One Month with the Magnate (3 page)

She reached up to ring the bell one last time when behind her someone said, “I'm not home.”

Her heart slammed against her rib cage and she spun around to find Emilio looking up at her from the driveway. He wore a nylon jacket and jogging pants, his forehead was dotted with perspiration and he was out of breath.

Still a jogger. Back in college, he'd been diligent about
keeping in shape. He'd even convinced her to go to the gym with him a few times, but to the annoyance of her friends, her naturally slim build never necessitated regular exercise.

He stepped up to the porch and stopped so close to her that she could practically feel the heat radiating off his body. He smelled of a tantalizing combination of aftershave, evening air and red-blooded man. She was torn between the desire to lean close and breathe him in, or run like hell. Instead she stood her ground, met his penetrating gaze. He'd always been tall, but now he seemed to tower over her with the same long, lean build as in his youth. The years had been good to him.

He looked at her luggage, then her. “Where's the rest?”

“This is all I brought.”

One dark brow rose. A move so familiar, she felt a jab of nostalgia, a longing for the way things used to be. One he clearly did not share.

“You travel light,” he said.

Pretty much everything she owned was in that one piece of luggage. A few of her mother's fashion rejects and the rest she'd purchased at the thrift store. When the feds had seized their home, she hadn't tried or even wanted to keep any of the possessions. She couldn't stand the thought of wearing clothes that she knew had been purchased with stolen money.

The clothes, the state of the art electronic equipment, the fine jewelry and priceless art had all been auctioned off, and other than her coffee/espresso machine, she didn't miss any of it.

Leaving the bag right where it was—she hadn't really expected him to carry it for her—Emilio turned and punched in a code on the pad beside the door. She heard
a click as the lock disengaged, and as he opened the door the lights automatically switched on.

She picked up her bag and followed him inside, nearly gasping at the magnificence of the interior. The two-story foyer opened up into a grand front room with a curved, dual marble stairway. In the center hung an ornately fashioned wrought iron chandelier that matched the banister. The walls were painted a tasteful cream color, with boldly colored accents.

“It's lovely,” she said.

“I'll show you to your quarters, then give you a tour. My housekeeper left a list of your daily duties and sample menus for you to follow.”

“You didn't fire her, I hope.”

He shot her a stern look. “Of course not. I gave her a month paid vacation.”

That was generous of him. He could obviously afford it. She was thankful the woman had left instructions. What Isabelle knew about cooking and cleaning could be listed on an index card with lines to spare, but she was determined to learn. How hard could it be?

Emilio led her through an enormous kitchen with polished mahogany cabinets, marble countertops and top-of-the-line steel appliances, past a small bathroom and laundry room to the maid's quarters in the back.

So, this was where she would spend the next thirty days. It was barely large enough to hold a single bed, a small wood desk and padded folding chair, and a tall, narrow chest of drawers. The walls were white and completely bare but for the small crucifix hanging above the bed. It wasn't luxurious by any stretch of the imagination, but it was clean and safe, which was more than she could say for her motel. Checking out of that hellhole, knowing she would no longer wake in the middle of the night to the sound of
roaches and rodents scratching in the walls, and God only knows what sort of illegal activity just outside her door, had in itself almost been worth a month of humiliation.

She set her bag on the faded blue bedspread. “Where is your housekeeper staying while I'm here?” she asked. She hoped not in the house. The idea of someone watching over her shoulder made her uneasy. This would be humiliating enough without an audience.

“She's not a live-in. I prefer my privacy.”

“Yet, you're letting
me
stay,” she said.

Up went the brow again. “I could move you into the pool house if you'd prefer. Although you may find the lack of heat less than hospitable.”

She was going to have to curb the snippy comments. At this point it probably wouldn't take much for him to back out of their deal.

He nodded toward the chest. “You'll find your uniform in the top drawer.”

Uniform? He never said anything about her wearing a uniform. For one horrifying instant she wondered if he would seize the opportunity to inflict even more humiliation by making her wear a revealing French maid's outfit. Or something even worse.

She pulled the drawer open, relieved to find a plain, drab gray, white collared dress. The same kind his mother wore when she worked for Isabelle's parents. She almost asked how he knew what size to get, but upon close inspection realized that the garment would be too big.

She slid the drawer closed and turned to face Emilio. He stood just inside the doorway, arms folded, expression dark—an overwhelming presence in the modest space. And he was blocking the door.

She felt a quick jab of alarm.

She was cornered. In a bedroom no less. What if his
intentions were less than noble? What if he'd brought her here so he could take what she'd denied him fifteen years ago?

Of course he wouldn't. Any man who would wait a year to be with a woman knew a thing or two about self-control. Besides, why would he want to have sex with someone he clearly hated? He wasn't that sort of man. At least, he never used to be.

He must have sensed her apprehension. That damned brow lifted again and he asked, with a look of amusement, “Do I frighten you, Izzie?”

I
zzie. Emilio was the only one who ever called her that. Hearing it again, after so many years, made Isabelle long to recapture the happiness of those days. The sense of hopefulness. The feeling that as long as they had each other, they could overcome any obstacles.

How wrong she had been. She'd discovered that there were some obstacles she would never overcome. At least, not until it was too late.

She squared her shoulders and told Emilio, “You don't scare me.”

He stepped closer. “Are you sure? For a second there, I could swear you looked nervous.”

She resisted the urge to take a step back. But not from fear. She just didn't appreciate him violating her personal space. She didn't like the way it made her feel. Out of control. Defenseless. His presence still did something to her after all this time. He would never know how hard it
had been to tell him no back then, to wait. So many times she had come
this close
to giving in. If he had pushed a little harder, she probably would have. But he had been too much of a gentleman. A genuinely good guy. He had respected her.

Not anymore.

“I know you,” she said. “You're harmless.”

He moved even closer, so she had to crane her neck to look into his eyes. “Maybe I've changed.”

Unlikely. And she refused to back down, to let him intimidate her.

She folded her arms and glared up at him, and after a few seconds more he backed away, then he turned and walked out. She assumed she was meant to follow him. A proper host would have given her time to unpack and freshen up. He might have offered her something to drink. But he wasn't her host. He was her employer. Or more appropriately, her warden. This was just a prison of a different kind. A prison of hurt and regret.

On the kitchen counter lay the duty list he'd mentioned. He handed it to her and when she saw that it was
eight
pages single-spaced she nearly swallowed her own tongue. Her shock must have shown, because that damned brow quirked up and Emilio asked, “Problem?”

She swallowed hard and shook her head. “None at all.”

She flipped through it, seeing that it was efficiently organized by room and listed which chores should be performed on which day. Some things, like vacuuming the guest rooms and polishing the chrome in the corresponding bathrooms, were done on a weekly basis, alternating one of the five spare bedrooms every day. Other duties such as dusting the marble in the entryway and polishing the kitchen counters was a daily task. That didn't even include the cooking.

It was difficult to believe that one person could accomplish this much in one day. From the looks of it, she would be working from dawn to dusk without a break.

“I'm putting a few final touches on the menus, but you'll have them first thing tomorrow,” Emilio said. “I'm assuming you can cook.”

Not if it meant doing much more than heating a frozen dinner in the microwave or boiling water on a hot plate. “I'll manage.”

“Of course you'll be responsible for all the shopping as well. You'll have a car at your disposal. And you're welcome to eat whatever you desire.” He gave her a quick once-over, not bothering to hide his distaste. “Although from the looks of you, I'm guessing you don't eat much.”

Eating required money and that was in short supply these days. She refused to sponge off her mother, whose financial situation was only slightly less grave, and no one was interested in hiring a thief six weeks from a twenty-to-life visit to the slammer. Besides, Isabelle had been such a nervous wreck lately, every time she tried to eat she would get a huge lump in her throat, through which food simply refused to pass.

She shrugged. “Like they say in Hollywood, there's no such thing as too thin.”

“I see you still have the same irrational hang-ups about your body,” he snapped back, his contempt so thick she could have choked on it. “I remember that you would only undress in the dark and hide under the covers when I turned the light on.”

Her only hang-up had been with letting Emilio see the scars and bruises. He would have wanted an explanation, and she knew that if she'd told him the truth, something bad would happen. She'd done it to protect him and he was throwing it back in her face.

If this was a preview of what she should expect from the next thirty days, it would be a long month. But she could take it. And the less she said, the better.

The fact that she remained silent, that she didn't rise to her own defense, seemed to puzzle him. She waited for his next attack, but instead he gestured her out of the kitchen. “The living room is this way.”

If he had more barbs to throw, he was saving them for another time.

She could hardly wait.

Though Emilio's hospitality left a lot to be desired, his home had all the comforts a person could possibly need. Six bedrooms and eight baths, a state of the art media room and a fitness/game room complete with autographed sports memorabilia. He had a penchant for Mexican pottery and an art collection so vast he could open a gallery. The house was furnished and decorated with a lively, southwestern flair.

It was as close to perfect as a home could be, the apotheosis of his ambitions, yet for some reason it seemed…empty. Perfect to the point of feeling almost unoccupied. Or maybe it simply lacked a woman's touch.

When they got to the master suite he stopped outside the door. “This room is off-limits. The same goes for my office downstairs.”

Fine with her. That much less work as far as she was concerned. Besides, his bedroom was the last place she wanted to be spending any time.

He ended the tour there, and they walked back down to the kitchen. “Be sure you study that list, as I expect you to adhere to those exact specifications.”

Her work would be exemplary. Now that she'd had a taste of how bitter he was, it was essential that she not give him a single reason to find fault with her performance. Too
much was at stake. “If there's nothing more, I'll go to my room now,” she said.

“No need to rush off.” He peeled off his jacket and tossed it over the back of a kitchen chair. Underneath he wore a form-fitting muscle shirt that accentuated every plane of lean muscle in his chest and abs, and she was far from immune to the physical draw of an attractive man. Especially one she had never completely fallen out of love with. Meaning the less time she spent with him, the better.

He grabbed a bottled water from the fridge, but didn't offer her one. “It's early. Stick around for a while.”

“I'm tired,” she told him. “And I need to study that list.”

“But we haven't had a chance to catch up.” He propped himself against the counter, as though he was settling in for a friendly chat. “What have you been up to the past fifteen years? Besides defrauding the better part of Texas high society.”

She bit the inside of her cheek.

“You know what I find ironic? I'll bet if your parents had to guess who they thought was more likely to go to federal prison, you or me, they would have chosen the son of Cuban immigrants over their precious daughter.”

Apparently his idea of catching up would consist of thinly veiled insults and jabs at her character.
Swell.

“No opinion?” he asked, clearly hoping she would retaliate, but she refused to be baited. Others had said much worse and she'd managed to ignore them, too. Reporters and law officials, although the worst of it had come from people who had supposedly been her friends. But she wouldn't begrudge a single one of them their very strong opinions. Even if the only thing she was truly guilty of was stupidity.

“It's just as well,” Emilio said. “I have work to catch up on.”

Struggling to keep her face devoid of emotion so he wouldn't see how relieved she was, she grabbed the list and walked to her quarters, ultra-aware of his gaze boring into her back. Once inside she closed the door and leaned against it. She hadn't been lying, she was truly exhausted. She couldn't recall the last time she'd had a decent night's sleep.

She gazed longingly at the bed, but it was still early, and she had to at least make an effort to familiarize herself with her duties before she succumbed to exhaustion.

She hung her sweater on the back of the folding chair and sat down, setting the list in front of her on the desk.

According to the housekeeper's schedule, Emilio's car picked him up at seven-thirty sharp, so Isabelle had to be up no later than six-thirty to fix his coffee and make his breakfast. If she was in bed by ten, she would get a solid eight and a half hours' sleep. About double what she'd been getting at the motel if she counted all the times she was jolted awake by strange noises. The idea of feeling safe and secure while she slept was an enticing one, as was the anticipation of eating something other than ramen noodles for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

If she could manage to avoid Emilio, staying here might not be so bad after all.

 

Usually Emilio slept like a baby, but knowing he wasn't alone in the house had him tossing and turning most of the night.

It had been odd, after so many years apart, to see Isabelle standing on his front porch waiting for him. After she married Betts, Emilio had intended never to cross paths with her again. He'd declined invitations to functions that he knew she would be attending and chose his friends and acquaintances with the utmost care.

He had done everything in his power to avoid her, yet here she was, sleeping in his servants' quarters. Maybe the pool house would have been a better alternative.

He stared through the dark at the ceiling, recalling their exchange of words earlier. Isabelle had changed. She used to be so subdued and timid. She would have recoiled from his angry words and cowered in the face of his resentment, and she never would have dished out any caustic comments of her own. A life of crime must have hardened her.

But what had Alejandro said? She was guilty on paper, but there had been new developments. Could she be innocent?

That didn't change what she had done to him, and what her father had done to Emilio's family. She could have implored him to keep his mother on as an employee, or to at least give her a positive recommendation. She hadn't even tried.

In a way, he wished he had never met her. But according to her, it was destiny. She used to say she knew from the first moment she laid eyes on him that they were meant to be with one another, that fate had drawn them together. Although technically he had known her for years before he'd ever really noticed her. His mother drove them to school in the mornings, he and his brothers to public school and Izzie to the private girls' school down the road, and other than an occasional “hi,” she barely spoke to him. To him, she had never been more than the daughter of his mother's employer, a girl too conceited to give him the time of day. Only later had she admitted that she'd had such a crush on him that she'd been too tongue-tied to speak.

During his junior year of high school he'd gotten his own car and rarely saw her after that. Then, when he was in college, she had shown up out of the blue at the house he'd rented on campus for the summer session. She had just
graduated from high school and planned to attend classes there in the fall. She asked if he would show her around campus.

Though it seemed an odd request considering they had barely ever spoken, he felt obligated, since her parents paid his mother's salary. They spent the afternoon together, walking and chatting, and in those few hours he began to see a side of her that he hadn't known existed. She was intelligent and witty, but with a childlike innocence he found compelling. He realized that what he had once mistaken for conceit and entitlement was really shyness and self-doubt. He found that he could open up to her, that despite their vast social differences, she understood him. He liked her, and there was no doubt she had romantic feelings toward him, but she was young and naive and he knew her parents would never approve of their daughter dating the son of the hired help. He decided that they could be friends, but nothing more.

Then she kissed him.

He had walked her back to her car and they were saying goodbye. Without warning she threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. He was stunned—and aroused—and though he knew he should stop her, the scent of her skin and the taste of her lips were irresistible. They stood there in the dark kissing for a long time, until she said she had to get home. But by then it was too late. He was hooked.

He spent every minute he wasn't at work or in class that summer with her, and when they were apart it was torture. They were only dating two weeks when he told her he loved her, and after a month he knew he wanted to marry her, but he waited until their six month anniversary to ask her formally.

They figured that if they both saved money until the
end of the school year they would have enough to get a small place together, then they would elope. He warned her it would be tight for a while, maybe even years, until he established his career. She swore it didn't matter as long as they were together.

But in the end it
had
mattered.

Emilio let out an exasperated sigh and looked at the clock. Two-thirty. If he lay here rehashing his mistakes he was never going to get to sleep. These were issues he'd resolved a long time ago. Or so he'd thought.

Maybe bringing Isabelle into his home had been a bad idea. Was revenge really worth a month of sleepless nights? He just had to remind himself how well he would sleep when his family was vindicated.

Emilio eventually drifted off to sleep, then roused again at four-fifteen wide-awake. After an unsuccessful half hour of trying to fall back to sleep, he got out of bed and went down to his office. He worked for a while, then spent an hour in the fitness room before going upstairs to get ready for work. He came back down at seven, expecting his coffee and breakfast to be waiting for him, but the kitchen was dark.