Coming Home (39 page)

“What does that say?” he barked and jammed his finger to a note scribbled on a slip of paper sitting in the center of the desk.

Scout stared at it, hating the cryptic cursive letters. She thought the first letter was a
D
and then an
O
. After that she couldn’t tell. She may have detected a
T
, but there were too many letters she still didn’t recognize.

Finally he snapped, “
Do not touch the desk!”
He enunciated each word with a stab of his long, thick finger on the note. “If I took the time to leave you instructions not to touch my personal items on my desk, what makes you think I’d be okay with you rifling through my paperwork?”

Scout gasped as he ripped the pages out of her hand.

“Sir, I—”

“You’re not Bridget. Where’s Bridget?”

She needed to get this guy to not freak out. If he told Tamara, she might wind up getting suspended or worse, fired. This guy couldn’t submit a complaint with her managers or she might lose her job.

“I’m sorry, Bridget called out today. I’m new. I didn’t mean to touch your desk, but I accidentally knocked over a pile of papers.”

A piece of ice settled in his glass and she jumped as she waited for him to speak. She wasn’t usually this skittish around others. Long ago she had mastered keeping her emotions behind an iron expression of indifference, but she was completely out of her element in the presence of this man. She’d observed his wealth and power firsthand by simply admiring the world he existed in, and Scout had never been more aware of her insignificant position in this life.

His cold black eyes scrutinized her dress and gazed dispassionately at her too-large sneakers. He frowned.

Scout batted away a wisp of windblown hair that had fallen loose and accidentally knocked her paper bonnet askew. Righting it quickly she said, “If you’ll just let me collect my belongings I’ll be out of your way.”

He stepped aside, not providing much space for her to pass, and waved his hand for her to be gone. He was broad and daunting, hulking in his power suit over her slight form.

“By all means,” he purred. “Please remove your things.”

Scout scurried past him like a mouse running for its life. Her hands shook as she gathered the vacuum cleaner and wound the cord over its handle. Very aware of him watching her, when her shoe caught on the thick tread of the carpet she whimpered, but kept moving.

She couldn’t remember where she left her basket of supplies. Frantically she searched the surrounding area.

“Looking for something?” He glared at her, his arms crossed over his wide chest, stretching the sleeves of his crisp silk shirt. When her gaze reluctantly met his, she froze.

“M-my basket. I forget where I left it,” she stuttered, hating the way her voice wavered.

“Perhaps you left it with more of my personal items.” His clipped accusation had the effect he’d intended.

Shame and fear for her transgression choked her. Scout’s eyes suddenly spotted the basket of supplies beside his desk.
Shit
.

Knowing she couldn’t leave the items, she pulled back her shoulders and met his gaze with as much bravado as she could fake.

“Sir, I’m sorry I disturbed your things. I didn’t see your note, but I assure you it won’t happen again.” Her eyes glanced at the basket on the floor pointedly and he followed her gaze.

He looked back at her but said nothing, and Scout had the sense he was daring her to retrieve her things. Her lips twitched nervously at the challenge in his eyes.

She was outmatched. Quickly, she brushed past him and collected her items. He didn’t make room for her to pass and she again found herself cornered behind his desk. The gaping glass view made her feel as though she were on a plank suspended high above the city, being backed into her death by a formidable pirate.

“Whom do you report to?”

Scout’s heart sunk to her knees and she quickly blinked back the sharp sting of tears. Her voice cracked. “Tamara Jones, sir.”

His eyes moved over her face and she took his inspection as her penance, lowering her gaze to the floor. She needed this job. In that moment Scout let go of all her stubborn principles, realizing she would do anything to keep it.

The touch of his fingers below her chin caused her breath to quicken. His large hand tipped her face up so that her gaze met his. His glare narrowed as he inspected her.

She felt naked under his watchful eyes.

“What did you say your name was? Skip?”

“Scout, sir. Scout Keats.”

“And how long have you worked at Patras Hotel, Scout Keats? I don’t recall seeing you here before.”

“Two weeks.”

He nodded. “Are you new to the Folsom area?”

“No, sir. I’ve lived here my whole life.”

His fingers tightened on her chin and turned her face to the left. “You have very unusual eyes, Ms. Keats. How old are you?”

His question caught her off guard. She had always known her eyes were unique. Against her dark brown lashes, the blue irises appeared almost white. Witch eyes, Parker called them. Once she tried disguising them with a makeup pencil she had found, but their glasslike color within the dark ring only became more startling.

“I’m twenty-seven,” she lied. Adding five years to her actual age seemed necessary, like those five imaginary years could somehow protect her against this superior being.

Scout shifted her feet, the weight of her basket becoming awkward in her hands. The motion attracted his attention. He looked down at her burden and suddenly released her face and stepped back as if the collection of cleaning products worked as a reminder of her situation. Peasant in the presence of royalty. Recalling his balcony, she decided it was more a throne than anything else. She imagined him holding court there as all of Folsom gazed up at him.

“You may go.”

His sudden dismissal had her gaining control of her faculties, and in a split second she rushed toward the penthouse door. Quickly setting the basket there, she returned the sweeper to the supply closet. He followed her at a distance, watching her as if to make sure she didn’t steal anything. Scout didn’t make eye contact. She simply kept her gaze lowered to the ground and collected her items and left.

On the ride down to the next floor she regretfully accepted that this might be her last day at the hotel. Likely the man would submit a complaint about her to Tamara and they would care more about keeping the in-house billionaire pleased than keeping their homeless new housekeeper employed. This paycheck would have to last.

© Jenn Erickson Photography

Lydia Michaels
writes all forms of hot romance. She presses the bounds of love and surprises readers just when they assume they have her stories figured out. From Amish vampyres, to wild Irishmen, to broken heroes, and heroines no man can match, Lydia takes readers on an emotional journey of the heart, mind, and soul with every story she pens. Her books are intellectual, erotic, haunting, always centered on love.