The Scandal (Billionaire's Beach Book 4) (4 page)

“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 becoming 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.

Damn her easy ability to blush! “Not because it’s any of my business,” she hastened to say. “Or because I’m…I’m interested particularly. But in order to have foodstuffs on hand that might appeal to her. Yogurts, say, or almond milk if that’s the type she favors. If she prefers Dijon mustard or a heartier sort.”

“Foodstuffs. Dijon mustard,” he murmured, shaking his head. “I haven’t had time for the kind of relationship where I learn a lady’s favorite condiments.”

“No?” The comment led her to think of the kind of relationships he did find time to enjoy. Sexual, of course. But would he opt for hot, fast rolls in the dark, or did he work off his stress in long, lazy sessions accompanied by candlelight?

“No,” he said now, and then stroked the stubble of whiskers on his chin, the light scrubbing sound of it like a tickle down her spine.

Her belly tightened and her inner thighs went weak.

“It’s been a while,” Joaquin continued, “since I’ve had any kind of…interaction.”

The devil made her do it. Some force, anyway, took over so that while she cast an innocent look his way, her mouth opened and she said, “Aphrodisiacs then? Should I stock up on oysters and pomegranates?”

He stilled. The air between them electrified.

“Oh, Bad Sara,” he whispered. “Very Bad Sara.”

“Sir?” See, that devil was still driving her because the word came out pert and way, way too innocent.

“I don’t need a substance to enhance my libido, I assure you. I only need…”

As she quivered under his regard, he reached out his hand to toy with her hair again. More rose petals? Tucking a strand behind her ear, his fingertip traced the curve, leaving behind a fiery burn.

Sara licked her dry lips. “You only need…?”

His gaze fastened on her mouth. She held her breath.

“What I need is—”

Joaquin didn’t finish, because a shout came from the direction of the beach.

“Sara!”

She jolted back, tripping over her own feet so her employer had to grip her elbow to keep her upright.

“Sara!” A young voice hailed her again.

Her eyes jumped from Joaquin to the six-year-old boy running up the steps that led from the sand to the stretch of grass surrounding the deck. His bare feet slid to a stop before her and he looked to the man who was holding her arm then back at her.

“Hello, Wells.” She beamed at the boy as she slid from Joaquin’s hold. Thank God for the timely interruption. “How are you today?”

“Hungry.”

“I heard that,” Sara’s friend Charlie said, coming up behind the child, a small pair of flip flops in her hand. “You had a snack before we left the house, which is a ten-minute walk.” Charlie appeared as unruffled as always, though there was curiosity in the glance she cast Joaquin’s way.