The Secret (Billionaire's Beach Book 6) Read online

  Wells spun around. “Then I’m gonna get my homework done right away.”

  She trailed him into the den on the other side of the kitchen to the small table where he’d dumped his backpack. A sheaf of papers emerged and were handed over to her. First day of school details. Separating those that required a signature, she put them into two piles.

  Because Wells’ dad traveled occasionally—and often of late—for his commercial real estate business, she had the power to sign his school documents and to give permission for Wells to get medical treatment. But today, she’d leave them for his dad.

  Ethan would be home very soon.

  Her heart gave another little bump at the thought, but she ignored it as she went about her late afternoon tasks—helping Wells with homework, putting together a salad for his dinner to go along with the white bean soup she’d made earlier in the day. Then, after Wells put his pencils away, they went out to the beach for a little soccer practice on the sand.

  A local league was starting up soon, and Wells was looking forward to being on a team again this season.

  They didn’t have the beach to themselves—and all were public between the mean high tide line and the water—but the Archer home had over a hundred feet of ocean frontage. There was plenty of room, even as the sun began its slide toward the horizon. It cast an orange-pink glow on the house as she ushered Wells inside for dinner. They decided to eat together on a table on the deck, and they idly discussed the rules in his new classroom and the other children.

  He didn’t say a word about Serafina, and Charlie only mentioned in passing how it benefited to be friendly to everyone. Then he jumped up from the table and carried his dishes into the kitchen.

  “I’m ready for my shower,” he declared, racing toward the stairs. “Dad will like me nice and clean.”

  His dad would like him any way he could get him, she knew, and glanced over at the framed photo of Michelle Archer, Ethan’s late wife, sitting in a prominent position on a shelf in the den. Her blonde hair had been growing in following chemo treatments, but the short strands only served to accent the delicacy of her features and the brightness of her smile.

  Charlie had never met her—Michelle had lost her battle with cancer three years before the butler joined the household—but Ethan remained devoted to her, and to the son they had adopted as an infant. She’d often caught sight of the man gazing at that picture, his expression pensive. Other times he’d be looking at Wells, his smile tinged with sadness, and Charlie knew he was thinking of the woman he’d referred to more than once as “the love of my life.”

  In the bathroom attached to Wells’ bedroom, Charlie started the shower and adjusted the temperature. Then she set a fresh towel nearby and called to the boy that it was time to get started. He could handle the scrubbing and shampooing on his own, though she’d still follow behind later to mop up water on the floor and to rescue damp terrycloth from the corner. Backtracking down the hall, she stopped a moment to admire the photos of Wells placed on the wall. First solid food, first step, in a bath with bubbles, on the way to kindergarten.

  Charlie had missed those moments in the boy’s life.

  Shaking off a creeping melancholy, she returned to the kitchen to deal with the dishes and restore the pots and pans to their proper place. She liked tidiness and order in all things—emotions included. Emmaline sometimes accused her of capping off her feelings, and Charlie didn’t disagree. Or find anything wrong with it.

  “In my book,” she murmured to herself now, “compartmentalizing isn’t a sin.”

  “What’s not a sin?” a masculine voice questioned.

  Charlie whirled around, instant heat crawling up her throat and cheeks. “Um, hi, Ethan.” Why hadn’t she taken the time to change into something other than cropped leggings and a matching T-shirt? When was the last time she’d brushed her hair?

  He smiled, softening the lines of his lean and handsome face. At their first meeting, he’d claimed to be “on the dark side of thirty-five” but she’d met younger men who didn’t come close to his level of attractiveness.

  “Charlotte,” he said now.

  She pretended to scowl at him and told herself that she found his use of her full name—he was the only one who ever did use it—irksome. It made her feel too…feminine, and she was supposed to merely be a functional feature in his life. A Charlie.

  “Must you?”

  His laughter was low, almost intimate. “On occasion, I must.”

  Ignoring the traitorous pleasure she felt in his presence, she busied herself with refolding a kitchen towel. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “You were lost in thought.” A heavy pause. “Something about sinning?”

  At the amused and inquisitive tone, she glanced up at him. He looked back, one dark eyebrow winged up and the hint of a smile on his firm lips. A shiver tried working its way down her spine, but she ruthlessly held back the sensation.

  “It was nothing,” she said.

  “I’m disappointed to hear that.” He laughed again, sounding slightly chagrined. “For a moment I thought one of us was breaking out of our rut.”

  Meaning…? But before she could ferret it out, the clatter of running footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  With a grin, Ethan braced and managed to catch his son who launched himself into the air.

  “Dad!” Wells said, hugging with exuberance.

  Ethan placed his cheek against the top of his son’s damp hair and closed his eyes. When he took in a deliberate breath, it was almost as if he was breathing for the first time.

  “Wells,” he said, voice full of satisfaction. Then his eyes flipped open and they met Charlie’s. “Home.”

  She turned away, letting father and son have privacy for their reunion. Wells chattered away about everything that had happened in the ten days his father had been gone—the hike they’d taken in the Malibu hills, the excursion on paddleboards with Charlie’s friend Emmaline and her fiancé Lucas, the shopping for school clothes trip.

  “It sounds like Charlie took good care of you,” Ethan said. “I’m glad I brought her back a present from Paris.”

  Charlie froze. A present? For her? From Paris? For some insane reason, her mind instantly leaped to thoughts of chocolate. Perfume. Then silk. Lace. Designer lingerie that would cinch her waist and give her small breasts actual cleavage. She swallowed. Surely not.

  “What about me?” Wells demanded. “You didn’t forget about me, did you?”

  “Of course not.” Ethan laughed, then still carrying Wells crossed to his bags that were piled up by the stairs. Setting the boy on his feet, he rummaged through a canvas and leather duffel and ceremoniously handed over a large box.

  Wells looked at it then spun it to face Charlie. “Look! Look! The Eee—”

  “Eiffel Tower,” Charlie said. A set of interlocking plastic bricks he could use to make a model of the landmark. “It’s a famous structure in Paris.”

  “I know.” Wells nodded. “Remember, Dad texted us a picture of himself standing in front of it. A selfie.”

  “More like a halfsie,” Charlie corrected. “Because he cut off a big part of his face.”

  Now it was Ethan’s turn to mock-scowl. “Are you disparaging the master of the house?” He prowled toward her, something folded in his hands.

  “Only his ability to snap photos of himself,” she said, and didn’t dare look at what he held. What if it really was something…wicked?

  “Here.” He shoved the soft item into her hands.

  She looked down, rattled by even thinking the word wicked in relation to Ethan. It took a moment for the words printed on the fabric to sink in. Je t’aime.

  I love you.

  “What did you get?” Wells asked, coming up beside her.

  Speechless, Charlie shook her head.

  “She needs to unfold it,” Ethan said.

  With unsteady hands, Charlie unfurled the fabric.

  “It’s a sweatshirt,” Wells said, c
learly unimpressed.

  “Je t’aime Paris,” Charlie read, now that all the words were exposed. “I love Paris.”

  “You said you’d been once and enjoyed your visit,” Ethan said.

  Surprised, she glanced over. “You remembered.”

  He shrugged. “Try it on.”

  The hoodie material was a medium blue, and the inside surfaces felt buttery soft. She pulled it over her head and then slid her arms into the sleeves. They hung over her hands, almost to the tips of her fingers, and the hem hit her at mid-thigh.

  She looked down at herself. The sweatshirt could fit two or three of her.

  “Perfect,” Ethan said, beaming with approval. “It keeps you all covered up.”

  “I…thank you.” She folded back the right sleeve, and the left. “It’s a thoughtful gift.”

  One that you could give a maiden aunt, a kid sister, or that favorite niece her friends said Ethan treated her as.

  His gaze narrowed. “Charlotte…” Then, with a little shake of his head, he turned his attention to Wells. “If tomorrow’s the second day of second grade, we need to get you into bed.”

  “Dad…” his son started to whine, but Ethan merely scooped him up and carried him upside down, taking the stairs two-at-a-time.

  “Be careful,” Charlie couldn’t help calling after the pair. Then shook her head, knowing they’d most likely tuned her out.

  Then she shook her head again as she caught sight of herself in a nearby mirror. She looked like she was wearing a tent, Je t’aime Paris or no. Yanking it over her head, she called herself all kinds of a fool for having that momentary lingerie fantasy. Ethan didn’t think of her as someone who wore lingerie, and she shouldn’t be thinking of him as a man who might buy some for her.

  Ethan was a father first and a man grieving for his late wife second. In his life, Charlie was a convenience, like a can opener or a toaster oven.

  Not a woman.

  “Hey! Charlie!” said her boss now, from the top of the stairs.

  She walked to where she could see him. “Yes?”

  “Wells wants to say goodnight.”

  Her heart squeezed. So, even with his father home, she’d not been entirely supplanted. With a faint smile on her face, she entered the boy’s bedroom, lit only by the glow of a small plastic soccer ball plugged into a socket.

  “Goodnight, pal,” she said, perching on the edge of the mattress.

  Her hand instinctively brushed back his hair from his forehead, and then she plucked his favorite stuffed animal—a soft-nosed koala—from the pile at the side of the bed and tucked it between Wells’ chin and his shoulder.

  It was their little secret―that he needed the toy in order to drift into sleep.

  He smiled at her. She smoothed the sheet folded over the blanket that lay across his small chest.

  “Second grade,” she whispered. “Such a big guy.”

  “Your big guy,” he murmured sleepily and found her hand with his small one.

  Eyes stinging, Charlie squeezed his fingers and whispered soundlessly, “My big guy.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Ethan stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, his attention riveted on butler and child. She felt his gaze as palpably as she felt Wells hand in her own.

  Charlie blinked back another burn of tears, even as emotion tried breaking free of the locks to her most private compartment.

  The hardest part about my job is not losing my heart.

  It was vital that Charlie win that battle too. It would be disaster to become too close to boy or man.

  Chapter 2

  Ethan Archer woke up with the words of his good friend and company VP echoing in his head. You’re wallowing, E. Standing still in ankle-deep water. It’s past time you started swimming again.

  That conversation during their return flight from Paris wasn’t the first time John had brought to Ethan’s attention that he needed to move on with his life. Michelle had passed four years before, and John had been singing that same song fairly often in the last two years.

  With the intention of taking a run on the beach after dropping Wells at school, Ethan dressed in nylon shorts, a T-shirt, and running shoes. Then he brushed his teeth and smoothed a hand over his hair, inspecting himself in the bathroom mirror.

  Forty coming closer, he thought with a grimace.

  Some days, when the grief descended like a shroud, he felt nearer to eighty.

  Turning off the thought, he left his room, his gaze landing on the half-open door across the hall. It led to a guest suite, the space used by the butler when Ethan was away overnight. He crossed to it and glanced inside.

  Not surprisingly, there was no physical sign of Charlie’s presence now that she was back in the detached cottage that was her own quarters. The bed’s coverlet was smooth, the pillows plumped. Neither gave away whether the last occupant slept soundly at night or whether her slim body tossed and turned. He could imagine her there, though, her shining brown hair unbound, her arms thrown overhead as she dreamed away.

  As she dreamed of—

  Guilt gave him a sudden pinch, and he reined in his imagination. He had no business contemplating his butler’s inner life, let alone picturing her in a bed.

  Instead, he walked on to his son’s room and peeked inside.

  Wells slept sprawled across his mattress, one hand clutching the bear Charlie had tucked in with him the night before. Ethan smiled as love for the child filled his chest, a balm to his broken heart. Without Wells, he didn’t know where he would be after losing Michelle. Their boy had become his purpose for living.

  Something else that his friend John censured. You need a life that includes adults and adult pursuits.

  When Ethan had opened his mouth, John had shot a finger at him. Work doesn’t count, he’d said.

  Ethan had sighed and wished they’d booked seats in separate rows. By adult pursuits, you mean…

  Sex, John had affirmed. You should start with that.

  On another sigh, Ethan headed downstairs. He stood by the windows a long moment, appreciating the tranquil view of Santa Monica Bay. It resembled his life, he decided. After watching his wife lose her battle with cancer, after four years of grappling with grief, most of the time he managed to maintain a certain level of calm.

  He could almost hear John’s snort. Buddy, you’re in need of a little upheaval. Or maybe you just need to get laid.

  Shutting down the imaginary conversation, he moved to Wells’ homework table and shuffled through the piles of papers that needed his attention. His boy was in second grade! He glanced over at the framed photo of Michelle propped on a nearby shelf.

  “You should be here to see this, hon. That tiny newborn we picked up from the hospital is now a little guy who can read, write, and work all the remotes around the house.”

  Michelle’s infertility had been a source of despair that had come to an end when they arranged for a private adoption. She’d had a year-and-a-half of unfettered maternal bliss before her cancer diagnosis. Even through that and the brutal treatments, she’d found joy in parenting their son.

  “Wells thinks about you every day,” he added. “We both do.”

  Only then did Ethan become aware that someone had entered the adjacent kitchen on silent feet. Charlie, her sleek hair held back in a ponytail, her slim, tanned legs revealed beneath the hem of a sleeveless shirtdress. It wasn’t too short, but because of her long limbs, her bare skin seemed to go on forever. And always polite, Charlie pretended not to notice that he’d been talking out loud—to an empty room.

  “Don’t mind me,” he said. “We old guys mutter to ourselves on occasion.”

  Then he winced, vanity instantly wishing he’d not brought up age. Nearing forty sucked.

  “You’re not an old guy,” she said mildly, opening the refrigerator and pulling out half a watermelon.

  “Older than you,” Ethan said and then winced again. It sounded like fishing.

  And true to
form, his well-mannered butler took the bait. “Not so much.”

  Hah. He had almost a decade on her.

  “I’ve dated men your age and more.”

  “You have?”

  She made a non-committal sound as she began slicing the fruit into cubes.

  Ethan cleared his throat, unable to stop his next question. “Are you dating anyone now?”

  One glance from her blue eyes had him backtracking.

  “Sorry, sorry,” he said. “None of my business.”

  But because he’d put the question out there, he couldn’t get it out of his head. Their Charlie, with her unflappable manner and elegant face, dating some old fart. Or worse—a beach dude. Or much, much worse, one of those old beach dudes with a mat of graying chest hair and a belly hanging over his ratty board shorts.

  Ethan frowned. Charlie shouldn’t be dating at all.

  Then he came alert to his thoughts. Why was he suddenly so interested in Charlie’s social life? It must be the swing of that ponytail as she moved. The roundness of her ass that was merely hinted at beneath the dress. The small, perfect rise of her breasts that he couldn’t help noticing when she was headed to the beach in a swimsuit.

  Damn. He shouldn’t be thinking of her ass. Or her breasts. Definitely not about her sweet, bow-shaped lips and what they might taste like.

  With a hand to his forehead, Ethan closed his eyes. This was heading south, fast, same as the blood in his veins.

  “Are you all right?” Her voice and her cool hand on his arm had him flinching back.

  “Jesus.”

  “I didn’t mean to startle you.” She held up a mug of coffee.

  He took it and put the heated surface right over the spot where she’d touched him, trying to scald away the memory of it.

  Her brows came together over her incredibly blue eyes. They reminded him of some kind of flower—bluebells, he thought. This close, she smelled flowery too, a light, fresh fragrance with an undertone of spice.

  Like spring, or maybe summer, while he was impending winter. Okay, maybe just early fall.

  Yet still fascinated by her.

  Damn.