr. Freiberger had played fast and loose with Lily's libido, and she couldn't for the life of her figure out why. Oh, certainly, beneath all that Goodbye, Mr. Chips bookishness, there was an odd kind of sexual heat burning and churning, but still. The man was a bookkeeper, a very small cog in the very large machine that was Kimball Technologies. No one of Leonard Freiberger's capacity should exude such an air of authority and command. Nor should he be able to rev up her motor with a simple look. But her motor had most definitely been revved. And she couldn't help but wonder just what Mr. Freiberger planned to do once he got under her hood.

  "I beg your pardon?" she said, cursing herself for the faintness and uncertainty she heard in her voice. "What did you mean by that?"

  He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, then lifted his shoulders and let them fall in a shrug that was nowhere near casual. Because his gaze remained firmly fixed on Lily's face—or, more specifically, on Lily's mouth�
�and his eyes were lit with a dark and intriguing fire. "What do you mean, what did I mean?" he asked, a naughty—and very knowing—little smile dancing about his lips.

  She opened her mouth to respond with something flirty and fun that she would doubtless later wish she hadn't said—mainly because she didn't have time for flirty and fun these days, no matter what her treacherous libido seemed to think. And even if she did have time, she was in no position, thank you very much, to take on someone of Mr. Freiberger's evident… um… prowess. But she was spared the response because Janey Kimball chose that moment to flutter in with her mother in tow—something that prevented her from saying much of anything at all. Because Janey, God help them all, was clearly in a snit.

  Lily supposed that if she tried very, very hard, and was very, very patient, she might someday be able to convince Schuyler's sister that the earth and moon and stars in fact did not revolve around Janey Kimball. But really, what was the point? To dissuade the woman of such notions would only make her that much more irritable—and, therefore, more irritating—and why unleash such a creature on an unsuspecting public?

  "Janey," Lily said when the other woman breezed past her without so much as a nod of acknowledgment. "Have you met Mr. Freiberger? He works for your brother."

  Then, not wanting to exclude Schuyler's mother—well, Lily often wanted to exclude Miranda Kimball from things, but it would be frightfully impolite to do so—she turned her body to include the other woman in the introduction, as well. "Mrs. Kimball," she added, "this is Leonard Freiberger, an employee of Kimball Technologies. Mr. Freiberger, Mrs. Miranda Kimball and Miss Jane Kimball."

  "Mrs. Kimball," Mr. Freiberger stated formally, dipping his head first toward Schuyler's mother in greeting. "How do you do?"

  Miranda lifted a hand to press her fingertips lightly against her temple, then sighed with a melodrama that put her daughter's affectations to shame. Her attire, too, rivaled Janey's in the Golden Age of Hollywood department—a flowing, silver lame caftan with matching turban, and enormous rings on each of her fingers. Norma Desmond had nothing on Miranda Kimball in the wardrobe department, Lily thought. And not in the insanity department, either.

  "I'm afraid I'm not well at all, Mr. Freiberger," Miranda said in a much-put-upon voice. "But thankfully, Montgomery has come to help me with my problems. He's been very helpful."

  Somehow, Lily refrained from expelling a rude snort of disbelief. She couldn't stop what she knew would come next, however, and steeled herself for Mr. Freiberger's inescapable query, followed by Miranda's insipid reply.

  "Montgomery?" he asked.

  Miranda nodded. "Montgomery Clift."

  To his credit, Mr. Freiberger only arched his eyebrows in mild surprise. "Montgomery Clift is a guest at Ashling? Forgive me, Mrs. Kimball, but I was under the impression that Montgomery Clift was, uh… somewhat incapacitated these days."

  "Oh, no, Mr. Freiberger," Miranda assured him. "He's not incapacitated. He's dead."

  After only a slight hesitation on his part, God bless the man, Mr. Freiberger replied, "And you don't consider death an incapacitation?"

  Miranda tittered prettily. "Oh, no, certainly not. In fact, there's nothing more liberating. Why, in death, one can travel anywhere."

  "And I believe," Lily interjected quickly, before Miranda could start off on the whole astral plane thing, "you've already made the acquaintance of Mr. Kimball's sister, Jane."

  Beside Miranda, Janey sighed with much impatience. "Yes, yes, we've already met," she agreed shortly, carelessly sweeping a gloved hand down the front of her pale yellow chiffon dress.

  Chiffon gown, Lily corrected herself automatically, not dress. Janey never wore dresses—only gowns. Gowns and gloves and big ol' hats that could put a person's eye out if they weren't careful, like the vast, botanically enhanced one she was wearing at the moment. Honestly, Lily thought, she might as well plant shrubbery in that thing.

  "He's one-forty-two," Janey continued with a quick gesture toward Mr. Freiberger, using the same tone of voice she might use if stating that he were currently covered with slugs. "I have nothing to say to him. Nothing at all."

  Then she spun around again and made her way to the bar on the other side of the room. With a watery smile, Miranda followed her daughter, which was just as well, Lily thought, because they both became much more tolerable after a cocktail or two. Well, after Lily had a cocktail or two—or ten—anyway.

  She couldn't quite mask her surprise—nor her interest—when she turned back to Mr. Freiberger. "Are you really one-forty-two?" she asked before she could stop herself. "That's extraordinary."

  He eyed her in confusion for a moment. But before she could elaborate, he suddenly nodded his understanding. "Oh, the IQ thing," he said modestly. "I thought she was talking about my weight. Which is actually one-ninety-eight. It's all solid rock, though," he hastened to add, his voice reflecting his concern that she might find the number excessive where poundage, other than of the mental variety, was concerned.

  Solid rock, Lily reiterated to herself. Right. To think that she might need a reminder of such a thing.

  "Schuyler's IQ is one-hundred-and-ninety-seven," Lily said, wondering what made her offer up the information. It wasn't as if the two men were competing, after all.

  But Mr. Freiberger evidently didn't see it quite that way, because he straightened to an even more impressive height than usual and said, "Oh, yeah? And can he bench press his IQ the way I can mine?"

  She smiled, striving for a benign expression. "I have no idea, Mr. Freiberger. I would think not, seeing as how Mr. Kimball prefers swimming and tennis over brute force athletics."

  He seemed to deflate some at her suggestion that she found brute force unappealing. But even deflated, Leonard Freiberger was quite an intimidating specimen of manhood.

  Unable to help herself—he did look so dejected, after all—Lily added, "I myself, however, think that there may be something to be said for brute force on occasion."

  Mr. Freiberger brightened some at that, straightening to his full height once again. "Oh, yeah?"

  She managed a brief nod and congratulated herself for not acting on her impulse to leap into his arms and claim him as her very own personal love monkey in the most basic, primitive way imaginable, with her own show of brute force. "So long as it's performed in moderation, naturally," she added faintly.

  "Well, that goes without saying," he agreed.

  For some reason, she suddenly began to grow warm again, and decided that it might be wise to discontinue their discussion—at least while other people were present. So instead, she gestured over her shoulder toward the bar and asked, "Would you care for a cocktail before dinner, Mr. Freiberger?"

  "That would be nice, thank you, Miss Rigby. Scotch, if you have it."

  She smiled again. "Why, Mr. Freiberger. You forget whose home you're in. Don't you read the papers? Schuyler Kimball has everything."

  Leo watched with much interest as the delectable Miss Rigby spun around and made her way across the dining room—dining room being a deceptive term, as far as he was concerned. Veterans Stadium might have been a more accurate one. With a single, quick assessment, he'd come to the conclusion that the square footage on the room where Schuyler Kimball took his meals was larger than that of Leo's entire townhouse.

  He shook his head in silent disbelief. In addition to having an IQ up there with da Vinci's, the man had more money than God. Eleven billion dollars. That was what Schuyler Kimball was worth. Certainly Leo had already known that before coming to Ashling, but witnessing the physical evidence of such enormous wealth was more than a little awe-inspiring. The idea that one individual could possess billions of dollars was almost incomprehensible. To think that the man could spend ten billion dollars and still be a billionaire… To think about what ten billion dollars could buy… To imagine how many people could be fed and housed and clothed with ten billion dollars, and Kimball would still be a billionaire…

  It just wasn'
t right, Leo thought. He didn't care how hard Kimball had worked or how talented and gifted the man was. There was no reason to hoard all that money, when it could do so much for so many and still leave Kimball a fat and sassy cat. The man should be ashamed of himself, for God's sake, not spreading a little bit around for others to enjoy. And on top of that. .

  On top of that, Leo had actually just bragged to a woman that he could bench press his IQ. He groaned inwardly. What a moron. He should have his IQ rechecked. Because ever since coming to Ashling, he'd felt it slipping away little by little. And whenever Lily Rigby walked into a room, well… His IQ went right out the window.

  He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt it necessary to try and impress a woman in order to win her over. Usually, women responded to him with enthusiasm right off the bat, with absolutely no coaxing from the studio audience. And although he definitely sensed interest on Miss Rigby's part, there was something else in her that held her aloof. It was something that also prevented him from acting on his desire to get to know her better.

  Partly, in spite of her clear interest, he suspected there was something going on between her and Kimball, however superficial the relationship seemed to be. And he was also hesitant, he had to admit, because, well, at the risk of coming off as an intellectual snob—which, when he got right down to it, he was—Lily Rigby just wasn't as smart as Leo was. And he really preferred women who could keep up with him in the contemplative arena. Not that she was particularly shallow, mind you—well, not too shallow—but that whole cat thing from their initial encounter was never far from his thoughts.

  Plus, as much as he hated to do it, he still had to view her as an unknown quantity where the missing Kimball millions were concerned. He didn't really think Lily Rigby had anything to do with the money's disappearance—thanks to that cat business—but at this point, he had no leads, and it would be foolish to rule out anyone. Miss Rigby was as likely a suspect as anyone, he supposed.