Up Close and Personal Page 3

  Chapter 4

  ______________

  Sterling

  THE NEXT MORNING, I stroll into the dining room in my usual Sunday morning attire—trousers, shirt, a v-neck cashmere sweater. The trousers are gray, the shirt white and the sweater a heather blue. Not that I can tell. My valet chooses my clothes for me.

  “Mr. MacKay?” Moseley sounds bewildered. “I sent the maid up with your breakfast. I thought you’d be eating in your room.”

  “Not today.” I couldn’t resist the temptation of hearing Ms. Bennett enjoy Belgian waffles with strawberries and whipped cream, our usual Sunday morning breakfast fare.

  She arrives in a rush and, from the sound of it, wearing the same skirt from the interview. Given the state of the weather—it snowed twelve inches overnight—I’ll probably enjoy a couple more days of suffering through that particular outfit before she can replenish her wardrobe.

  Why am I so preoccupied with her? I never felt this way about her predecessor. Inwardly, I shrug. Maybe it’s boredom setting in. Six months with no outlet for my energy—no skiing, no racing, no mountain climbing—would do that to a man used to physical activity. Problem is, she more than amuses me.

  Against all odds, I’m attracted to her.

  Why? She’s not my type. She’s too bubbly, too enthusiastic, too unsophisticated. I like the quiet mysterious types, not the ones who blurt out every thought that rumbles through their heads, or reveal their states of mind through every sound they make. But there’s something about her. Her innocence, her appreciation of food. Her joy in the smallest of things. Maybe it stems from the lack of luxuries in her life which apparently has not been easy. Or maybe she was born that way. Whatever the reason, I can’t help but be fascinated by her.

  I’ll need to ask Anton to run a security check on her just like I have on my other employees. Of course, I usually investigate them before I hire them, not afterward. Which begs the question. Why exactly did I offer her the job on the spot? A security check would have taken barely a day or so to complete. I could have waited that long. But I couldn’t stand the delay. There’s something about her that attracts me. Like a moth to a flame. I laugh to myself. Hope not. That usually ends with the moth getting burned.

  When she joins me at the dining table, I detect the same essence from the night before. It angers me she didn’t obey my request. “I thought I asked you not to wear perfume.”

  Her steps come to a dead stop. “I’m not.”

  “Then what on earth do you have on?”

  “The soap the maid provided me. Since I didn’t have mine I had to ask for one of yours.”

  “My soap doesn’t smell like that.” I grit my teeth against the sudden urge to breathe her in, to taste her skin, to lick her.

  Taking her time, she drops into the seat Moseley’s pulled out for her, flicks her napkin. “Ooookay.”

  She sounds confused. No wonder. She must think me a madman.

  “I’ll buy non-scented soap as soon as I can get to a store.”

  “See that you do.” I’m being a bastard, but my body’s reaction to her scent is growing troublesome. Last night my cock stood at attention all through dinner. My glass dining table would have revealed my reaction to her proximity, so I’d used the napkin to cover it up as best I could. Except it hadn’t been just her nearness, but the sounds she’d made. When she ate her food, drank her wine, I couldn’t help but imagine the noises she’d make with my shaft buried inside her.

  “Are your eyes hurting you?” She sounds tentative, unsure, like she’s trying to determine how best to deal with me.

  “Yes, they are.” I assign my bad mood to my infirmity rather than to the lower part of my anatomy which pounds with need. It’s way past time to deal with this bothersome itch. I’ll call my escort service and request Minouette for tonight.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Never mind that.” I slide a sheet of paper toward her. “I drew up a summary of your remuneration and benefits. Salary, expenses, health insurance, clothing allowance.” Before breakfast, I’d stopped at my office and dictated the document into my computer which is set up to transcribe my voice and read my words back to me. Once the document contained everything I wanted, it was only a matter of sending it to print.

  “Clothing allowance?” she chirps.

  God almighty. Even that innocent enquiry turns me on. I snap my napkin as Moseley slides my plate in front of me. “As my assistant, I’ll expect you to dress a certain way. So a generous clothing allowance is called for.”

  “Ten thousand dollars?” She gasps. “On clothes?”

  “Could you say it a little louder, Ms. Bennett. I don’t believe they heard you next door.” An impossible thing. The closest house is three acres away. But certainly the serving staff heard her.

  “Sorry.”

  I hunt down the syrup, situated as usual at my three o’clock, and pour it over the waffles. “You will need at least three new business suits, an evening gown, a cocktail dress, new coat, shoes.”

  “What? No undies? Surely, I’ll need to wear those.”

  On my right, someone suppresses a snicker. Must be the serving maid. I’ll need to discuss the lack of decorum with Moseley. My servants are to wait quietly on me and my guests, not react to the conversation at the table.

  Ignoring her flippant comment, I continue. “I’m not sure ten thousand dollars will be enough. If you need a larger allowance, let me know. I’ve also listed the places you may shop for clothes. Do not deviate from the list. I have set up accounts at each of those stores and the bills will come to me.”

  “Fine.” Paper rustles, swishes, like she’s folding the sheet and stashing it away.

  I slide another sheet of paper toward her.

  “What’s that?”

  “A non-disclosure agreement. Anything you see, read, hear while under my employment is to be kept strictly confidential.”

  A suppressed gasp. “I wouldn’t reveal anything about you, Mr. MacKay.”

  I offended her which is not my intent. Regardless, she must sign the document if she’s to keep her job. “That’s good to know, but I still need you to sign the NDA.” I hand her a pen.

  “Very well.” The sounds of pen scratches reach me before she pushes the paper in my direction.

  I cock a brow. “Do you always sign documents without first reading them?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you just do so?”

  “I trust you.”

  “I could have included a paragraph requiring you to dance naked in the moonlight.”

  “But you didn’t.” She mumbles with her mouth full.

  “How do you know? You didn’t read it.”

  “Because you wouldn’t act dishonorably toward an employee.”

  It’s true, but she doesn’t know such a thing.

  “Moseley, these waffles are to die for. And the strawberries?” she says. “Yum.”

  Could she sound any more chipper? And could my erection get any harder?

  “I will pass on the compliment to Chef Henri, Ms. Bennett.”

  When did she become so chummy with my butler?

  “Thank you. Is the rest of the afternoon my own?” she asks. “The Redskins are in the playoffs. I’d like to watch the game.”

  So she’s a sports nut, or at least a football aficionado, something I used to be before my vision was compromised. “Yes. Feel free to use the game room in the basement. The refrigerator down there contains food and drinks. In case you get hungry.”

  “You don’t watch sports?” She gasps as if she’s just realized what she just asked. “I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for, Ms. Bennett. Yes, I watch. But I have some things to attend to this afternoon.” I’m not lying about that. In the past I would have made time to watch the game. Unfortunately, listening to a football game is not the same as seeing it, so I forgo it altogether.

  “May I help?”

  “No. Ms. Bennett. I can manage. Enj
oy the game.”

  Except for the bedrooms and the bathrooms, every other room in the house is fitted with security cameras. So while I work in my office, I occasionally check in on her while she watches the game. I may not be able to see her, but I hear her every word. To my delight, she talks back to the TV, excoriating a player for a dropped pass, yelling at a ref for a bad call. Her unbridled enthusiasm for the team enraptures me. So does her obsession with food. She fires off the popcorn maker, pulls stuff from the refrigerator, pours a drink. Her remark to her ham and cheese sandwich gets me hard as stone. Fascinated, I listen as she cheers on her team, a losing effort as it turns out, her dejection seemingly eased somewhat by the food and drinks. When the game ends, she turns off the large-screen TV and strolls out of the room, humming a current pop song.

  And I realize I spent more time listening to her than working on my stockholders’ report.

  After less than a day’s acquaintance, Ms. Bennett is rapidly becoming an unwelcome obsession with me. I have too much going on in my business to fixate on a dewy-eyed female. God knows I don’t need her for sex, not when Minouette’s services are only a phone call away. And I’m not in the market for a serious relationship. Not after what happened with my former fiancee who’d walked out on me. After she realized the extent of my injuries, she’d said she couldn’t bear to see me as less than a man. That remark shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. After all I’d never fooled myself into believing she was in love. She’d been attracted to my billions, not me. But even my money hadn’t been enough to keep her chained to a blind man. I don’t doubt I could find another bride. Plenty of women out there after all. But I’d never know if she’d married me for my money.

  Maybe I should pay off Ms. Bennett and send her on her way. Two months’ severance would be more than enough for a couple of days’ work. Maybe a new car as well. Moseley tells me her junker is on life support. Problem is with the dinner party I’m throwing next week and the trip to Hong Kong, I really need a personal assistant. She’s smart and eager to please. And I’m not going to find a better candidate than her. So I’ll just have to handle my obsession no matter what it takes.

  Chapter 5

  ______________

  Caitlyn

  MONDAY MORNING after breakfast, Mr. MacKay calls me into his office to talk about a dinner party he’s holding a week from Saturday. Why he waited until five minutes before he’s scheduled to leave for work is beyond me. He hands me a yellow legal pad to take notes while rifling off his orders. He’s left the guest list on my desk along with his private stationery. I’m to handwrite every invitation and arrange for each to be delivered by the private messenger company he’s also noted on the list. Oh, and when I get a chance, I’m to arrange to have my things moved.

  Once he departs for D.C., I go in search of my office which I find right next to his. Duh. The room’s gorgeous. Although smaller, it shimmers and sparkles like his. On the glass desk surface, I find a stack of fancy card stationery with a list of names and addresses next to it—nine in all. Piece of cake. Glad for my Catholic school education which taught me the fine art of penmanship, I spend the next hour addressing the envelopes and writing out the invitations.

  At exactly 10:01, he calls to add one more guest to the dinner party. A half hour later, the phone rings again. It’s him. Of course it is. Who else could it be? He’s wondering if my new car’s been delivered.

  “I’m getting a new car?”

  “Yes. You can’t drive around in that rattletrap of yours.”

  I start to get the warm fuzzies, but, with his next statement, I crash back to earth. “If you got hurt, who would take care of things?”

  Right. Should have known. I’m his personal assistant after all. So, of course, it’s all about him. You’re living in a gorgeous house, eating yummy food, working in a glorious office. So quit yer bitchin’, Caitlyn. Darn. I hate it when my conscience slaps some sense into me. “The car hasn’t arrived, Mr. MacKay,” I say in my sweetest voice.

  “Moseley will let you know when it gets there.”

  “I’m sure he will. Thank you for letting me know.”

  Finished addressing the invitations, I’m just about to call the messenger service when Moseley knocks on my office door. “Your new car’s here, Ms. Bennett.”

  Excited to see what Mr. MacKay ordered, I follow the butler to the circular drive in front of the house. The car is a silver Honda CR-V. The winter sun glints off it, so bright it hurts my eyes. “Oh, my word.”

  Sporting a smile, Moseley drops the keys in my hand. “It’s the latest model with all the bells and whistles.”

  Squealing with happiness, I hug him. Can’t help it. I’ve never driven a brand new car before. “I can go get my things now.”

  “Yes, Miss.” His smile grows broader.

  I dash inside and change into my jeans and tennis shoes. Can’t very well do a move in a business suit. When I arrive at my apartment, my roommate’s absent. No surprise. She works and attends school. I spend the afternoon packing as much as I can. Some will go into storage, some I’ll take back with me. Busy as I am, I lose track of the time, and before I know it, it’s after four. It will take me at least an hour to get back to McLean.

  I write a note to my roommate explaining I’ve moved out but will be back for the rest of my things. Not wanting her to suffer financially, I write her a check for next month’s rent. Thirty days will be plenty of time to move my things into storage and for her to find another roommate.

  Unfortunately, I don’t make it back to MacLean until after six. Given the bumper-to-bumper traffic, I’d way underestimated the time it would take. Frazzled, dirty and sweaty, I rush inside, eager to clean up before anyone sees me. I’ve almost made it to the curving staircase when I run dab smack into Mr. MacKay.

  He’s bare chested, wearing a pair of black sweats that hint at powerful legs. Clearly, he’s been working out. A bead of sweat rivulets down his brow, and he wipes it off with the towel slung around his neck. When he does, his bicep bulges, and I’m momentarily left speechless.

  He, on the other hand, is not. “Where in the blazes have you been?” His eyes narrow into slits of molten gray.

  I tear my gaze away from his hard abs, his roped arms. “Err. Moving my things.”

  “I called your cell phone and you didn’t respond.”

  Shoot. “Sorry. The battery’s hit and miss. I turned off the phone to conserve power.”

  When he crosses his arms against his chest and widens his stance, my mouth waters at the sight of him.

  “Did I not make myself clear? I need you available to me at all times, Ms. Bennett.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “I’ll arrange to have a new phone delivered tomorrow. Don’t turn it off.” He waggles a finger in my face like an old teacher of mine used to do.

  “You don’t have to—” The thunderous expression on his face has me rethinking the rest of my words. “Yes, Sir.” The box I’m carrying’s starting to get heavy, so I hitch it higher on my hip.

  “For heaven’s sake, put that box down before you get hurt.” He spits out.

  No sense getting insulted about his delivery. He’s right. The darn thin weighs a ton. I drop the box on the marble floor, straighten and rub my sore hip.

  All hunched brows, he barks out at me. “Why are you moving your things by yourself?”

  After fighting stop-and-go traffic for two hours, I’m not in the best of moods. So right now I don’t care if he’s pissed off. “They weren’t going to grow wings and fly, were they?”

  “Ms. Bennett.” I’m beginning to hate the sound of my name on his lips. “I told you to arrange to have your things moved, did I not?”

  He had said arranged. “Yes, you did.”

  “And do you not understand the meaning of that word?” He leans toward me, and I catch a whiff of his scent.

  Most men stink after a workout. Not him. He smells of clean sweat and that spicy cologne that’s driving me in
sane. “Well, I guess I didn’t quite understand what you meant.”

  He takes a deep breath, whooshes it out, calling attention to his flexing pecs. Lord have mercy, the man is built. “I wanted you to arrange with a moving company to move your things, not for you to move them yourself.”

  The idea strikes me as funny. I laugh. “Well, it seems silly to do that.”

  “Silly?” His brow cocks up. Bet no one has called him silly before.

  “I don’t have that much. Just some bedroom furniture and a few boxes. I brought a few with me. Clothes and such. I can ask a friend to help me move the rest.”

  “I see.” He cocks his head to the side. “You work for me, do you not?”

  I nod. “Yes, I do.” Or at least I hope I still do.

  “And you took time to move your things personally?”

  Proud to accomplish what I have, I hitch up my chin. “Yes, I did.”

  “So, tell me, Ms. Bennett—”

  I grit my teeth.

  “Did you complete the tasks I assigned before you left?”

  Oh, geez. I’d been so excited about the car and the prospect of getting my things, I didn’t call the messenger service to deliver the invitations or arrange for the catering staff.

  I lick my lips. “I wrote out the invitations and addressed the envelopes, but I”—gulp—“didn’t get a chance to call the messenger service or . . .” My voice peters out at the end.

  “So my guests don’t know about the party.”

  “No, Sir.” Screw the shower. “I’ll do it right now.”

  His hand darts out and stops me before I can make a break for it. “No, you will not. It’s too late to deliver them tonight.”

  “But I can have the service pick them up and—”

  He grunts. God even that sounds sexy. “Let me make myself understood. You’re here to work for me, not move things, lift furniture or anything else. Moseley?” he bellows.

  The butler materializes out of thin air. “Yes, Sir.”

  “Please arrange to have Ms. Moseley’s things transferred from her car to her bedroom.”

  “Yes, Sir.” The butler leaves, presumably to carry out Mr. MacKay’s order.