The Scandal (Billionaire's Beach Book 4) Read online

  Now the man pushed up his sunglasses, revealing darkly lashed eyes, their color a pale gray with the barest hint of blue, the shade both cool and hot at the same time. Sara’s heart started to race even as her muscles froze, making her feel as if she was one of the bunnies that skipped along the Malibu bluffs suddenly sensing a predator.

  “No, Sara,” he said. “I’ve not come to inspect the estate. I’ve come to stay.”

  Inside the gates, Joaquin Weatherford parked his car where the woman indicated and climbed out, intending to find the nearest bed and face plant onto its soft surface where he could sleep for the next two dozen days or so. Divesting the company of a troublesome division had taken months of planning, finessing, and politicking, and it had sucked the spirit from his soul and the energy from the very marrow of his bones.

  It didn’t help that the fucking fifteenth anniversary was looming at the end of the month.

  He’d need strength to hold up against that and to hold steady through his old friend Mick’s annual visit to commemorate the dead. Until then, Joaquin aimed to seek relaxation and renewal behind these estate walls, all alone.

  Well, all alone with the exception of the girl butler.

  What the hell was up with that anyway? Butler?

  It was confusing, and confusion was a complication he didn’t need, especially at this moment. He was bone-tired and obviously he’d missed the punchline when his assistant had given him the woman’s name and, apparently, her title.

  It hadn’t penetrated his foggy brain then, and he didn’t have it in him now to call his assistant and demand answers.

  “Here, sir,” the girl butler said, indicating a sweep of descending pathway that led beyond the detached garage. “The front entry is not far.”

  With her hat pulled down that low, he couldn’t see her face, or not much of it anyway. He frowned in its direction. “What about that?” he asked, pointing to a nearby door.

  “A side entrance to the house,” she said. “It leads to a utility room, storage spaces, and the like.”

  “Is it the closest way to get inside?”

  “Well, yes, sir, but wouldn’t you like—”

  “I’d like—no, need—a bed and pillows. Stat. Are the sheets clean?”

  “Of course,” she hurried to say, her tone horrified. “The sheets are always kept clean. But don’t you think—”

  “I’m not thinking at all now, actually,” he said. He breathed deep of salt-laden ocean air, but it didn’t clear the cobwebs. The sun’s warmth on the top of his head and shoulders barely registered. “I’m exhausted. Just lead me to a mattress, okay?”

  “Whatever you wish, sir.”

  The words were right, but the attitude accompanying them was just a tad disapproving. Her prim voice and starchy posture managed to rouse him from his well of fatigue, and he took a closer look at her as he followed her through the doorway into the house.

  She appeared unobtrusive enough, he supposed, with the low-riding hat, the loose, practical clothes, and the soft-soled shoes. Even her footsteps wouldn’t disturb his sleep.

  Still, he studied her ass, almost mesmerized by the shift of each round cheek as she moved. Her long, roomy shirt camouflaged her waistline and hips, but didn’t completely disguise the round apples of her sweet, firm bottom.

  Guilt goosed him for staring, and he shifted his gaze from her ass to over her shoulder. They were heading down a long, cool hallway, the floor covered in a plush Oriental carpet. He glanced at a framed piece of art on the wall, a colorful, Impressionistic scene of a crowd on a beach that strangely went well with the more formal rug.

  Then his phone trilled in his pocket.

  The sound caused a too-familiar tightening of his muscles followed by another wave of exhaustion. “What now?” he muttered, pulling out the device to check the call. His assistant. A bench sat against the wall to his right and he dropped onto it as he answered. “Another problem, Patrick?” he asked, his voice weary.

  As he spoke, he saw Sara glance over her shoulder, then glide away, giving him privacy.

  His assistant had no such scruples.

  “I’m nosy is all,” the other man said. “Did you make it safely to Malibu? What do you think about the house?”

  “This isn’t about work? There’s not a hang-up, a glitch, a damn disaster that cries out for my attention?”

  “Nope,” Patrick said, in a cheery tone. “It’s about my curiosity. And my natural concern for my boss, of course,” he added.

  “You’re so full of shit.” But Patrick Douglas had also kept Joaquin sane during these last few months…for longer than that, really. He’d been Joaquin’s right hand for two years, ever since George Weatherford had died, leaving TempuCorp to his adopted son.

  “Come on,” Patrick coaxed. “Tell me what you think of Nueva Vida.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Your Malibu place.”

  It has a name? “I just arrived, and I haven’t found a bed yet. I think it’s too much house.”

  “Maybe. Shortly before he passed, George bought it as an investment from someone who didn’t have the cash to finish the big renovation in progress. You’ll be able to sell it, if that’s what you want, now that I’ve employed the butler to sort things out and have it set to rights.”

  “About that woman—”

  “You’ve met Sara?”

  Joaquin didn’t like his assistant’s sly tone. “She seems capable enough. How did you come to hire a butler, for fuck’s sake?”

  “I was given her name, checked her references, and interviewed her via Skype since we were working out of Portland.”

  Joaquin sighed. “I know I told you I wanted you to find me a place in Southern California where I could decompress before Mick’s visit, but…”

  Another wave of tiredness rolled through him because there was no ideal somewhere that would prove sufficient for him to duck the dark deluge of fresh grief surely on its way—even if he traveled to deepest, darkest Peru. On another sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Relax, Boss,” Patrick said. “Take a breather. Use the down time to check out the estate and then decide what you want to do with it.”

  “It’s too much house.”

  “Let me know if you still think that at the end of the month.”

  Joaquin opened his mouth for another comment, but a second call came through. Noting the name on the screen, he didn’t attempt to stifle his groan. “I’ve got to go.”

  Then he sucked in a calming breath and spoke evenly into the phone. “Good afternoon, Renata.”

  “Darling. Are you finally out of the land of dreary skies and ugly flannel shirts?”

  His mother wasn’t a fan of the Pacific Northwest, the place being too chilly for her Latin blood, and the sartorial atmosphere not up to her silks-and-cashmeres preferences. “I’m in Malibu.”

  “Oh, that’s nice. Bohemian and a bit too beachy for my taste, but you’ll see sunshine for the first time in months. You’ve been working much too hard.”

  “I’ve got a company to run.”

  “I don’t know why George had to dump all that responsibility on you—”

  “He saved me, Renata. When he adopted me, he saved me. You know that. Taking over his business is a privilege.” An old argument, and one he wasn’t ready to dive into again.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Where are you, Renata?” he asked to distract her from the discussion. She and Spouse Number Three made the rounds between a house in Bel-Air, another in Palm Springs, a three-story “cabin” at Lake Arrowhead, and a villa on the wild Pacific side of Mexico. “And is Martin well?”

  “Martin is fine.”

  And Joaquin breathed easier that she let the other subject drop.

  “Obsessed with golf, as always,” she continued, but with an indulgent note that told her son the retired financier was keeping her happy—by keeping her in jewels and cocktails, Joaquin supposed. “We’re in the Springs for th
e weekend. Soon it will be much too warm to visit the desert.”

  Renata was like a hothouse flower. She needed a specific and very short range of temperatures to remain in perfect bloom. The fact was, she looked damn good for a woman in her early fifties, thanks to good bones, good doctors, and a good marriage.

  This third time.

  “And Essie?” Esmerelda was his half-sister, now aged… “How old is she again?”

  “Sweet sixteen just two weeks ago.”

  “I missed it.” Patrick is usually on top of those things, Joaquin thought, frowning.

  “No, you didn’t. You sent her a huge bouquet of flowers and the sweetest little bracelet studded with her birthstone. I’ll remind her she’s yet to send a thank-you note.”

  Which Essie should address to his assistant, he thought, with a wry grimace. “I’m glad she liked them.”

  Renata hesitated now. “Joaquin…Darling…”

  His shoulders tensed. “What?” he asked, wary.

  She sniffed, and he could imagine a tear trailing down her cheek. “Someone…someone thought they saw him.”

  A dagger, forged in guilt and sharpened by pain, speared Joaquin’s chest, and he closed his eyes, his free hand pressing hard against his heart. “Mom…”

  She sniffed again.

  “Where, Mom? Where did someone think they saw Felipe?”

  “At Coachella,” she said, the tears now in her voice. “And also at Stagecoach.”

  Coachella and Stagecoach, the two big California music festivals held in the spring. “Are you reading the tabloids again?” He didn’t wait for her reply. “You’re reading the tabloids again.” She’d been obsessed with them for fifteen years, as much as they’d tried encouraging her to give up the habit of perusing the scandal-strewn, gossipy trash for any mention of Felipe Cielo.

  “With Elvis again,” his mother added.

  Good God. Joaquin pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Elvis and Felipe. One day they were spotted at Stagecoach. Next there’d be sightings at a balloon festival in Paris—the one in Texas as well as the one in France. According to other, older reports, they’d been seen eating peanut butter, banana, and bacon sandwiches together at a diner in Tuscaloosa. More recently, Felipe had been spied alone at a liquor store outside of Vegas, wearing a red ball cap and holding a six-pack of Bud.

  Joaquin’s brother would never be seen with a six-pack of Bud. He’d have a case, if not two.

  “You…” Renata’s voice was small. “You don’t think…”

  “Mamá.” He hadn’t called her that since he was a child, and he hadn’t been a child since his biological father had dragged him to his first Hollywood audition when he was five years old. “You know Felipe has passed.”

  “I…I know.” Over the line came the sound of her drawing in a shaky breath. “But…but it’s nice that people don’t want him to be gone, don’t you think?”

  Fine. Just pull out the bloody knife and stab him with it again, over and over and over. “Yeah, Mamá, it’s very nice. All of us wish he was here.”

  Joaquin’s big brother had been a star, burning a bright trajectory across the sky and leaving them with nothing but bitter ashes and these painful “sightings” fifteen years later.

  He cleared his throat. “I’ve got to let you go, Renata. We’ll talk soon, okay?”

  When she agreed, he thumbed off the phone then slumped against the wall behind him, weary of everything.

  “Sir?” At the butler’s voice, he opened his eyes to see a tall glass of ice water in his sights, a delicate slice of lemon floating on top.

  He took it from her, parched from his throat to his soul. “Thank you.”

  “Let me show you to your room now,” she said, her voice as cool as the water that he swallowed with gratitude.

  “Yes.” Gathering himself, he stood up and followed her again to enter an expansive bedroom suite.

  “I already took the liberty of closing the blinds,” she said, gesturing toward a set of wide windows taking up one entire wall. “Your bags have been unpacked and the cases stored in the luggage room.”

  If he was less tired, he might feel weird about that. “You carried them in?”

  With her cap still pulled low, he couldn’t see her face clearly, but he got the impression of a semi-smile, lips curved up but showing no teeth. “I’m quite strong.”

  “I suppose.” Though she was only of average height, and no bodybuilder either, gauging by the slender width of her shoulders.

  “The bathroom is just through there.” She gestured again.

  He cast a quick glance that way, saw another luxurious space. But it was the bed that caught his attention now. The mattress was huge, the pillows fluffy, and as he watched, she neatly folded back the pale blue covers to reveal pearl-gray sheets that appeared to be ironed.

  A craving for sleep shuddered through his body. His feet drifted toward the bed as if the thing was magnetized.

  “Would you like me to wake you at a certain time, sir?” Sara asked, as if sensing he was about to go down for the count.

  “No.” Maybe he could slide into unconsciousness and stay there until Mick arrived at the end of the month. “I might be out for a while,” he warned the butler. “Don’t worry about me.”

  She hovered near the door. “But that’s my job, sir. I’m here to be at your service.”

  He put up a hand. “Joaquin. Not ‘sir.’”

  Her reluctance was palpable, but then she inclined her head. “As you wish. I’m here to be at your service, Joaquin.”

  That slight Brit edge to her accent made his name sound…different. “Thank you, Sara.”

  “Have a good rest.” She started to move over the threshold.

  Some unnamed impulse opened his mouth for him. “Wait…” he said, then hesitated. Oh, what the hell? “Would you mind taking off your cap? I feel like I should be calling you by Hat Brim instead of your name.”

  Her already perfect posture seemed to go more erect. A moment passed. Then, slowly, she reached up to pull her cap from her head. The hand came down slowly too, the khaki canvas shielding her face for another few seconds. In that small interval of time, Joaquin’s belly tightened, just as it did in the last anticipatory moment before a woman dropped her clothes to reveal herself naked to him for the first time.

  Her arm dropped to her side, cap clutched in her fingers.

  In a self-conscious move, her other hand fluffed her short, platinum-blond hair, lifting the longer layers at her crown.

  While he stared at the sweet face below it.

  It was wide at the forehead, eyes, and cheekbones, the kitten-shape tapering to a small chin with a shallow cleft. The mouth was small too, but rosy and full. Kissable.

  And those blue eyes, as blue as summer sky or a peacock feather or the marble his big brother had once found in the dirt and given to Joaquin after polishing it on his T-shirt.

  The blue of trust, loyalty, peace.

  All the things he sometimes thought he didn’t deserve and believed he’d never find.

  Joaquin turned away from those eyes. He heard the soft click of the door as she closed it behind her.

  But once unclothed and between the sheets he couldn’t rid himself of Sara’s image so easily. His tired body had found new vigor from somewhere and sent it all to his cock. It throbbed and ached, as hard as it had ever been, even though his libido had seemed as depleted as the rest of him when he’d landed at LAX that afternoon.

  Shit.

  He ran the heel of his hand down the length of it, feeling an echo of pleasure along his spine. But he couldn’t drum up the inclination or additional energy to take himself in hand.

  Something told him he wouldn’t find it satisfying anyhow.

  Chapter 2

  The smell of bacon woke him.

  He shifted in the bed, disoriented by his bare skin rubbing against soft cotton. Sleeping naked was reserved for sleeping with lovers. The rest of the time he wore pajama
bottoms—silk, one of the pairs given to him by his mother for each birthday, Christmas, and Easter.

  His hand groped at the space next to him, but he found no nubile female form or any residual warmth left by one.

  But the bacon scent was unmistakable, so who was—

  Sara. The butler.

  Unless Patrick had hired him a fryer of bacon too.

  Yawning so hard his jaw cracked, Joaquin pulled himself from the bed and searched through the dresser drawers—the ones he’d been too tired to paw through earlier for pajama bottoms. Once dressed in boxers, jeans, and a T-shirt, he padded, barefoot, in search of the source of that smell.

  It had his belly gnawing on its own lining.

  The hallway was shadowed, and his internal clock told him a few hours had passed. So it was…six-thirty, seven o’clock in the evening? Light up ahead drew him toward a downward staircase, and he paused at the top of it, struck hard by the view.

  Wow.

  He understood more of the house’s layout now. From that side door, he’d entered into what was actually the second story, with bedrooms and bathrooms and a den and media room that he’d spied through gaping doorways. The open gallery leading to the stairs told the rest of the story. Below him was the main living area of the house—that he suspected he would have seen first had he come through the front entry. It was a large, open-concept space—so large he couldn’t see all of it from here.

  But he could see the view.

  Windows reaching to the second-story roofline comprised the structure’s entire west wall, with glass doors that opened onto a deck enveloped by sloping grounds that led to beach that led to ocean. Staring straight ahead, Joaquin took in the boundless Pacific, with the yellow-orange orb of the sun sliding toward the horizon.

  Well.

  It’s fucking stupendous, he thought as he descended the steps. But still too big.

  Following his nose, he passed through a living area with lots of cushioned seating and a huge coffee table, a dining room—with seating space for four times the number of friends he could count as his own—to find the butler in a kitchen that should probably be described as “gourmet” tending a sizzling batch of bacon in a pan. Still dressed the same, except now sans hat, she seemed unaware of his approach.