Chapter 3
Emmaline felt like a kid let out of school for the summer as she joined the slow-moving traffic along the Pacific Coast Highway. Malibu’s twenty-something miles of coastline were a popular destination any time of year, but when the sand and temperatures heated up, so did the number of visitors. She’d read that between May and August, 7.5 million found their way to the place.
Tourist bureau hype? Maybe, but judging from the vast number of bumper-to-bumper cars on all lanes of the highway, she was inclined to believe the statistic.
Still, she didn’t mind joining the crowd. Mr. Curry had been called away for another trip—an overnight to San Francisco—and the only thing on her immediate agenda was meeting her two friends, Sara Smythe and Charlie Emerson, for lunch. Taking a cue from those around her, she cranked down her window, letting in the breeze-cooled, salty summer air. Diverse music from the different radio stations came together to create a wholly new and not altogether unpleasant cacophonous melody
With plenty of time to make her lunch date, Emmaline relaxed in her seat and hummed along with the summer song coming from her car’s speakers.
It was going to be a great day.
How could it not? She took in the blue sky above, the fish-scale silvery shade of the ocean to the west, the deceptive view of the abodes butting up against the PCH. If not altogether hidden by gates, they appeared nondescript, merely showing their backsides—garages. The structures didn’t hint at the luxuries beyond, such as impressive square footage, stunning views, and beach access that was close to private. She’d learned that allowing non-residents onto the sand in front of the homes and mansions was an ongoing battle. But the law stated that all beaches were public between the mean high tide line and the water. Mr. Curry had instructed her that unless something illegal was going on, she should leave to their pleasures the people who spread their towels and opened their shade umbrellas near his house.
Someone tooted their horn in more cheer than anger, and she noted the cars around her signaled their occupants were ready for summer delights, with surfboards and kayaks strapped on top of SUVs, bright beach towels and coolers packed in the rear cargo areas of family autos. Propped on the open passenger window of the vehicle beside hers was the tanned arm of a muscled young man. His fingers beat a tattoo on the roof, and then he glanced over, his gaze catching her looking.
He grinned, and the good-natured wiggle of his eyebrows made her feel young and carefree. Without those worries she’d carried with her for the past five years, even though Palm Springs was not much farther away than she could blow a kiss. Was it the beautiful surroundings—sun, beach, and pretty surfer boys—that made her so upbeat?
Palm Springs had its beauty, too, though. The bare desert mountains and the incredible lush greenness in the middle of all that, thanks to the underground water table. It was an oasis.
But now, she felt as if she’d found her own personal refuge. Within the walls of Mr. Curry’s house was security, despite the undercurrent of sexual attraction that unfortunately didn’t seem to be ebbing. She was resigned to it now, and doing pretty well taking it in stride, if she did say so herself.
Sure, it might mean that she avoided him as much as possible, but it was a small price for that sense of safety.
I’ve got you. Mr. Curry’s voice echoed in her head now, those words he’d said that first time they’d met. Nothing to worry about.
Okay, it might not be just the house, but also the man himself who made her feel oddly secure, despite the persistent sexual fascination.
But she put the unsettling notion away. Today, she didn’t have to deal with that inherent contradiction. Today she wasn’t going to be anxious about anything.
Flipping on her turn indicator, she edged a lane over and then turned in to the parking lot of a shopping strip. It took mere seconds to find someone just pulling out of a space, and she smiled. Another good omen.
Inside the nearby bustling restaurant, with its polished oval bar dominating the middle space and indoor and outdoor seating, the hostess directed her to find her party already at a table. Stepping onto the patio. Emmaline waved as she approached her friends, then dropped into her seat.
“What a great day,” she said, beaming.
Sara and Charlie exchanged a look, then smiled back.
“You’re quite jolly,” Sara said, her slight British accent clipping her syllables.
“I feel quite jolly.” Emmaline smoothed the pale green wrap skirt she wore over her knees, then adjusted the stack of stretch bracelets on her wrist.
“Jewelry,” Charlie said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear any since we entered the butler academy except for your watch and the authorized white-gold studs.”
“Mr. Curry asked me to leave off my uniform and dress more relaxed. So…different jewelry.” Before her friends could make any further comment about that, she asked Charlie a question sure to divert the other woman. “Tell me what’s going on with Wells.”
Wells Archer was the six-year-old son of Ethan Archer, for whom Charlie worked. His latest nanny had been a flake, and for now Charlie had added taking care of Wells to her household duties. Ethan made noises about it being too much of an imposition and beyond the scope of the tasks he hired her to manage, but Wells had lost his mom to cancer in recent years, and it was impossible not to be charmed by the kid.
“Zoo camp this week,” Charlie said now. “I’ve been getting daily updates on the different shapes and smells of wild animal poop.”
Emmaline grinned. “I bet you love that.” Elegant, put-together Charlie, never with a glossy hair out of place, didn’t seem like the woman to appreciate a little boy’s scatological fascinations. But a smile brightened her eyes, and it was clear that Wells could no wrong.
“You tell him I want to have another go at cornhole,” she said, mentioning the bean bag game they’d played one night.
“He’ll love to cream you again,” Charlie said.
Emmaline pretended to grimace, but another grin broke through. “I’ll be happy to make his day.” Then she turned to blonde Sara. “I didn’t hear how your date night went with Joaquin.”
“And I didn’t hear about Mr. Curry’s date.”
Okay, she’d walked right into that one. With a quick glance at Charlie, she shrugged. “I didn’t learn too much about it, though I know the group enjoyed their time at Top Shelf.”
“Roland likes the collar stays,” Charlie answered. “Nice touch.”
Roland was the valet guy. “I can give you the order information. One-day shipping.”
Charlie slipped her hand into her purse and pulled out her notebook and pencil.
Sara groaned. “Can’t you keep your lists on your phone like everyone else, Charlie?”
Ignoring the criticism, she passed the small book to Emmaline. “What happens if you lose your phone?” Charlie asked. “Drop it in the pool at Joaquin’s?”
“Mine are all backed in the cloud,” Sara said smugly.
It was an old argument, and before it escalated further—even though it was generally without real rancor—Emmaline turned the direction of the conversation again. “Wedding plans, Sara? Anything new?”
“My dad is coming to visit.” Sara was interrupted by the server arriving to take their lunch orders. When the woman had gone, Sara clasped her hands together, clearly excited. “He’s leaving his cottage in Costa Rica and coming here to meet Joaquin in person.”
“He’ll love him,” Emmaline said. “If only because it’s obvious how much the man adores you.”
“Dad’s also promised to help me stand up to Joaquin’s mother, Renata. We don’t want a big wedding, and she has visions of cathedral-length veils and a guest list numbering in the thousands.”
“Your dad will rein her in,” Emmaline assured her. She’d met Sara’s father before he retired, and he was rock-solid and 100 percent behind his girl. He wouldn’t let his daughter get pushed around.
Emmaline’s own male parent couldn’t be counted on in that same way. It was one of the reasons she’d run away from Palm Springs, practically trailing her cathedral-length train behind her. But that didn’t mean she didn’t care about him. In fact, she’d cared enough that she’d never communicated in any way, not even a postcard, in the five years since she’d left.
“What’s that face for?” Sara said, her gaze narrowing.
Emmaline smoothed away her frown. “It’s my ‘I’m-so-happy-Sara-has-an-awesome-pop’ face,” she said in her brightest voice.
Both of her friends looked suspiciously at her now. Damn them for their keen intuitions! It was actually something the academy encouraged them to exercise. So much of what happened in a household was under the surface. A good butler could read expressions and body language and use the knowledge gained to find solutions to problems in the household or with its members.
Just then, the server showed up with their lunches, and Emmaline breathed a sigh of relief. They dug into their food, chatting about nothing, and her uneasiness vanished.
Finally stuffed, she put down her fork and leaned back in her chair.
“I’m so full.” She tilted her face to the sun and closed her eyes. “I could fall asleep right here, just like a lazy cat.”
“Not before you tell us what’s troubling you,” Charlie said.
Emmaline’s eyes popped open, and she groaned. “Really?”
“We’re best friends. You can tell us anything. You know that.” Charlie leaned forward. “What’s going on?”
Determined to avoid the conversation—no rain on her parade!—she glanced around the patio then spotted a familiar figure standing just inside the restaurant, all alone. As if she sensed Emmaline’s regard, Stella Curry half-turned. Her face lit up, and she waved.
Emmaline did too, standing up to gesture the young woman to their table. “You’re going to want to meet Mr. Curry’s sister,” she told her friends.
Emmaline threw her arms around Stella in an impulsive hug, noting a new slenderness.
“Hey,” she said, holding her away. “You need to come over for my famous lasagna dinner. We need to make sure your wedding dress will still fit in a few weeks.”
“Sure.” Stella moved back and sent a shy smile to Sara and Charlie.
Emmaline performed the introductions. “Do you want to sit down with us?”
“I’m not sure I can,” Stella said, spinning her engagement ring on her finger. “I’m supposed to meet Aaron for lunch, but he’s late.”
“We know you have nuptials coming up, and we’d love to hear all about them.” Charlie nudged the free chair away from the table. “Text him that you’re out here.”
“Oh,” Stella said, glancing down. “He’s blocked my texts. It’s not how Aaron likes to communicate.”
Emmaline met Charlie’s gaze. Hmm. “We’ll see him when he comes in,” she assured the younger woman. “I’ll keep my eye out.”
Following Sara’s added encouragement, Stella sat down, perching on the edge of the seat. “It’s nice to meet Emmaline’s friends,” she said. “I’ve been glad to put my bachelor brother into her capable hands.”
The other two women smiled at that, and then, true to their calling, drew out the younger woman, learning that she planned to seek out a job in marketing once she returned from her honeymoon. When they brought up her wedding plans, however, Stella started twisting her ring again.
Uh-oh, Emmaline thought. I need to get to the bottom of this.
A little delicate probing uncovered the fact that the designated wedding planner had foisted Stella off onto an assistant who was not only inexperienced, but not very nice, either.
Emmaline shook her head. “Honey, that’s not okay. Can you talk to your brother about it?”
Stella hesitated.
“I will, if you’d like,” Emmaline said.
But before Stella could answer, her head jerked up, and they all saw a handsome man striding toward their table.
“Aaron,” she said, and jumped to her feet.
Emmaline did too. She’d yet to meet Stella’s fiancé, Aaron Owens. He was whip-lean, with brown hair and eyes, and a confident air.
“You weren’t at the entrance,” he said to Stella, almost like an accusation. “You were supposed to wait where I could see you immediately.”
Stella swallowed. “I—”
“Blame it on me,” Emmaline put in cheerfully. “I saw Stella and insisted she visit with us.”
Before she could introduce herself or her friends, Aaron grabbed Stella’s wrist. “Our table’s waiting.” With a cold nod to their group, he began tugging away his bride-to-be.
Emmaline watched after them, her heart sinking.
“He seems nice,” Sara remarked, sotto voce. “Not.”
“Maybe he’s had a busy day at work,” Charlie said.
“Right.” Emmaline hauled in a breath and re-took her seat. “We’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.”
Then they ordered coffees, and the conversation turned general and breezy again. Sara decided they just had to try the apple-pear pie, and when it was half gone, it was so good that Emmaline decided to order a slice to take home for Mr. Curry.
To save time, she ordered it to go at the bakery counter near the entrance. She was checking her phone when she felt a presence behind her. Turning, she saw Stella’s fiancé.
“Oh,” she said, placing her hand on her throat.
Aaron’s gaze dropped there, then lower, before slowly moving it back up to her face. “We didn’t get a chance to meet before.”
Because you didn’t give Stella a moment to say goodbye, let alone make introductions, Emmaline thought, but she held out her hand. “Emmaline Rossi.”
The man might have let the shake linger a little too long. “Aaron Owens.”
“A pleasure,” she said, removing herself from his hold and resisting the urge to wipe her palm on her skirt.
“Stella tells me you work for Lucas.”
“I do,” she answered, inclining her head.
“You’re his…what?”
Oh, he knew very well, she could tell. But somehow he thought it gave him power to make her say it.
“Butler,” she said, putting on her haughtiest expression. Her profession wasn’t a source of shame. Not at all.
“Stella said that means you take care of her brother’s every…need.”
Oh, the slimy bastard was titillated by the idea. Emmaline usually had a hold on her temper, but this guy was pushing her buttons.
“Household needs,” she said icily.
He smirked, then drew closer and lowered his voice. “So, sweet thing, where can I find live-in help who looks just like you?”
She told herself he meant it as a compliment. Men said stupid stuff all the time. But instead of answering, she reached into her purse and dug out one of the butler academy contact cards she carried. Then she slapped it against his chest and turned away.
Instead of being chastised, the jerk let out a low chuckle like it was foreplay. Even worse, he started whistling a jaunty tune that receded as he returned to his table.
And to Stella, his bride-to-be.
Emmaline wanted to cry for her. At home, in the shower, as she washed away the ugly memories that meeting the man had triggered.
So much for her great day.
Lucas squinted against the glare coming through his windshield as he battled the late afternoon traffic toward home. The people in the cars surrounding him were sunburned and windblown, a testament to their pleasure-filled day under the Malibu sun.
He was disheveled as well, but from running frustrated fingers through his hair as he raced around putting out fires caused by the upcoming merger. He’d assured clients and soothed the concerns of his employees until he felt like one big knot of bristling tension.
Home, he thought, would ease every tight muscle and would calm every jangled nerve.
Emmaline.
As the cars in front of his braked, he did too, and closed his eyes, imagining her, dressed in something flowing and summery, moving about his house. When he arrived there, he’d find lemonade and just-brewed iced tea in the refrigerator. His bedroom would smell like clean laundry accompanied by an enticing trace of her perfume. When he came downstairs after changing from his suit and tie, he’d head for the patio and stretch out on a chaise overlooking the ocean. In a few moments she’d set a plate of snacks at his elbow.
Maybe today he’d persuade her to take the chair beside him and sit a while. Then he could enjoy the most beautiful views he knew of—the sun starting to set over the Pacific and Emmaline’s remarkable, unforgettable face.
Since the night of the charity fundraiser, she’d been ducking him as much as possible, including keeping to her rooms at night.
But she didn’t shirk her butler duties—from her daily dusting and vacuuming to keeping the household accounts up-to-date. The landscaper had texted him the day before with boisterous praise for the oatmeal cookies she’d offered his crew mid-morning. Lucas might have been disgruntled about that if she hadn’t slipped a packet of those exact treats onto the passenger seat of his car that same morning.
She had an eye for little things, like those cookies, a slice of dessert she’d brought home from his favorite Malibu restaurant, an article clipped from the local business journal about his company’s merger. One night he’d come home after back-to-back business trips to discover she’d recorded a documentary he’d mentioned wanting to watch. A show he’d been forced to miss while out of town hosting the kind of business dinners that made him long for quiet nights in his home overlooking the ocean.
With Emmaline.
Yeah. This evening he would pour her a glass of wine and fetch his own beer, then convince her to enjoy some relaxing time on the patio. Mere conversation would satisfy him tonight—even if he had to initiate it employer to employee. Surely he could fake something to discuss in order to spend an hour or two in her company. It would settle him, he thought, giving him just enough contact to keep his unflagging craving for her under control.
Finally, he pulled into his garage, his mind on some sort of bullshit agenda he could trot out that would compel her to join him on the patio. Maybe he’d get stern with her over the sheet-ironing again. Or talk to her about stacking the glassware in a different order. Tell her he wanted more of her needle-and-thread handiwork.
Turned out he fucking loved the discreet monograms now gracing the pockets of his dress shirts. There were snowy handkerchiefs bearing his initials in his bureau, too, and he’d taken to carrying them, occasionally pulling them from his pocket to run his thumb over the letters she’d stitched. That little symbol of her time, care, and talent…warmed him.
Yes. He’d tell her he wanted his monogram on other articles of clothing.
Maybe what you really want is your mark on her, a little voice said.
But Lucas didn’t allow himself to get hung up on the uncomfortable thought as he moved through the doorway going from garage to house. He heard voices from the direction of the kitchen and started that way. Was she watching TV?
She had a thing for what she called “property porn” which he’d discovered wasn’t nearly as interesting as he’d first imagined when she’d used the term. It was programming about buying or renovating homes or about buying and renovating homes.
Just another piece of evidence suggesting his butler was so not a free spirit. Where she’d come up with that idea he didn’t know, but every one of her actions broadcasted she was all about building a nest and feathering it well.
The trill of her laugh floated toward him, and he wondered if she was on a call. Until the rumble of a man’s voice responded.
A man. Should Lucas change direction? Leave her to her…assignation without interruption?
To hell with that. It was his house after all.
His butler.
He strode forward, then stopped short. Emmaline balanced on a stepladder, her arms reaching toward a vase on a cabinet’s upper shelf. But she was half-twisted to look down at a man that even Lucas could see was movie-star handsome, and she was laughing.
The stranger’s grin was wide, white, and amused.
“Emmaline?” Lucas said.
Her head jerked his way, and her whole body twitched. The abrupt movement rocked the legs of the stepladder, and Emmaline wobbled.
Shit. She was going to fall. He leaped forward to steady her—only to watch her tumble into the arms of the good-looking stranger.
With Emmaline cradled against him, the man swung toward Lucas.
“Hey,” he said, unperturbed, like a beautiful female landed in his arms every day.
Emmaline scrambled to get her feet on the floor. The stranger released her gently, his gaze still on Lucas, a half-smile on his face.
The butler smoothed her hair and then did the same with the skirt of her flowered dress. “Mr. Curry,” she said, sounding flustered. “You’re home early.”
He cocked a brow. “Should I have called first?”
She blushed. “Of course not.” Her hand waved toward the other man, who looked as if he was enjoying the proceedings immensely. “Lucas Curry, may I introduce you to Joaquin Weatherford? He happens to be a newish near-neighbor of yours.”
“I walked along the beach to get here,” this Joaquin said, stepping forward and holding out his hand.
“I see. Nice to meet you.” Lucas managed a polite shake. Then, stymied, he ordered himself to head upstairs. “I’ll leave you to your friend, Emmaline,” he said, glancing at his butler.
She bit her lip. “Mr. Curry—”
“We talked about this on the day you moved in. You’re welcome to have a social life, Emmaline. I should have added that includes using the premises to entertain your…friends.” Did he sound like he had a stick up his ass? He felt like there was a poker lodged there, and the expression on Joaquin Weatherford’s face said he thought it was funny as hell.
Emmaline frowned. “Joaquin’s not a friend—well, of course he’s a friend,” she cast the other man an apologetic look, “but he’s not here to be entertained.”
Joaquin threw a casual arm across her shoulders. “I came to beg a lasagna from her for a dinner party we’re having tomorrow night. My fiancée’s dad is coming to visit, and he loves Italian food. We’re having a group over, Emmaline included.” He smiled. “You could come too.”
“Fiancée?” Lucas repeated the operative word.
“Joaquin is engaged to my good friend Sara Smythe,” Emmaline said, then looked up at the other man. “And you don’t need to beg me to bring a lasagna. As a matter of fact, I’ll bring two, so you have leftovers as well.”
“A jewel,” Joaquin said, and kissed her on the cheek. Then he sent a sly glance at Lucas. “Don’t you think she’s a jewel?”
“Oh, stop,” Emmaline said with another blush, and pushed Joaquin away. “Now go home, so I can make out my grocery list.”
He saluted her, then turned to Lucas and held out his hand again. “Good to meet you. And the invitation to dinner was sincere.”
Emmaline frowned. “Oh, Mr. Curry doesn’t have time to—”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he said, speaking over her. “I’ll make sure Emmaline gives me the time and place.”
“Bet she lets you tag along,” Joaquin said with a wink. “If only to carry the casseroles.”
They watched him stride through the opening to the patio, and then he disappeared down the steps to the beach.
Emmaline shot a quick glance at Lucas, then turned away to remount the ladder. “I’m sorry if that was awkward. You don’t have to go to the dinner party.”
She was stretching again for that vase, and Lucas didn’t hesitate to put his hands at her waist and lift her off the steps.
“Let me get that,” he said, placing her on her feet. “You almost hurt yourself last time.”
“Because you startled me.”
Ignoring that, he drew the item off the shelf and set it in her hands. “And I’m definitely going to the event. I’ve never had your lasagna, which now appears to be a serious lack on my part.”
“I’ll make you your very own pan of it,” Emmaline offered.
“I’m going to the dinner party,” he said, staring into her eyes. And…snap, that link between them clicked into place, and then that settling he’d been looking for happened too. He wanted her, yeah, but merely being around her smoothed the rough edges left by his day.
“Come sit down with me, Emmaline,” he said. “We’ll go out on the patio, have a drink, watch the sun set.”
She swallowed. “I don’t think—”
“I’ll tell you about my conversation with the wedding planner.” She’d informed him about Stella’s difficulties with the assistant. “I finally got a hold of her today. You can give me your opinion on whether or not she’ll step up and do what she was hired for now.”
“Well…”
It was good bait, as he’d suspected. She had a warm heart, and she cared about Lucas’s little sister.
“I suppose that would be all right,” Emmaline said.
He smiled. “Do you have any more of those cheese puff thingies around?”
“I do.” She put aside the vase she’d been clutching. “And your favorite beer is well-stocked in the beverage cooler.”
“As if I’d ever think otherwise. Sauvignon blanc for you?”
“Please.”
Her smile made him desperate to touch her. But he’d promised himself that companionship would do. Employer to employee.
She’d be too wary of anything else.
And he damn well knew he shouldn’t be angling for anything else, either. His plate was quite full just as it was.
A loud buzz from the vicinity of the laundry room made them both jump.
“I have a load of wash that needs transferring,” she said, turning away. “It will be just a few minutes.”
“I’ll meet you on the patio.” He watched her walk away, the hem of her silky dress swishing around her bare, slender legs, just as he’d imagined it would. Thank God he’d gotten her out of pinstripes.
The doorbell at the front entrance rang out.
“I’ll get it,” he called toward Emmaline, not sure if she’d heard either the sound or him.
He should have looked before opening the door. But he didn’t, and before he could block the entrance, Valerie Hicks, his sister’s fiancé’s relative, walked around him into his home, wearing a tiny black dress and a shark’s smile.
“Darling,” she said by way of greeting, smart enough to keep moving away from the open door so he couldn’t immediately shove her out it. “I have champagne,” she said, raising her arm overhead to brandish the bottle. “I thought we might celebrate our new relationship.”
Trailing her, Lucas grimaced. “What new relationship?”
She glanced back and fluttered her heavily made-up eyes. “We’re practically cousins, right? Maybe even kissing cousins.”
For fuck’s sake. “Look Valerie…”
But she’d made it to the kitchen and was prowling about, peeking in cupboards. “Where do you keep your champagne glasses? Surely a man like you has some.”
Meaning a man like him who had money. He’d read her avariciousness the night they’d met when she’d lavished attention on him, thrusting her fake tits in his face and hanging on his arm like she’d fall off her sky-high heels without the support.
According to his sister, she’d only just moved to Southern California to “start over” after a divorce—read find another husband to bankroll her lifestyle.
Call him cynical. He had reason to be.
She turned now, as if a sudden thought had just occurred to her. “Oh, I didn’t interrupt anything, did I? You don’t have plans for the evening?”
Christ. “As a matter of fact…” Lucas trailed off as Emmaline entered the kitchen from the direction of the laundry room. In her flower-strewn dress she looked summery and fresh and totally surprised to see the other woman.
“Um…” In one hand she carried several of his shirts on hangars. In the other, a stack of folded dish towels.
It all looked very cozy and casual, and once again he was damn glad he’d ordered her out of that butler’s uniform. Because now she was about to provide him with a different kind of service.
“Who are you?” Valerie asked.
Emmaline glanced at him. “I’m—”
“My domestic partner, Emmaline Rossi,” Lucas said, crossing to pull her close to him. “Isn’t she a jewel? And she makes me so damn happy.”