Chapter 2
In the late afternoon the next day, Emmaline headed to her quarters on the first floor of Lucas’s beachfront house. It had its own entrance at the side of the residence but could be reached through the laundry room as well. Going through that door, she walked into a sitting area that opened into a generous-sized bedroom with a large bathroom attached. There was even a mini-kitchen in one corner of the main space.
The house was obviously designed for full-time, live-in help, and she smiled at her surroundings as she stripped out of her uniform and changed into a pair of comfy black yoga pants and a slouchy top in pale green. She left her feet bare, the rug covering the hardwood floors enough to keep her toes warm.
She’d had a recent pedicure—not at the elegant nail salon she’d recommended to Stella—but at a perfectly nice place that took walk-ins. Her choice of color, an opalescent pale blue-green the same shade as when the sun struck the shallow waters of a low tide.
Pulling the band from the end of her braid, she fingered out her hair so the waves fell to her shoulders. Then she poured herself an ice tea and took up her phone, calling one of her friends from the butler academy, Sara.
When the other woman picked up with a cheerful greeting, Emmaline lowered to a nearby cushioned chair and spoke in a quiet tone. “He’s back.”
“Just now?”
“No, yesterday. I didn’t want to bother you because I knew you and Joaquin had a date night planned.”
“It wouldn’t have been any bother,” Sara said. “Is it going okay?”
“I suppose so.” He’d been away on business more than half the time of Emmaline’s employment, so they’d yet to fall into an ordinary routine. She was still learning the tasks he required of her, not to mention those she would take on under her own initiative. It was an essential part of her role as his employee, according to what she’d learned at the Continental Butler Academy. An exemplary butler—or house manager, as some were called—found ways to make their employer’s life and household run smoother, without the constant need for direct instruction.
“Any further illumination on the wife thing?”
Emmaline’s cheeks began to heat. “It’s just something his sister Stella keeps on about. She tells me her brother works too hard and he needs someone to make sure he has time for leisure too. And as a matter of fact, he’s got a date tonight to a fundraiser. Thanks to Charlie’s contacts, I managed to get his group a table at the latest hot spot for drinks before the event.”
Her instructors at the academy would fully approve—not just of obtaining the reservation, but that she’d been keeping up with local goings-on, from political and business news to society gossip to what new restaurants and entertainments were opening in the vicinity. She’d also be making and keeping her own list of convenient contacts. This time it had been Charlie’s guy—the one who headed up the valet parking at Top Shelf—that Emmaline had called. Once he received the custom brass collar stays engraved with his initials that she’d ordered—after learning he was quite the snazzy dresser—she figured he’d be her guy too.
“Hmm,” Sara said, her voice non-committal. “Night out for the boss. Any mention of your night with him that wasn’t when you landed at LAX?”
“No, no,” Emmaline said hastily, and waved her free hand even though her friend couldn’t see it. “That’s forgotten on my part and still apparently never remembered on his.”
“Hmm,” Sara said again.
“Really,” Emmaline insisted. “And anyway, the focus is the present, in which he has a social event scheduled—a date. My only interest in that is in the strictest professional sense, by the way.”
“No one said you had an interest in his dating other than professional, Emmaline,” Sara replied, her tone amused. “Are you… jealous?”
“Of course not!” Emmaline said. “I don’t care about having drinks at a trendy bar. And I’ve been to plenty of charity fundraisers. Those society affairs suffocate me.”
The quiet on the other end of the line told her she’d made a misstep. Grr. “You never said anything about attending fundraisers before,” Sara said slowly. “Not one word about ‘society affairs’ in all the time I’ve known you.”
“It’s not worth talking about,” Emmaline replied. “That’s the past too.” The deep, dark past.
“But—”
A knock on her door made Emmaline interrupt her friend. “Gotta go. Someone’s at my door.” She ended the call with a quick tap, glad to get away from a potential interrogation, then rushed to the entrance to her rooms. Once she got there, she sucked in a breath.
It had to be him.
Pasting on her most neutral expression, she swung open the door. “Sir.”
She managed to get that out before noting his attire—or lack thereof. In stocking feet, Mr. Curry stood before her in black tuxedo pants and nothing else. Meaning bare chest and arms, rugged and rippled with muscles.
His expression gave away a vague irritation, then he blinked, and his gaze roamed from her freed hair to her bare toes. “You’re out of uniform.”
She glanced toward her bedroom. “I can change—”
“No,” he said, his tone definitive. “I don’t want you wearing that penguin get-up anymore.”
It wasn’t panic that spurted in her belly, she told herself. “Sir—”
“Can’t I forbid it?” he asked, raising one eyebrow. “It seems like I should be able to stipulate a more casual look.”
Be without her armor? “Um, Mr. Curry—”
“What if I form it as a request?” He leaned one bare shoulder against the door jamb. “Is that easier for you? Because seeing you in those formal clothes makes me feel like the Queen will sashay around a corner any moment. It does not make my home the warm and relaxing space it should be for me.”
“Oh.” Emmaline’s shoulders slumped. “Of course, that’s my first priority, sir. I’ll leave off the uniform from now on—unless you instruct otherwise.”
He smiled. “See how simple? When you look more comfortable, I will be too.”
“Yes, sir.” Emmaline stifled her sigh.
“Now, I got your note,” Mr. Curry continued. From his pocket, he pulled out a small piece of paper. “You told me to call you when I’m ready to dress for the, uh…”
“Your date,” Emmaline said firmly. He was going out with another woman tonight, and she was happy for him. He deserved R&R and even another R, Romance, if that’s what he found. A good butler took enjoyment in her employer’s enjoyment. “But you could have used the intercom to summon me.”
“I could stir myself to walk a few steps and politely knock on your door, too.” He looked over her shoulder into the room. “Are you getting situated?” His gaze ran around the space. “I don’t see any family photos. You know you’re free to personalize, right?”
“Let’s go back to the master suite,” Emmaline said, bustling past him. No way did she want to get into a discussion about her family. She checked her watch. “We need to get you dressed if you’re going to pick up your date on time.”
He followed behind her. “Yes, ma’am.”
Ignoring his sardonic tone, she entered his room and made for the closet. The rest of the clothes she’d selected for his evening were hanging from a hook on the rack beside the long walnut dresser. First, though, she pulled open one of the drawers and drew out a pristine white undershirt.
As she went to close the drawer, he stayed her hand with a brief touch.
“Emmaline,” he said sternly.
She threw him a quick glance over her shoulder then returned her attention to the undershirt which she unfolded and smoothed. “Yes?”
“Have you been ironing my underwear again?”
“Well…” Her head ducked, and she rubbed her thumbs across the cool fabric in her hand.
“I thought I’d put a stop to that your first week on the job.”
“It’s a sickness!” she exclaimed, turning toward him and addressing that place beside his ear. “I can’t help it.”
“A sickness,” he scoffed. “You can do better than that.”
She hesitated. “Ironing is soothing,” she finally confessed. “It…calms me.”
Mr. Curry stilled, and she could feel him studying her face. “Emmaline, what do you have to be uneasy about?”
“You know.” She shrugged. “I worry whether I can find the socks that go missing in the dryer. If the spring mix in the refrigerator is still fresh. Whether there’s enough of your favorite beer stocked in the beverage cooler.”
“Emmaline—”
“And if you’ll be on time for tonight’s event,” she said over him and thrust the shirt his way. “Now put this on.”
To her relief, he let the subject go and dutifully drew on the soft cotton-silk blend. She busied herself with sliding the button-up shirt with the classic spread collar off its velvet-lined hangar.
Mr. Curry eyed it suspiciously as he tucked the undershirt into his waistband. “That thing doesn’t have pleats or ruffles, does it?”
“Not at all,” she assured him. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”
When he tried to take it from her, she moved back and held it open for him. “Turn around and slide your arms through the sleeves.”
“I’ve been dressing myself for years,” he grumbled, but obeyed. “Is this really necessary?”
“I’ve been trained as a body servant.”
He turned to stare at her. “A what?”
She bit her lip. “Have you ever seen episodes of Downton Abbey?”
“I may have been in the room when Stella had it on the TV. But I recall the guy who dressed the aristocrat was not the same guy as the butler.”
“Well, I’ve been trained in both sets of duties. Part of what I learned at the Continental Butler Academy was how to dress a man. What pieces to wear when and how a man should wear them.”
“I can do that myself,” he said.
“What shoes have you chosen for tonight?”
“Uh…”
“Do you know how to fashion a bow tie?”
“Am I clipping it on?” he asked hopefully.
“No. You are going to wear your black cap-toe shoes that I polished just this morning.” She pointed them out. “And I’ll take care of your tie for you.”
He sighed. “Fine, fine.” Then he glanced down. “But sweetheart, you just had me put on a shirt without buttons.”
Sweetheart. Ignoring that, she opened another drawer in the dresser and drew out the onyx studs she’d ensured were clean and buffed. “I’ll take care of that too,” she said, and gestured him closer.
Oh, boy, she thought, as they came toes-to-toes. She could smell his soap, a new brand she’d picked out herself that smelled faintly of a coastal forest. Her fingers brushed the smoothly-shaven underside of his chin as she fastened the shirt at his neck. Holding her breath, she managed it aptly enough, but was forced to rush through the task.
“You’d better take in some air, Emmaline,” he said. “You’re turning pink.”
Which only made her blush heat up. “I’m fine,” she muttered, then fastened the last of the studs at the bottom of the shirt. She held out the tails so as not to make any accidental contact with dangerous portions of his anatomy.
Stepping back, she turned away to pull the bow tie from the dresser.
“Forget something?” he asked, and moving behind her, thrust his arms out so she was caged by his big body.
She stared at his wrists and the open cuffs of the shirt for a long moment, holding herself ramrod straight while resisting the inappropriate yearning to relax into him. God, it was like a sickness, this overwhelming physical reaction she had to him.
“Breathe,” Mr. Curry said, his own breath bathing the crown of her head and causing her scalp to prickle. “Remember you need to breathe, Emmaline.”
So she did that, and after another moment managed to do up his cuffs with only one slight fumble. Then she made him sit so she could fashion the bow tie. He complained so much about the procedure that she threatened to start ironing his socks, which instantly quieted him. When she handed him the appropriate pair of shoes, he sent her a look.
“What?” he asked, sounding testy. “You won’t kneel at my feet?”
Her cheeks heated again, and she didn’t let her imagination picture herself doing that very thing—for an entirely different purpose.
“You’re getting cranky,” she pointed out.
“I don’t want to go through with this evening,” he grumbled.
“Try to enjoy yourself,” she said briskly, gesturing him to stand, then holding up the ivory-colored dinner jacket for him to slip on.
“When did I get this?” he asked, as she came around to smooth the lapels and tug on the hems of the sleeves.
“It’s from the menswear store where Stella said she’s shopped for you before.” It turned out that the excellent state of Mr. Curry’s closet could be attributed to his sister and her appreciation of haberdashery. “They knew your measurements and were happy to provide express tailoring.”
He crossed to the free-standing full-length mirror and inspected himself. “I guess I’ll do.”
From behind him, she admired the set of his broad shoulders and the length of his legs. “You look dashing,” she said, then cleared her throat. “In my professional opinion, of course.”
Mr. Curry smiled at her in the mirror, their gazes meeting. “In your professional opinion. Of course.”
He knows, she thought, trying to conceal her embarrassment. He knew her admiration went way beyond the professional. Before she could humiliate herself any further, she said, “Meet me in the kitchen when you’re ready to go,” and took her leave.
There, she opened the refrigerator doors and stood before the shelving, letting the cold air waft over her hot face and neck. Get a hold of yourself, she scolded. Put on your butler face and wish him a happy evening.
When he arrived in the room, she quickly removed two plastic clamshell containers. One she held out to him. “For you to give your date.”
He winced. “We really have to do this?”
“It’s the…gimmick, if you will, of the event.” She tilted the box. “This is nothing like a prom date corsage, see?” It was elegant and simple, and fashioned on a silver cuff. “I had Stella ask about the color of the other woman’s dress.”
The other woman. That sounded wrong. “I mean your date’s dress,” Emmaline corrected. “Valerie.”
“Valerie,” Mr. Curry repeated, grimacing as he took the box. “If this is the night from hell, I’m blaming you.”
“Me?” Emmaline began, then shook her head. There was no more time for argument. “Let me pin on your boutonniere.”
He grumbled about that, too, but allowed her to fasten the tiny cream-colored lily with its tinier periwinkle companion.
“Look,” she said. “I had them wrap the stems with a strip of black leather. As macho as I could manage.”
Glancing down, he smiled. “Thank you.”
“I was aware you were worried about the state of your testicles.” Heat shot up her neck. Oh, why had she brought that up?
Mr. Curry only laughed. “A butler always has the master’s best interests at heart.”
“Indeed,” said Emmaline, trying to hide her fluster by looking at her watch. “Now you’d better get going.”
“Right.” He strode toward the door to the garage, and she followed in his wake.
“Have a wonderful time,” she said as his hand went to the knob. “Relax and enjoy yourself.”
He flashed her a smile over his shoulder. “Don’t wait up.” Then he paused, and turned toward her. “Hey, what do you have going on tonight?”
Don’t let him know you’ll probably spend the evening imagining him with someone else.
And pining.
She fastened on another smile. “Oh, I have my own date, sir. With a very interesting Mr. Hamilton.”
Lucas let himself into the house, stumbling over the threshold on a wave of weariness. Fucking jet lag. He never survived it well, and his trip from New York to LA was just now catching up with him. All he wanted to do was fall into bed and sleep.
The sound of soft music playing took him on a detour from the most direct path to his bedroom. He stripped off his jacket along the way and tried fruitlessly to unfasten the bow tie. But his hand dropped from the damn thing when he caught sight of the figure propped in a corner of his huge couch.
Highlighted by light from the lamp on a side table, a sleeping Emmaline slouched on the cushions. Dressed in a deep pink, satiny robe, it appeared she had some white fabric on her lap. Her phone and a tapestry-covered box sat on the cushion beside her. Coming closer, he peered inside the open lid of the container. Sewing stuff.
Huh. That explained the needle and thread cupped loosely in her limp hand.
Damn, she looked relaxed, and a spurt of irritation infused his weariness. His gorgeous butler must have enjoyed her date while he’d sat at a linen-draped round table with a centerpiece of flowers and horse shoes listening to Aaron’s second-cousin Valerie who turned out to be just so, so glad to make his acquaintance. Too so glad.
He shook his head to dispel the image, then contemplated his next move—leave Emmaline sleeping on the couch to wake with a stiff neck some hours later or rouse her now without somehow scaring the bejesus out of her. The music playing through the room’s speakers changed tempo, and he recognized the song. One glance at her phone’s screen made clear that “The Schuyler Sisters” was streaming wirelessly from the device to the stereo system.
Date with Mr. Hamilton, indeed. Smiling, he reached for her phone to stop the music from playing. At the sudden silence, Emmaline shifted, eyelashes fluttering and the fabric in her lap falling to the floor.
He bent for it, straightened, and found her staring at him with a drowsy gaze. “Hey, sleepyhead.”
She blinked, her incredible face flushed, her expression confused. “Um…”
Holding up the fabric, he took a glance at it, paused. “What’s this?”
Her brows came together. “Oh.” She cleared her throat, as if to clear the sleepiness from her brain. “I’m monogramming some of your things.”
Ah. Centered on the upper edge of the pocket of one of his white shirts was an embroidered and elegantly styled letter L, a larger C, a W the same size as the first, all in a shade of the palest gray. The initials for Lucas William Curry, in precise stitches that must take talent as well as skill, since all three letters were arranged in a circle the size of a dime.
Somehow it didn’t seem the work of a self-proclaimed “free spirit.”
He glanced toward his butler who was sitting straighter now and fussing with the edges of her satin robe that ended just above her knees. “Isn’t there a…I don’t know…business that does this kind of thing?”
“I do this kind of thing.” Her gaze downcast, she continued playing with the satin. “There’s a knitting shop nearby on the Pacific Coast Highway. They carry other kinds of needlework supplies as well.”
“Ah.”
As he continued to study her, she switched to busying herself with tidying the contents of her sewing box. Then she got to her feet, shooting him an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry, what must you think of me?” she asked, tightening the sash of her robe.
It didn’t cover the glimpse of cleavage he could see peeking from the vee neckline of the matching nightgown she wore beneath. Lucas’s weariness evaporated in a blast of lust.
“I should have asked you about your evening first thing,” Emmaline continued. She swooped to pick up an empty mug on the side table and headed with it toward the kitchen, separated from the living area by the granite-topped island.
He trailed after her, watching as she rinsed the mug and stowed it in the dishwasher. “How about you go first? How was your date?”
“Oh, lovely,” she said, not meeting his eyes by refolding a dish towel already fashioned into a neat rectangle.
“Mr. Hamilton live up to your expectations?”
She peeked at him from beneath her lashes.
Just that made him half-hard.
“Sure,” she said, with a flicker of a dimple in her cheek.
All hard now. But he couldn’t resist teasing again. “Isn’t he a little…old for you? Not to mention, well, dead?”
Eyes still downcast, he saw her quick smile. “Okay, fine. Make me admit it, then. I had a date with a playlist.”
He laughed, soft and low, which caused her gaze to lift. They stared at each other for a quick moment before she managed to turn from him and reach for the tea kettle. “I’m going to make another cup of tea. Would you like something?”
“Can you make it without caffeine? Jet lag’s fucking with me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, filling the kettle.
He wondered if this was the opening he should take. Launch into a discussion of their night that wasn’t by explaining his exhaustion, his oncoming flu, the carousel ride his brain had been on and the fucked-up decision he’d made to leave her without saying a word.
Instead, another thought came out of his mouth. “If not Mr. Hamilton, are you dating someone—or someones—else?” To give him credit, it sounded like an idle question.
“I…well…” The kettle shrieked, and she busied herself with making two mugs of tea. She slid one to him and stayed on her side of the island, leaning her hips against the countertop as she blew on the surface to cool her beverage.
Damn it, Lucas thought. She wouldn’t do that if she knew how her pursed lips reminded him of her kisses. Her warm weight on his lap in the taxi, the night rushing by as he held her still for his marauding mouth. Not that she’d resisted. She’d been pliant―all female surrender and sweet, sweet heat.
He’d never tasted anything more delicious than Emmaline’s hot, wet mouth.
“It’s fucking roasting in here,” he muttered now, and crossed to the doors that led to the ocean-view patio. Throwing one open, he let the cool, salty breeze and the sound of the waves wash over him. He breathed deep, wondering if every minute in the presence of his butler was going to be just like this. Blistering. Frustrating.
Torture.
She made him hard, she made him want.
And he’d done her the fucking favor of hiring her to be his butler. Which included acting as his body servant. He’d spent the whole damn night trying not to think of that.
A light touch brushed his elbow.
He spun, and Emmaline stepped back, concern written all over her face. “Was your evening unpleasant then?”
“I…” He forked his fingers through his hair, recalling he’d told her he’d blame her if it went to hell. What kind of asshole boss did that?
“Mr. Curry?”
Closing his eyes, he struggled for control. “I wish you’d call me something else,” he muttered.
“Sir?”
Oh, shit. That sweet “sir” was not any easier to hear. He should demand she call him Lucas, like she would have if they’d carried on that night they’d met. She’d have begged him to make her come, his name on her lips before, during, and after. He’d have had her head on his shoulder as they calmed, his hand sifting through the glorious waves of her hair, her breasts pressed against his side. His body taking a short break before reviving for a Round Two.
Because once wouldn’t have been enough with Emmaline.
Which, if he was being honest, was probably why he continued with this farce—pretending he’d never had his tongue in her mouth, his hand crawling up her sleek thigh even with a cabbie just a few inches away.
It gave him control over something that had seemed to be careening toward the uncontrollable.
He’d always had a thing about keeping the power in a relationship. It didn’t take a genius to understand that maintaining the upper hand ensured he’d remain invulnerable.
Letting out a sigh, he stepped around her. “I’m going to bed,” he said, and started walking.
It took him a minute to realize this time she was trailing him. He glanced back. “What are you doing?”
“I’ll help you with the bowtie and the studs,” she said.
Because she was his body servant.
Yeah, he should have sent her away then, to scurry toward her quarters on the other side of the house, even if that meant he had to cut off the damn bow tie or at least sleep in it. Instead, he enjoyed the faint whiff of her perfume as she continued at his heels and thought about having her lush curves close to him again as she ministered to his needs.
He swallowed his groan, accepting the distinct possibility he was going to hell.
At his suite, it was no surprise to find she’d left on a low lamp and had turned down his side of the bed. He stared at the smooth expanse of fancy cotton, then sighed again.
“I suppose it’s pointless to ask you to stop ironing the sheets and pillowcases.” He glanced over his shoulder to see her uncertainly chewing on her bottom lip.
She was going to kill him.
“Never mind,” he said quickly. “Go to town, lady. Iron the hell out of anything you want.” Then he stopped short. “Except the socks.”
“Okay.” Her smile was that “I’ve-made-you-happy” kind.
“Or the bath towels,” he added, just in case.
“Nobody irons bath towels,” she said with a little laugh that was nearly a giggle. “Completely misses the point, as you want them fluffy.”
“Fine.” He made his way into the closet and flipped on the lights. They dazzled his eyes after the dimmer atmosphere of the bedroom, and he closed them for a second.
They were still closed when he felt her small hands tugging at the studs of his shirt. So he kept them that way, thinking it was probably safer not to stare into those long-lashed big browns of hers.
Then she’d reached the bow tie, and she made a cute little frustrated sound in her throat as she worked at it.
“I might have tugged at it a time or two,” he said in apology, and opened his eyes to look down at her.
“Poor man,” she said, glancing up.
That face. Broad forehead, exotic eyes, full lips, small square chin. “Fuck Emmaline, you’re so damn…good at what you do.”
He’d been going to say beautiful, but stopped himself just in time. Because, yeah, that would have been the wrong kind of boss move.
She shrugged and finally managed to free the bow tie.
“You don’t know that?” he asked, still thinking of her looks. “You must know that.”
She shrugged again.
“Emmaline, you’re fucking lovely.” Oh, shit. What was wrong with him? That shouldn’t have spilled out of his mouth. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I was out of line. Much too personal.”
“No worries.” Her fingers were at the stud fastening his collar. “I don’t take that kind of comment personally because I don’t take any credit for my appearance. Fortunate genes, is all. I was lucky that way.”
Then her lashes lowered, hiding her expression. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but decided her mind might be several miles away, because then she gripped his shirt and started tugging the long tails free of his pants.
Fucking God. The fabric slid against his dick like the soft stroke of a hand. Her hand.
“You understand,” she said now, continuing to gently pull, the light pressure against his growing erection excruciating. “You’re a very handsome man.”
“Emmaline.” He grabbed her hands to still them before he embarrassed them both with a solid dick that was interested in more than a discussion of pretty faces. One more second, and it would be demanding to get inside her, and he wasn’t sure he had the will to keep the wolf inside him at bay. “You need to get out of here. Now.”
Her chin jerked up, and she blinked those incredible eyes, before they suddenly flared wide. Her pulse began thrumming in her throat, and when she took in an unsteady breath he could see her nipples hardening, poking into the satin fabric of her nightgown and robe.
She swallowed, and a pretty flush broke across her amazing cheekbones. “I…”
He could smell her, the scent of Emmaline’s skin heating, and the scent of something else, far more dangerous. Her desire. It bloomed in the air, and in that betraying blush.
Her want of him.
Emmaline’s fingers trembled in his, and Lucas squeezed them, trying to reassure her. “Sweetheart,” he whispered. “Just go.”
Her head gave a jerky nod, and then she slipped from his hold, backing away on her bare feet. At the closet doorway, she found her voice. “Have a…have a good rest,” she said, and then rushed away, the hem of her robe fluttering behind her. The sash caught on the edge of the table by the bedroom door and slid free of the loops, but she didn’t slow, leaving it to fall to the rug.
Lucas watched her receding back, then crossed the floor to pick up the errant length of satin. Brushing it against his mouth, he tried to calm his clamoring libido.
Shit. Jet lag or not, he figured there wasn’t going to be any sleeping for him tonight. Instead, it would be long hours of running numbers.
Hours spent calculating which one of them was going to crack first under the pressure of their mutual desire.