The Scandal (Billionaire's Beach Book 4) Page 3

  He slid onto a stool at the island that created a boundary between the cooking space and another small seating area that included shelves of books, a blue pottery bowl of sand dollars, and another of multi-colored sea glass.

  Whose books? Who had combed the beach for those treasures?

  Before he could ask, Sara suddenly whirled, one hand clutching her throat, the other raising a spatula like a weapon.

  “Easy,” Joaquin said, holding out his palms. “Just the homeowner.”

  Her cheeks appeared flushed, maybe from the radiant warmth of the burner or the reflected glow of the sunset or because his sudden arrival had unnerved her.

  “I’m sorry.” The spatula lowered. “I’m not used to anyone else being in the house.”

  He wasn’t used to the way the beautiful butler affected him. Already heat was racing through his veins, and his dick started to harden. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been laid but clearly it had been too long. Tonight it was going to have to be fist-and-shower sex, he decided, because he couldn’t walk around with constant wood in his pants.

  How long would he have to hold on before doing just that? Glancing at the digital clock display on the stacked set of ovens, he noted it was near half-past seven. Then he looked back at the butler.

  “Don’t you ever go home?” he asked, sexual frustration roughening his tone.

  A darker flush bloomed on her cheeks, making her eyes stand out like jewels. “I…I…”

  Joaquin wanted to punch himself in the face. What a jerk. He cupped the back of his neck, rubbed. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”

  “I live here,” she said, then bit her puffy bottom lip.

  He stared. “Here? Here here?”

  Sara nodded, then gestured to the side, to another hall off the sitting area. “There are quarters—sitting area, bedroom, and en suite for live-in staff.”

  For God’s sake. He didn’t only have a butler, he had a housemate. A blue-eyed beauty of a housemate…who was at his service.

  She’d actually said that.

  His mood must be written all over his face because she set down the spatula with a clatter and spun the burner dial to Off. “I’ll get out of your way.”

  Like right, he was going to run her off from her meal. “Finish making your dinner.”

  “There’s a simple kitchenette in my private part of the house, and I’ve already eaten. I was only in here to make you a snack for when you woke up.”

  “Snack” spoke to his stomach just as her blue eyes spoke to his sex.

  “Your assistant,” she continued, “told me you’ve been craving BLT&As.”

  He nearly fell off his stool. What the hell? Patrick was sharing Joaquin’s need for some tits-and-ass action? Then sense penetrated his calorie- and shag-starved brain, and he delivered a mental slap to his forehead. “Bacon, lettuce, tomato, and avocado sandwich.”

  Sara nodded. “Coming up in five minutes, along with a beer, if you’d care for it?”

  “Heaven,” he said, because his stomach was now growling like a lion.

  Fifteen minutes later, he’d soothed the beast with two sandwiches made on toasted bread. Sara puttered around the kitchen cleaning up as he ate. With one of his appetites assuaged, he felt a little more under control, and he figured he’d better get a clearer picture of her role.

  “So you live here.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at him, nodded.

  “Is there a Mr. Sara the Butler?”

  Her hand, wiping a countertop, stalled. “No.” Then her cleaning continued.

  “You could sit,” he offered, feeling more mellow by the moment as he took another long swallow from the pilsner glass she’d slid in front of him. She’d filled it three times. “Open yourself a beer. Or pour some wine.”

  From here he could see a well-stocked beverage refrigerator, its glass door revealing a bevy of selections.

  “It’s…not a good idea.”

  Did she suspect he had the hots for her? Did he look that horny? “Why isn’t it a good idea?”

  “Because it’s not done.” That prim tone of hers again.

  He couldn’t leave it alone. “Women and men drink together all the time.”

  She turned now, and leaned back against the granite surface she’d been cleaning. “I’m your butler.”

  “About that…” Now into his third beer, he was feeling a little buzzed, if he didn’t mind admitting it. Which he did not. The recent late nights and business headaches, not to mention the talk about Felipe with his mother that afternoon all made a slight drunk quite well-deserved, as a matter of fact. “I find myself somewhat disappointed you’re not married to the chauffeur.”

  That sweet, rosy little mouth of hers twitched. “Well…”

  God, she was beautiful. And beneath those boring clothes he’d bet she had a smokin’ body. He shouldn’t be thinking like that, Christ, he knew it, but truth was truth, especially after three potent brews. “What are you almost smiling about? I need to know everything,” he told her.

  That made an intoxicated kind of sense. Maybe he’d been so quickly taken with her because of his fatigue and the brand new situation in which an attractive, enigmatic blonde with a sexy accent said “I’m at your service.” A little bit longer in her company and all the novelty would wear off and he’d get his head screwed on straight.

  Instead of the smaller one inconveniently focused on screwing her.

  “I might not be married to a chauffeur,” she said now, “but I am a chauffeur’s daughter.”

  He paused in lifting his beer to his mouth, now more intrigued. “Yeah?”

  “He retired last year, and lives in a tiny cottage in Costa Rica—his dream—but I spent a lot of time in his quarters over the garage of a posh estate just outside London.”

  “Holy Sabrina, Batman. Did you fall in love with the son of the family?”

  Her lips twitched again. “No, there were only three daughters. And none took a particular shine to me. I spent the school year in Michigan with my maternal grandparents, but holidays and summers mostly with my dad.”

  “So how did you end up here?”

  Her head tilted, the light catching her bright hair. “Mr. Douglas really didn’t share much with you.”

  “I admit that having a butler came as a surprise,” Joaquin said. “That doesn’t mean Patrick didn’t tell me, however. It’s been a busy period at work, and I’ve been buried in details of a business deal for months. It’s possible I missed it.”

  “Salient facts, then.” Sara clasped her hands at her waist, her expression composed and her posture proud. “I’m a graduate of the first all-female class of the Continental Butler Academy. One of my classmates works nearby, and she happened to learn of a need…so I applied and was hired.”

  “To do what exactly?” He winced. “That sounded insulting, but I really don’t know anything about this butler thing.”

  “No, I understand. Butler is an old-fashioned word that today describes a person trained in the necessary skills to professionally run a modern household. I know how to set a formal table and serve formal meals and the like, but I’ve also been taught how to act as a personal assistant, a valet, and an estate manager.”

  He nodded toward his plate. “You cook too.”

  “A happy accident.” She smiled.

  It was a butler-y facial expression, he decided, the way her lips curved, polite but reserved. What would she look like if she full-on smiled? Laughed? “Well, I appreciate it,” he said.

  Once again she inclined her head. “The real work these last months has been getting the house and grounds into shape. The structure was mostly a shell, the interior unpainted, and the rugs, furniture, and appliances stacked up in the garage but not yet installed.”

  He glanced around. There didn’t seem to be a single thing out of place, from the big screen TV over the fireplace to the sand dollars and sea glass on the shelves. “It looks great. I can’t believe you accomplished all this
in so short a time.”

  She shrugged, but her gaze roamed the area, and there was a satisfied glow about her. “I had help. And I’m told I can be quite imperious when I must be…in a nice way.”

  He couldn’t hide his grin. With the little half-accent and that arresting face, he could see workmen stumbling all over themselves to get a job done to her standards. “Oh, yeah, imperious is probably the answer.”

  Her golden brown brows came together. “In a nice way.”

  “In a nice way.” Now his lips twitched.

  She blinked, then swooped in to take his plate and deposit it in the dishwasher. “If that’s all, si—Joaquin, I’ll say good night…unless there’s something else I can get you?”

  The butler was leaving him? But it was full dark, and she’d likely had a long day that included meeting the man of the house and didn’t include a middle-of-the-day snooze. He cast a look at the television. He’d need something to do for the next several hours before he’d be ready for more sleep. “The remote.”

  “Right over here.” She bustled around the island, leaving the tiniest drift of floral perfume in her wake.

  Joaquin followed it and those tempting apples of her ass toward the huge matching couches in the living area where she pulled the device from a drawer in the coffee table.

  As she handed it over, their fingertips brushed.

  Sparks burst.

  “I shocked you.” Her gaze jumped to his face. “So sorry.”

  But it wasn’t a static shock. It was a burst of awareness, the sexual kind that caused sparklers of heat to rocket up his arm and then roll down the rest of him.

  It had affected her too, he could tell, because her nipples had budded beneath her bra.

  Was he supposed to ignore that the butler had breasts?

  Fuck. He closed his eyes and thought of the long night ahead. Would a shower even do the trick? “Naps are a lousy idea,” he muttered. “I’ll never get to sleep.”

  Her response was prompt. “I can do something about that if you’d like.”

  Joaquin’s eyes flew open. Had she just offered…? He cleared his throat, knowing he must be wrong, but finding himself saying it anyway. “Your, uh, duties are all-inclusive then?”

  He saw the dawning knowledge of what she’d said and how he’d chosen to construe it come over her face. Her eyes widened, and a blush crawled up her neck and cheeks. Her rosy, kissable mouth opened, closed, opened.

  “Bloody hell.” She threw a hand over her lips. “Pardon me.” The words came out muffled, followed by a stifled laugh.

  “Too late,” Joaquin announced, charmed. Too late, because he’d seen Sara Smythe drop her prim and proper guise.

  Her hand fell, and then she bowed her head so she had to peek at him through the tangle of her long lashes.

  “Bad Sara,” she scolded herself, then addressed him again. “That came out completely wrong, didn’t it?”

  “Maybe just a little,” Joaquin conceded, though he was the bad one, because his baser self couldn’t help wanting the butler to consider the idea of helping overcome his sleeplessness as completely right.

  But then her chin tilted up and her gaze met his full-on. The unspoiled blue of it forced him to step back and curse his wayward desires. Bloody hell is right. He was here for solitude, damn it, not sex. To smooth himself out, not to become entangled with the bright-eyed butler.

  This wasn’t the time, and she definitely wasn’t the type for the only kind of short-term fling—physical and fiery—in which he ever indulged.

  The next morning, Sara deadheaded spent blooms on the full growth of roses alongside the deck overlooking the ocean. When she’d arrived at the estate, the bushes had looked unhealthy, and after consultation with the landscaper, she’d cut them back almost immediately. Then she’d applied a preventative fungicide spray and fed them an organic fertilizer. For good measure, she’d added a little alfalfa meal for the soil itself.

  The care had paid off nicely. Pleased, she smiled to herself, then paused as Joaquin’s presence made itself known. Even in the salt- and flower-scented air she could smell his masculine, spicy soap mingling with the aroma of fresh coffee.

  Glancing over, she saw him with mug in hand, gazing out at the ocean. “Good morning,” she called.

  “Is it really?”

  Her gaze shifted to the empty beach, the tumbling waves, and then to the blue sky above them. “Well—”

  “Don’t mind me,” he said, grimacing. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep.”

  She frowned, turning to face him. “Was the mattress uncomfortable? The pillows too soft—”

  “They’re fine. Don’t worry about it.”

  “But I’m employed to address issues such as that,” she insisted, then hesitated a moment before plunging on. “Which brings me to a discussion I believe we should have right away—about how you’d like your home to be run now that you’re living in it.”

  That was what she’d landed on the night before when she couldn’t sleep. Over and over she’d replayed in her head the moment when she’d unintentionally blurted what sounded like a suggestive offer to her new employer. She’d meant to imply she could warm milk or make chamomile tea, of course, but then he’d lifted a brow and she’d heard what she’d actually spoken, and…

  And after that the moment had become truly uncomfortable because she’d cursed and laughed and…

  Oh, just admit to it.

  She’d almost, sort of, nearly…flirted.

  It had appalled her as she’d turned off her light last night and appalled her now. Bad Sara, she’d said, looking up at him. It had sounded coquettish.

  Sara didn’t do coquettish. In her high school years, her strict grandparents hadn’t allowed her to date lest she become “loose” and “lacking in judgement” like her mother. After, there hadn’t been a lot of eligible men in her life to practice being playful with, and she’d been an awkward dater at best. So she had no business fluttering her lashes like that. And worse, clumsy attempts at being cute might very well alienate her employer and jeopardize her job.

  That Joaquin Weatherford was stunningly attractive was no reason or excuse.

  She worked for the man, and this discussion would remind them both of the clear boundary line between them.

  Clearing her throat, she dropped the pruners into the basket at her feet where she’d discarded the browning and shriveled flowers. Then she squared her shoulders and looked at him expectantly.

  He merely gazed at her over the rim of his coffee mug as he took a sip.

  Sara refused to squirm. “Shall I give you a rundown of what I currently do and make suggestions for additions now that you’re in residence?”

  “Have at it.”

  “Well.” She cleared her throat again. “I do a light cleaning of the interior daily and supervise the service that comes in for a detailed scrubbing and high window-washing once a month. I see to the household laundry, pay the household bills from the account, and contact workers and oversee them when inside repairs are required. Outside, I generally direct the garden service but do a lot of the planting and plant maintenance myself.”

  “Busy butler.”

  “I don’t mind work. As I said, previously I was also occupied with getting the house ready for real habitation. That’s mostly completed. But now that you’re staying, I suggest I add to my tasks the care of your personal laundry and the preparation of a simple breakfast each morning, lunch if you’d like, and a dinner each night—unless you have plans to be out. If you choose to entertain, you only have to let me know, and I can plan for and produce pretty much any kind of meal you might wish.”

  He seemed to think that over a minute. “You really want to do all that?”

  “It’s my job.” And if she wanted to stay here long enough to add the position to her resume, she needed him to deem her tasks essential. “I’m good at it.”

  His gaze stayed fixed on her, as if puzzling something. “What made you think of becom
ing a butler?”

  She shrugged. “My father was in service, as I told you—his whole family, going back to my great-grandfather. My mother too, for a time before she died. And I like running things.”

  “You could run a…I don’t know, some sort of business. A café perhaps. Or manage a classroom.”

  “I like beautiful places. I like taking care of lovely things. I want to…to make a house a home.” She felt herself flush at her defensive tone. “To you, maybe that sounds—”

  “It sounds nice, Sara.” He strolled forward to stand before her, then reached his free hand toward her hair.

  Breathing in his delicious scent, she froze as his fingers played with the longer top strands. She stared at him, but his eyes were trained away from hers.

  “You’ve caught some rose petals,” he explained, and she saw several tiny white cups drift to the ground.

  Another caught on her plain yellow T-shirt, over the slope of her breast. Their gazes shifted there, and to her extreme embarrassment, she both felt and saw her nipples tighten until they stood up against the soft cotton.

  Her arms crossed her chest in a casual manner, she hoped. “So…you’d like me to do some cooking for you?”

  “I’d be a fool to turn down the offer.”

  She wished he’d move farther away, but she continued to stand her ground, to prove that the rose petals incident still didn’t have her scalp prickling and her breasts aching. The line was drawn, and she was firmly placed on her side of it.

  “Let’s talk about what kind of food you like then,” she said.

  He swallowed more coffee. “I’m easy. No allergies, no specific dislikes.” His brows lowered. “Except for anchovies in any dish and fruit on pizza.”

  “That helps.” She drew her phone from her back pocket and brought up her shopping list app as she tried thinking how to broach the next subject. Then she recalled how he’d asked her about a man in her life. Is there a Mr. Sara the Butler? “I’m guessing there’s not a Mrs. Joaquin the Homeowner, but is there a girlfriend I should know about?”

  At his silence, she glanced up.

  “You’re asking if I’m involved with someone?” he said.