Life With Riley
Laurey Bright
BENEDICT FALKNER WAS A MAN WITH A PLANHe'd worked his way up from street tough to millionaire. Now he aimed to furnish his mansion with a suitably stylish wife. No way did his plan include Riley Morrisset, the petite, curvy firecracker who creamed his Beemer, bit his hand and screamed bloody murder when she mistook him for a mugger!So why did the sassy, struggling-to-make-ends-meet spitfire enchant him? Worse, why did he hire her as his live-in housekeeper, where she'd be underfoot, on his mind and teasing his libido as he pursued his perfect, polished bride-to-be? Maybe because life with Riley would be wild, wacky, wonderful and–Whoa! What was Benedict thinking?
“How do you expect a man to react when you look like a candidate in a wet T-shirt contest?” Benedict said.
Startled, Riley glanced down at her sodden shirt. Raising her eyes again, she blurted, “But you’re not—I mean, you’re my employer! I’m your housekeeper!”
“I also happen to be a man,” he pointed out, a disconcerting glint in his eyes.
Riley had known from the start that she’d have to rein in her attraction to Benedict Falkner. But he’d clearly indicated that he saw her as domestic help, nothing else.
Mutual lust, however, was totally different. Thrilling, surprising…and potentially disastrous.
It was only his male hormones reacting, she told herself. It didn’t mean he intended to carry things any further, to compromise their employer-employee relationship….
Did it?
Dear Reader,
Summer is over and it’s time to kick back into high gear. Just be sure to treat yourself with a luxuriant read or two (or, hey, all six) from Silhouette Romance. Remember—work hard, play harder!
Although October is officially Breast Cancer Awareness month, we’d like to invite you to start thinking about it now. In a wonderful, uplifting story, a rancher reluctantly agrees to model for a charity calendar to earn money for cancer research. At the back of that book, we’ve also included a guide for self-exams. Don’t miss Cara Colter’s must-read 9 Out of 10 Women Can’t Be Wrong (#1615).
Indulge yourself with megapopular author Karen Rose Smith and her CROWN AND GLORY series installment, Searching for Her Prince (#1612). A missing heir puts love on the line when he hides his identity from the woman assigned to track him down. The royal, brooding hero in Sandra Paul’s stormy Caught by Surprise (#1614), the latest in the A TALE OF THE SEA adventure, also has secrets—and intends to make his beautiful captor pay…by making her his wife!
Jesse Colton is a special agent forced to play pretend boyfriend to uncover dangerous truths in the fourth of THE COLTONS: COMANCHE BLOOD spinoff, The Raven’s Assignment (#1613), by bestselling author Kasey Michaels. And in Cathie Linz’s MEN OF HONOR title, Married to a Marine (#1616), combat-hardened Justice Wilder had shut himself away from the world—until his ex-wife’s younger sister comes knocking…. Finally, in Laurey Bright’s tender and true Life with Riley (#1617), free-spirited Riley Morrisset may not be the perfect society wife, but she’s exactly what her stiff-collared boss needs!
Happy reading—and please keep in touch.
Mary-Theresa Hussey
Senior Editor
Life with Riley
Laurey Bright
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Books by Laurey Bright
Silhouette Romance
Tears of Morning #107
Sweet Vengeance #125
Long Way from Home #356
The Rainbow Way #525
Jacinth #568
The Mother of His Child #918
Marrying Marcus #1558
The Heiress Bride #1578
Life with Riley #1617
Silhouette Special Edition
Deep Waters #62
When Morning Comes #143
Fetters of the Past #213
A Sudden Sunlight #516
Games of Chance #564
A Guilty Passion #586
The Older Man #761
The Kindness of Strangers #820
An Interrupted Marriage #916
Silhouette Intimate Moments
Summers Past #470
A Perfect Marriage #621
LAUREY BRIGHT
has held a number of different jobs, but has never wanted to be anything but a writer. She lives in New Zealand, where she creates the stories of contemporary people in love that have won her a following all over the world. Visit her at her Web site, http://www.laureybright.com.
Contents
Chapter One (#uf3bdbc59-51bc-5cde-afd5-917c2135fc19)
Chapter Two (#u8eb0170d-7eb5-5ad1-8200-ee1ec0aa7e59)
Chapter Three (#u65906637-b2c6-5626-b95b-cea1e041e7fb)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
“Damn!” Too late, Riley Morrisset slammed on the brake.
Backing out of the narrow shopping-mall parking space, she’d turned the wheel too early. The ominous metallic shriek of her front bumper scraping against the side of the car next to hers had come all too clearly through her open window.
Groaning, she shoved strands of straight brown hair from her eyes, pulled on the brake and switched off the key before pushing open her door and going to inspect the damage.
Her ancient red Corona seemed unmarked, but the gleaming dark-blue BMW showed a long, telltale gouge right down to the metal, with a nasty dent at the end.
“Damn, damn, damn!” She’d have to leave her name and address for the owner. But first she’d better shift the Corona from the path of other traffic. Already a battered gray van was entering the end of the lane.
Quickly she returned to her car, switching the engine on.
The van was nosing into a space farther up the row, but there could be other cars entering soon. Riley grasped the gear lever, then jumped as a dark-sleeved arm reached in the open window and long male fingers switched off the key. At the same time a grim masculine voice said, “Oh, no, you don’t!”
Riley’s strangled yelp of alarm was drowned by her horn as she pressed the flattened palm of her free hand down on it.
The sound was abruptly cut off when strong fingers gripped her wrist and forcibly lifted her hand away. “What the hell—” the man said.
Looking up in panic, Riley had a confused impression of blazing eyes—a startling meld of navy blue and deep, deep gray—close-drawn black brows and a threatening expression, before she realized that his other hand had removed the ignition key with its attendant house keys and large plastic Snoopy tag.
She snatched at Snoopy, but didn’t get a good grip, and the keys jangled to the floor of the car.
Riley tried to close the window with her free hand, but the manual winder was stuck again. Under her breath she cursed the garage mechanic who was supposed to have fixed it.
Twisting in her seat, she fumbled with her free hand for the knob to lock the door. Finding that her face was within an inch of the implacable hand encircling her wrist, she sank her teeth into the man’s flesh, tasting soap and warm, slightly salty male skin.
He let fly a vicious word and pulled back but didn’t release her. Desperately Riley opened her mouth wide and screamed. A loud, aggressive, attention-getting scream.
The mugger muttered something savage and dropped her wrist at last as pounding footsteps made him look away from her.
Riley was hugely relieved to see two large men bearing down on them. Both wore torn jeans and studded belts, and their muscular arms were heavily tattooed. One would have been described as Caucasian by the police. He looked as though he might be on intimate terms with them. His big pale head was shaved bald, and the orange T-shirt stretched over his chest had a foam-fanged, spike-collared bulldog printed on the front. The other man was Maori. Well-greased dreadlocks fell to massive brown shoulders bared by a black bushman’s vest.
Riley expected her attacker to flee. Instead he stood his ground as the unlikely Galahads bore down on him. Riley tried the window winder again without success, mentally vowing to boil the inept mechanic in his own sump oil.
“Trouble, lady?” the bald guy queried, casting a threatening look at the man beside her, who was half a head shorter. His companion moved so that they were hemming him in, glowering down at him.
Before Riley could say a thing the man answered, “She sure is. She damaged my car and was making a getaway. When I tried to stop her she bit me.”
Riley’s mouth fell open. She shifted a hunted brown gaze to the BMW, then back to him, her heart plunging like a stone on the end of a plumb line. For the first time she looked at him properly.
His suit might have come out of the pages of GQ. And with it he wore a white shirt with a fine gray shadow stripe and a tie.
A tie. Probably silk, probably with a designer name hidden somewhere discreetly behind its elegant blue and maroon design. For all she knew, it was an old school tie proclaiming his presumed respectability.
Even his accent was cultured—with neither flat antipodean vowels nor a fruity fake-British affectation.
He didn’t look like a mugger. Not a bit.
Oh, hell!
Her would-be rescuers looked from her to him, and the long-haired one ambled over to inspect the BMW. His lips pursed, and he sorrowfully shook his shining black dreadlocks. “Got a panel beater’s job there, mate,” he said sympathetically.
Riley turned her head to confront her attacker. “Your car?” she squeaked.
“My car,” the not-a-mugger-after-all confirmed, his dark gaze still accusing as he looked down the arrogant slope of his nose.
She closed her eyes for a moment, then flicked them open. “Prove it,” she said, daring to look him straight in the face—a smooth-shaven, stubborn-jawed face, with broad cheekbones and a wide forehead under impeccably groomed black hair that hinted at a firmly discouraged wave. He probably had quite a nice mouth when it wasn’t set in an angry line, the lips well-defined and not unduly narrow.
For a long second he just stared back at her. Then he dug in his trouser pocket and took out a small leather folder, flicking a plastic tag from it and pressing a button with his thumb. “Don’t let her take off,” he said to the bald man.
“I wasn’t going to!” Riley said indignantly as The Suit walked away, pausing to read her number plate on his way toward the BMW. Memorizing it, she supposed.
Another car tooted gently behind hers and swung to go round it. Baldy moved to the front of the Corona and stood foursquare with his arms folded, facing Riley through the windscreen. A blue dragon writhed on his brawny forearm.
Great. Now he was guarding her for heaven’s sake. She glared at him, every bit as belligerent as the bulldog on his shirt.
The other car nudged by with about two inches to spare. Riley wouldn’t have even tried to negotiate that space.
Her watchdog was looking to the other side. She followed his gaze and saw that the BMW’s driver door was open.
The man in the suit slammed it and came back to her window. “Satisfied? Now can we exchange insurance companies and addresses? I’ll see that yours gets a bill for the damage.”
The watchdog and his mate were looking at Riley almost as censoriously as the car’s owner.
“Okay?” Dreadlocks queried her.
“Yes,” Riley conceded reluctantly. “Thank you for coming over. I thought I was being assaulted.” Dammit, she had been assaulted. “He grabbed me!” She transferred her fulminating gaze to the man between them.
“To stop you running away,” he agreed without a blink. “You’re not hurt, are you?” As he spoke he lifted his hand and inspected a row of deep teeth-marks in the pad of flesh just below his thumb.
Riley’s wrist still tingled from his hold, but she could see no sign of the remembered strength of his fingers, not even a slight redness. “No,” she admitted.
“I’m sure we can sort it out from here.” He nodded affably to her two heroes. “Can’t we?” he asked her pointedly. “Thanks, though,” he added to the knights errant, making Riley’s already simmering blood almost boil over.
“Good luck, bro.” Bulldog-shirt grinned.
“Women drivers, eh?” Dreadlocks commented as they turned away. He rolled a look at Riley and laughed.
Riley gritted her teeth. “I was going to drive back into the parking space,” she told the man still standing by her window, and added distinctly, “before I left you my name and address. We are in the way here.”
In her rearview mirror she saw another car coming slowly toward them. “See?” she insisted as he looked up and behind her.
“Be my guest.” He stepped away to allow her room, and she carefully reparked.
When she got out he was standing between their two cars with a pen in his right hand and a small notebook in his left. He scribbled something on a white business card and handed it to her.
Before she could read it he offered her the notebook, opened at a blank page, and the slim gold pen. “Name, address, insurance company,” he said tersely. “Mine’s all on the card.”
She shoved it into the back pocket of her jeans, taking the pen and notebook.
Hemmed into the space between the cars with him, she could smell his expensive suiting, and a hint of soap or aftershave. Something sort of woodsy, with an undertone of spice. And an over-priced brand name, no doubt.
She lowered her head, pushing back the strands of hair escaping her carelessly fastened ponytail.
“I suppose you do have a license?” he said.
About to write down her insurance company’s name, she looked up. “Of course I have!”
“You scarcely look old enough,” he said skeptically. “Is the car yours or your parents’?”
“I’m twenty-four,” she snapped. “And the car’s mine!”
His dispassionate gaze swooped from her dead-straight, too-fine hair escaping in hanks from its ponytail, to her ancient trainers, on the way taking in the baggy bottle-green T-shirt that concealed small but quite decently shaped breasts, and the comfortable, wash-softened jeans.
When she’d dressed, the jeans had seemed perfectly respectable. Now she was acutely conscious of the fading, thinned fabric at the knees—and the tear, barely perceptible this morning, that had widened when she’d bent to pick up a child who’d taken a tumble at the day care center where she worked.
Still, that was no reason for this stranger to eye her with what she strongly suspected was scorn. Her head instinctively went up in defiance. It was about level with his chin, which meant that he was under six feet by some inches. But the breadth of his shoulders and an unmistakable air of assurance more than made up for the height he didn’t have.
Riley was used to literally looking up to people, but not many of them made her feel this intimidated. He was too big, too damned close, and she had no way of escape. “Don’t crowd me,” she said fiercely as his eyes swept up again to hers.
He stepped back, doubling the space between them to a meter or so. “Are you paranoid or something?”
“I don’t have to be paranoid to be wary of strange men. Especially men who go round abusing innocent women.” She handed back the notebook and pen, unflinchingly standing her ground as he came closer again to take it.
“I don’t.” His gaze this time lingered rather thoughtfully on her as he pushed his hands into his pockets, sweeping back the sides of his jacket. “You’re very small. I suppose you would feel—”
“You’re not exactly Arnold Schwarzenegger yourself, are you?” Riley didn’t like being reminded of her deficient height.
With deliberate insolence she returned the look he’d given her, contemptuously examining the solid chest behind the pristine shirting, the black leather belt fastened about a taut waist above lean hips and what looked like rather well-muscled thighs encased in trousers so nicely fitted they must have been tailor-made.
Reaching his polished leather shoes—Italian, at a guess—she brought her gaze back to his, glad that she didn’t have to get a crick in her neck to do so. She wasn’t actually keen on very tall men—they made her feel her own lack of inches too acutely.
Surprisingly, his mouth twitched, and a spark of laughter lit his eyes. “Do you want to look like Arnie?” he asked her.
“Of course I don’t—”
“Neither do I,” he cut in. “Luckily.”
So he was quite happy as he was. Self-satisfied jerk.
He took his hands out of his pockets and looked down at the one she’d bitten.
“I’m sorry about that,” Riley said uncomfortably. “How bad is it?” Instinctively, as she would have done with a hurt child at the day care center, she took his hand to inspect the wound.
His palm was broad, his fingers long and blunt-ended with clean, short-cut nails. An expanding strap held the stainless steel watch on his wrist. She’d have expected gold.
Again that subtle scent tantalized her. She turned his wrist and paused, momentarily fascinated by the tiny pulse beating under the skin. There was no blood although the marks of her teeth were hideously clear.
“You really thought I was attacking you,” he said to the top of her head.
“Yes.” Riley released him.
“I didn’t mean to terrify you.”
Riley’s head jerked up. “I wasn’t terrified. I was furious.”
He grinned suddenly, a grin of pure amusement. She’d been right about his mouth—it was rather nice really. And his teeth were white and straight.
Capped, most likely. He looked the type who could afford it. She ran her tongue over her own slightly crooked left canine, a habit she’d had since childhood, making her lips involuntarily part.
“So was I,” he said.
“I was going to stop and leave my name and number,” she insisted. “You didn’t have to jump on me like that.”
“The way you raced back to your car, it looked as though you were making a fast getaway,” he pointed out.
“If I was going to cut and run I wouldn’t have stopped to check what I’d done,” she argued. Her gaze going to the ugly scrape on his car, she muttered gloomily, “I don’t suppose the repair bill will be less than the no claims discount on my policy.” Not on a BMW. They’d probably have to import the paint from Europe or something.
“I could get it assessed and let you know the cost if you’d rather just pay for it.”
“Mmm,” she said doubtfully. “Well…”
“Is that a problem?”
Riley didn’t suppose it would be any use trying to explain to him just how much of a problem it was. She would lay odds that he’d been born chewing on a mouthful of silver spoons—or if not, that he owned a drawerful of them now. She sighed. “I’ll work it out. I’m responsible.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Her indignation resurfaced. “I am a responsible person. And a good driver!” Although she’d learned in America she’d become accustomed to driving on the “wrong” side of the road in England even before coming to live in New Zealand.
Silently he turned his head and looked at the damage she’d done.
“We all make mistakes!” she protested. “You did, when you thought I was taking off.”
His considering, gunmetal eyes met her defiant brown ones. “Okay,” he said slowly. “I accept that.”
Riley’s relief was disproportionate. She couldn’t help breaking into a smile, her wide mouth tilting up at the corners, her lips parting. “Thank you,” she said.
He must have noticed the crooked tooth, because his gaze remained riveted on her mouth and there was the strangest expression on his face, as if he’d just seen something that he found utterly disconcerting.
Maybe he was a dentist. After all, the tooth was a very small imperfection—one of many, including the few freckles peppering her nose—and surely not all that noticeable?
Involuntarily her tongue moved almost protectively to touch the tooth, but something rebelled against showing her self-consciousness and she quickly altered the movement, instead unthinkingly moistening her lips.
His head twitched up slightly, and his eyes narrowed as again they met hers.
No! she thought, blinking at the glint she saw in the metallic depths. Surely not…
Then it was gone, his expression bland and his eyes hooded as he stepped back again. She must have been mistaken.
He turned and walked around the back of his car, not looking at her again until he reached the door, then he studied her over the BMW’s shiny, dustless roof. “Do you have a job?” he asked abruptly.
Riley blinked. “Part-time.”
“Forget the insurance,” he said. “I believe in people facing up to the consequences of their actions, but I’ll have this fixed and maybe we can come to some arrangement.”
Riley stiffened. “What kind of arrangement?” she asked suspiciously, wondering if she hadn’t been mistaken after all. She shouldn’t have licked her lips like that. Had he thought she was giving him a come-on?
He looked startled, then laughed as his gaze dropped disbelievingly to her baggy T-shirt and the damaged jeans before returning to her face. “Not that sort.” His tone implied that the idea was too absurd to consider.
The skin over her cheekbones burned. So she’d been wrong. He wasn’t in the least tempted by her unremarkable body, but he needn’t rub it in.
“I was thinking along the lines of time payment,” he told her.
Riley swallowed her unreasonable humiliation. “That’s very considerate. I…I am sorry about your car. I hope you’re not going to be too inconvenienced.”
“It’ll be a couple of days in the panel shop, I guess. I’ll have to find some other way of getting into the office, that’s all.”
“Where do you live?”
“Kohi,” he answered. “Why?”
Kohimarama, one of Auckland’s more expensive suburbs, was twenty minutes or so from her shared flat in Sandringham. Perhaps thirty in the rush hour. “I could take you to work and drive you home afterward while your car’s being fixed.”
He looked at her tired little car, and she said quickly, “It’s actually quite respectable when it’s cleaned up, but I suppose you’d prefer not to be driven round in this. It was a dumb idea.”
His expression said he was going to refuse again, but he paused. “What about your job?”
“I work from one till five. If you don’t need to leave your office on the dot of five then it’s not a problem. Just let me know when you want to be picked up and where.”
“All right,” he said abruptly. “I accept.”
Riley broke into another smile. “Good!”
“I just hope you’re right about being a good driver—usually. I’ll phone you.” He gave her a curt nod and climbed into his car.
Riley got into hers and waited until he’d left before backing out again, unwilling to run any risk of making another mistake in front of that man.
She didn’t even know his name. His card was in her back pocket, but she’d scarcely glanced at it when he gave it to her.
After driving home more cautiously than usual, she drew into the lopsided double garage outside an old, much-repainted-and-renovated villa.
The driver’s window closed without a hitch, and she muttered at it darkly before hauling grocery bags from the back seat, slamming the door with an elbow and then going up the worn back steps to tap on the door with her sneaker-clad toe.
Linnet Yeung opened the door to the big old-fashioned kitchen, her pretty, golden-skinned face breaking into a smile as she reached for one of the bags.
Riley smiled back. One reason she liked Lin so much was her helpful nature. Also she was the only one of Riley’s friends who was shorter than she was.
As they unpacked the groceries, Lin said, “Harry found a new girl so he won’t be eating here tonight.” She grinned and rolled her brown eyes. “He does look tasty when he’s all togged up.”
“Mmm,” Riley agreed, taking out a packet of pasta from a bag. Harry was part Samoan, part Maori and part Irish, and the rest was anybody’s guess—which made him a pure full-blooded Kiwi, he joked, New Zealand being such a racial melting pot. “Logie and Sam?” she inquired, placing the pasta on the counter.
“They wouldn’t miss dinner when it’s your turn to cook.” Lin opened the fridge to stow some butter. “How was your day?”
Riley lifted a red string bag of onions. “I pranged someone’s car at the shopping center.”
“Ooh!” Lin winced in sympathy. “Was it bad?”
“A scratch, really, but it was a BMW. The owner was quite decent about it considering I’d just bitten him.”
“You what?”
The explanation sent Lin into giggles as she folded the empty bags. “So what’s his name?”
Riley fished in her pocket for the card she’d shoved in there. “Benedict Falkner,” she read aloud, then squinted, trying the name against the face that came vividly to mind. She’d never have guessed Benedict. “I think he’s a dentist.” Consulting the card again, she corrected herself. “No, actually, this says Executive Director, Falkner Industries.”
“And he drives a Beemer? He could probably afford to buy himself a whole new car—and he’s making you pay for a teeny little scratch?”
“He believes in people taking responsibility for their mistakes.”
Lin snorted down her delicate little nose. “Pompous git!”
Riley laughed. “A good-looking one.”
“How old?”
“Um, thirtyish, probably.”
Lin tipped her head to one side inquiringly, her sloe eyes dancing.
“He was big,” Riley said. “Well…not tall for a man, but…he seems to need a lot of room.”
And yet he hadn’t allowed her much room, she recalled. Until she’d asked him not to crowd her and he’d stepped back.
“You fancied him, didn’t you?” Lin teased.
“No chance,” Riley retorted. But it wasn’t really a denial. More a resigned acknowledgment that even if she had fancied Benedict Falkner, there was precious little hope of anything coming of it. He’d made his lack of sexual interest in her almost insultingly clear.
Besides, the man was out of her league, with his tailor-made suit and his expensive car and his business card embossed with the title Executive Director.
Chapter Two
The following evening Logie poked his long-faced, shaggy blond head around the door of the big lounge where Riley was watching television with Lin and Harry. “For you, Ri.” He held out the portable receiver.
Riley jumped up from the floor where she’d been sitting with her back against the well-worn sofa and took the phone. “Hello?” She followed Logie’s lanky form into the wide passageway, away from the sound of the TV, and he ambled back to the room he shared with his girlfriend, Samuela.
“Riley Morrisset?”
She’d have recognized the deep male voice anywhere. “Yes, Mr. Falkner.”
Maybe she’d surprised him. It was a moment before he said, “My car’s going to the panel beaters tomorrow. If you meant what you said, you could take me home from the office after work.”
“Tell me where.”
He gave her a midtown address and said, “Can you make it by five-thirty? There’s a private car park under the building. My space is on the left, marked with my name.”
Next day when she headed the car down the short, steep ramp, he was already waiting, holding a black briefcase.
Riley was fifteen minutes late.
She stopped the car and he opened the passenger door, climbed in and put the briefcase in front of him on the floor.
“Sorry,” she said, “I got held up.” One of the children at the day care center had mysteriously disappeared, and the entire staff and the little girl’s parents had spent twenty anxious minutes searching before she was discovered, sulking under a pile of dress-up clothes in a large carton.
He didn’t answer, pulling the seat belt across his chest and clipping it into the housing. Today the shirt with his dark suit was pale lavender and his tie a deep plum color.
She tried to tell herself it was dandified, but truthfully he looked terrific. And Riley hadn’t changed out of her paint-stained yellow T-shirt and comfortable brown stretch leggings with a half-dried muddy patch on one knee.
“Do you know how to get to Kohi?” he asked, obviously uninterested in explanations.
“It’s not my part of town, but I know where Kohimarama Road is.”
“Head for that and I’ll direct you from there.”
He watched critically while she drove up the exit ramp and eased the car into the flow of home-going commuters.
After three sets of traffic lights, he apparently decided that he wasn’t going to have to grab the wheel from her or haul on the brake and leap for his life. Opening the briefcase, he said, “Do you mind if I work?”
“Feel free.” She was only his driver, after all—temporarily.
He pulled out a laptop computer and opened it, then began tapping the keys. Next time they stopped for a red light she glanced at the screen, filled with some kind of graph. “Are you a workaholic?” she asked.
His fingers stilled momentarily. “I don’t like to waste my time.”
Riley’s lips closed firmly, ostentatiously.
He looked at her and laughed. “And I had a feeling I was making you nervous.”
“You were.” The light changed, and she eased off the brake and moved the car forward.
“You drive quite well.”
“I told you I do.”
He didn’t remind her that she’d driven less than well when she scratched his car. Riley supposed she ought to be grateful. “Don’t let me disturb your work,” she said crisply.
A car swerved into the lane ahead of them, and Riley braked. Her passenger said, “I guess you need to concentrate in this traffic, anyway.”
They didn’t speak again until he said, “Left at the next intersection.” Within a few minutes he had directed her into a cul-de-sac of what looked like million-dollar, architect-designed homes. “Number thirty-five, down at the end.”
“Wow!” The place was a symphony of curved cement-work painted a mellow, warm gold, with inset glass panels. Balconies, railed with elegant black wrought iron, had been cleverly tucked into the design, one with a spiral stairway to the ground. Some, Riley guessed, would have a distant sea view.
“You like it?”
Riley drew up outside. “It’s fantastic!” Despite being architect-designed contemporary, the house woke vague memories of fairy-tale castles, perhaps because of its height and curved outlines. She turned to face him. “When shall I pick you up in the morning? I won’t be late again.”
“Eight-thirty?” As she nodded, his mouth curved in amusement and he lifted a hand to her cheek, rubbing at it gently with his thumb.
Before she could react, he’d drawn his hand away, looking at the smudge of green paint on his thumb. She saw he still had fading red marks at the base. Her cheeks stinging, she said, “How’s your hand?”
“I’ll live.” He looked up at her. “Didn’t it occur to you that it can be dangerous going around biting strangers? If you’d broken the skin you might have picked up something nasty.”
The heat faded from her skin as her eyes widened. “Do you have anything nasty?”
“No!” His brows drew together. “No chance. I’m a regular blood donor.”
“Well, you brought it up.”
The frown cleared, but he looked a bit exasperated. “By the way,” he said rather curtly, “I got an estimate on the damage to my car, and it probably wouldn’t be worth your while claiming insurance. If it comes out to more I’ll wear the difference.”
That was a load off her mind. “Thank you, Mr. Falkner.”
“Women who are on biting terms with me usually call me Benedict.”
The tiniest glimmer in his eyes confirmed that he was teasing. Riley breathed in quickly. “Not Ben?”
“Only those who know me…intimately.” His voice had deepened.
She didn’t suppose he was short of women who’d at least like to know him intimately. “Are you married?” she asked him.
“No.”
He’d think she was fishing. Was that wariness that she saw in his face now? Hastily she said, “Well, I’ll see you in the morning. I really have to get home now.”
Taking the hint, he opened the door, closing it behind him before he bent to say, “Thanks.”
Riley turned the key and did a fast turn out of the cul-de-sac. At the first traffic light she tilted the rearview mirror and peered into it. A faint smudge of green still marked her cheekbone. Scrubbing at it with the heel of her hand, she blew a fine strand of hair away from her mouth.
No wonder Benedict Falkner had found her amusing. Maybe she should have her hair cut short. But it would need to be properly styled and then regularly maintained to look halfway decent, and hairdressers were expensive. She wore it just past shoulder length so she could keep it trimmed herself and tie it back out of the way.
Back at the house Samuela, swathed in a brightly colored sarong that left her smooth brown shoulders and plump arms bare, had her hands buried in a large bowl, and had hardly raised her tightly ringleted black head to say hello to Riley before ordering Logie to bring those carrots over if he’d finished murdering them. There was a strong smell of curry in the air. Tonight’s dinner would be a triumph or a disaster. Sam’s cooking knew no half measures.
Retreating to her room, Riley retrieved from the floor the satin pajamas her parents had sent her at Christmas, pulled the imitation-patchwork duvet over the bed and closed the book she’d dropped on the rag mat last night, placing it on the painted box that served as a night table.
She’d rushed out early to get the morning paper and study the Situations Vacant before going to her polytech course.
Closing the gaping door of her second-hand rimu wardrobe, she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror and grimaced.
Impatiently she stripped off the grubby T-shirt and leggings and bundled them into an Ali Baba basket in the corner. At least in briefs and a bra she didn’t look half grown. Her figure might be small but it was quite curvy.
Still, she couldn’t go round wearing undies. She dragged a clean pair of shorts and another T-shirt from a drawer, put them on and went to the bathroom next to her room to wash her face.
The curry was one of Samuela’s disasters. She kept apologizing as the others, red-eyed and spluttering, bravely mixed it with rice and washed it down with cold water. All night there was a constant parade to the bathroom, and the old pipes gurgled and thundered after each visit, keeping Riley half-awake until dawn.
When her alarm went off she huddled under the duvet in denial for ten minutes, but finally crawled out of bed, had a cool shower in an effort to wake herself properly, then made herself toast and coffee.
Back in her bedroom, she pulled out the dark-green skirt she wore for job interviews, and a short-sleeved, pin-tucked cream blouse she’d bought for a song in Singapore, buttoning it as she slid bare feet into heeled shoes that gave her a little extra height but were still comfortable to wear.
After dragging a brush over her hair, she picked up a hair tie and raced out to her car, slipping the elastic temporarily over her wrist.
The traffic was heavy at this time of the morning, and while waiting in a line of cars to move through a set of lights, Riley pulled back her hair and twisted the elastic band about it.
She drew up outside Benedict Falkner’s house with ten minutes to spare and anxiously checked her appearance in the rearview mirror.
Her skin was even paler than normal, the freckles on her nose standing out against her skin. With her hair smoothed back her face seemed thin, the faint blue hollows under her eyes a legacy of her sleepless night.
On impulse she pulled the elastic tie off and tucked her hair back behind her ears.
She was surveying herself critically again when the passenger door opened and Benedict said, “Have I kept you waiting?”
Riley returned the mirror to its proper position. “I was early.”
He climbed in, put a newspaper on the dashboard and parked a briefcase in front of his feet, giving Riley an appraising glance as he fastened his seat belt. “Going somewhere special?” he asked, eyeing the neat skirt and blouse.
Riley put the car into gear. “Maybe a job interview.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Anything, really.” If she didn’t find a second job soon she’d have to give up her car. But without a car she couldn’t make it to the day care center in time after leaving her class, meaning she’d have no job at all and no money. “Something with flexible hours that pays well, if I had a choice.”
“You’re some kind of artist, aren’t you? I suppose it doesn’t pay much.”
Riley turned to look at him for a moment. “Artist?”
“Yesterday you were covered in paint. I thought…”
She laughed. “The artist is three years old. He wasn’t too sure exactly what it was he was supposed to be painting—me, himself, or the paper I’d given him to do his picture on.”
She slowed at the intersection to look for oncoming traffic, swung out of the cul-de-sac and changed gear again. Benedict was gazing through the windscreen at the oncoming traffic but probably thinking of something else.
“Are you married?” he asked her as she accelerated.
Riley threw him a startled look before returning her eyes to the road. “No.” She’d asked him the same thing yesterday, she recalled.
A car shot out of a driveway ahead of them, and she flattened the brake. Benedict was jerked against his seat belt, the newspaper falling from the dashboard.
“Sorry,” Riley gasped as the engine stalled.
“Not your fault. Bloody idiot,” he added as the other car roared off ahead of them.
“Yes,” Riley agreed. “There are lots of them around.” Restarting the engine, she added, “And please don’t say anything about pots calling kettles black.”
“Wasn’t even thinking of it,” Benedict assured her blandly. He bent to pick up the newspaper, looking at the headlines. “So…what’s the three-year-old artist’s name?”
She thought he’d forgotten all about that remark. “Tamati. He’s quite a sweetie.” Her lips curved affectionately. “Bit of a mischief if you don’t keep him occupied, though.”
From the corner of her eye she saw his swift glance at her. “Tamati…Maori?”
“Mmm, his father’s Maori.” She slowed at a corner, peering carefully for other traffic before accelerating again.
“Uh-huh.” Benedict unfolded the paper so he could read the front page. Later he turned to other pages, careful to fold them out of her way. By the time they reached his office building he’d read the main news and was perusing the business section.
When he made to fold it and gather up the rest, she said, “Do you want the Situations Vacant pages?”
“No. Do you?”
“If you can spare them, thanks.”
“Have the lot, I’ve finished with it.” He placed it on the dashboard again.
“Thanks. I’ll be here at five-thirty,” she promised. “Okay?”
“Look, you don’t really need—”
“I feel bad about your car, and it’s the least I can do, especially since you’re willing to take your money in installments.”
“All right,” Benedict said at last, but his voice sounded clipped and distant. “If you insist.”
When she fetched him, he nodded to her as he got in, not commenting on the fact that she was back in jeans and a T-shirt. She had made sure her face was clean and retied her hair but, anxious not to be late again, hadn’t taken the time to change out of her work clothes. Benedict Falkner had already seen how she looked at the end of an afternoon helping to keep twenty children stimulated and happy. And anyway, she wasn’t trying to impress him, was she?
As she merged the Corona into a stream of traffic, he reached for his briefcase, then apparently changed his mind, sitting back and folding his arms.
“If you want to work,” she said, “it’s okay.”
For a moment she thought he hadn’t heard her. “Right. I should.”
He opened the briefcase and hauled out a folder filled with papers, flipping through it and making notes on the pages with a pencil.
“What do you actually do?” she asked after a while, unable to stem her curiosity completely. “I mean, what does your firm do?”
“Telecommunications and electronics, mainly,” he answered, not looking up from the papers on his knee.
“We import parts, and design and build custom-made systems.”
“Computers?”
“Industrial computers and communication systems. Not personal computers.” He made another note on the page before him.
“And you’re the executive director. Impressive.”
He gave a crack of laughter. “When you own the company you can give yourself any impressive title you like.”
Riley slowed for an intersection, then accelerated smoothly. “Is it a family business?”
He looked a little grim for a second. “You could say that—except I’m the only family I have.”
“Did you inherit it?”
“No. I started from scratch.”
He must have had a family once. Maybe he’d inherited capital. But maybe not. Despite the civilized suits and the expensive car and house, there was an edge to him, a toughness that showed through now and then and that she suspected he hadn’t got from a cushioned life and a cultured education. “So how did you get to where you are today?”
He laughed again. “Hard work, low cunning and a certain amount of luck. But mainly it’s a matter of setting goals and remaining focused. I knew what I wanted and how to get it, and didn’t allow myself to be distracted by side issues.”
Or let anything stand in his way, she guessed, a little chilled. “What did you want?”
“To be a millionaire before I was thirty,” he said calmly.
He couldn’t be much more than that now. He must have been driven, and she wondered where such single-minded, naked ambition came from. “When did you decide that?”
“I was eighteen.”
Riley shook her head in wonder. “When I was eighteen I had no idea what I wanted.” Except her independence from a loving but sometimes annoyingly protective family who had spent years trying to instill caution into her impulsive spirit. Eager to try her wings, see the world and pay her own way, she’d been restless, never settling, not knowing what she was searching for until she landed in New Zealand and knew she’d found her natural home. Or rather, rediscovered it.
“What about now?” Benedict asked.
“I’m studying to teach English as a second language.” She had finally settled on a career path that excited her and promised a sense of purpose and usefulness, and the stimulation of interacting with people from many cultures.
“You didn’t say you were a student when I asked if you had a job.”
“You didn’t ask.” He’d seemed more interested in whether she was earning enough to repay him for the damage to his car.
“You must have a busy life. Study and part-time work, as well as—”
He was interrupted by a low burring sound close by that made Riley jump.
Benedict pulled a cell phone from his briefcase. “Falkner here,” he said into the receiver.
Riley tried not to listen, but she could hear an excited voice on the other end and Benedict’s replies. “Good God! When?…Where is she?…Tell her she’s not to think of that, and if you need anything…Give me your number, I’ll be in touch.” He scribbled on the margin of the paper he’d been reading. “And your address? Thank you for contacting me.”
Frowning, he pressed a button on the phone before putting it away.
“Trouble?” Riley asked.
“My housekeeper’s had an accident. That was her daughter.”
“Is she badly hurt?” Riley asked in concern.
“Cut her head on a piece of furniture. She’s been stitched up, but they suspect she may have had a small stroke and that’s why she fell.”
“Oh, poor thing. If you want to go to the hospital I’ll drive you.”
“No. She’s sleeping, apparently. I’ll phone the daughter tomorrow.” He rubbed at his chin, grimacing, and muttered something she didn’t catch. “Excuse me.” He consulted his watch, then looked up a number in the notebook and dialed it. From the brief conversation that followed she gathered he was ordering flowers for the housekeeper.
“Are you fond of her?” Riley asked when he’d finished. “Has she been with you a long time?”
“Nearly four years, and we get along. She’s excellent at her job and a great cook—dammit.”
“Dammit?”
“I’m expecting guests for a dinner Mrs. Hardy was apparently preparing when she fell. I’ll have to find a caterer at short notice or book a table in a restaurant.”
“What will happen to the food your housekeeper was going to serve?”
“If it can’t be frozen or something, I’ll throw it out, I suppose.” He sounded as if that was the least of his worries.
“That’s a terrible waste! How many people are you expecting?”
“Seven.” He held the pencil in two fingers, absently drumming it on the papers.
“I suppose you don’t cook.” She tried not to sound critical.
“Not well enough for this.” He closed the folder and stretched his legs out over the briefcase, then lapsed into silence.
When she pulled up at his house he turned to her. “If any of that food’s any use to you, you’re welcome to it.”
“That’s generous of you.”
“I don’t like waste, either.”
She followed him along a broad path between immaculately mown lawns and onto the tiled front porch that was almost a carriageway. He pressed a button on his key tag, inserted a key into a polished brass lock and pushed open the huge paneled door.
Benedict parked his briefcase under a telephone table standing on a pale marble floor. “The kitchen’s through here,” he said, leading her along a red-and-black carpet runner that looked sumptuous against the gold-flecked marble.
Louvered saloon doors opened at his touch, displaying gleaming ceramic tiles and stainless steel.
An enormous refrigerator stood next to a matching upright freezer, and a bumpy cotton cloth covered a table in the center of the room. Riley deduced someone had hastily thrown it over the food preparations.
Benedict said, “Have a look and see what’s there.” He turned to another telephone on the wall, pulled out a volume of yellow pages from the phone books sitting beneath it and began leafing through.
Riley lifted the cloth, peeking at mounds of vegetables and a bowl of flour, a block of cheese, some serving plates—and an open recipe book.
Benedict dialed a number, then put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Look in the fridge and the pantry too. It’s over there. Anything that’ll spoil, you’re welcome to—yes, hello?” He turned to speak into the receiver. “Could you do a dinner party at short notice?”
Riley went into the pantry, which was about the size of a normal kitchen and was stacked with packets and cans and bottles, and wire baskets of vegetables. She took a couple of neatly folded plastic bags from a shelf, returned to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, finding chicken pieces in a marinade, a couple of dozen oysters in their shells, and a covered dish of raw cubed fish in lemon juice.
Benedict was dialing another number. “Hello, I need a rush job…tonight…. I understand, thanks anyway.”
Holding the phone, Benedict was running a finger down the page in front of him. Riley lifted the cover from the table, folding it back.
Benedict slammed the receiver back on its hook, letting fly an expletive that made her turn her head.
“An answering machine.” He returned to his perusal of the phone book, and reached again for the handset. “Hello? Yes…can you do a dinner party tonight? Yes, I did say tonight. I know, but—A nice evening to you too.”
When he cut the connection, Riley stifled a giggle. “You mean,” she suggested, “May your soup be watery, your main dish burnt to a crisp and your dessert melt on its way to the table.”
Benedict gave a reluctant laugh. “Something like that. I might have better luck with restaurants.”
As he closed the book and reached for its companion volume, she said, “Why don’t I do it?”
“I’m capable of finding a decent restaurant, thanks.”
She cast him an impatient look. “I mean I could cook dinner for you—call it a part payment for the repair to your car.”
“You?”
“I can cook. Ask my roommates. I mean housemates.” She still had trouble with some Kiwi idioms.
“This is a bit different from cooking for your housemates, Riley.”
“I know.” She decided to ignore his patronizing tone. “But with these ingredients—” she indicated the laden table “—I promise you I can do it. I even know what Mrs. Whatsit was going to cook.”
“Mrs. Hardy,” he said automatically. “This dinner party is rather important to me. I really don’t think—”
“I’ve worked in restaurants.” She wasn’t a great academic, but she was good at picking things up by watching, and some of the chefs had encouraged her desire to learn. “If you’re not satisfied you don’t need to pay me—or rather, I’ll still pay you. Do you want me to serve, as well?”
“Mrs. Hardy would have, but—”
“Okay.” She put down the plastic bags. “I won’t turn up in your dining room like this,” she assured him, catching his dubious survey of her. “I’ve got decent clothes in the car. Oh, you’d better show me where the dining room is. You’ll want the table set if Mrs. Hardy hasn’t already done it.”
“Don’t you have responsibilities of your own?” he said slowly. “I mean, what about your—”
“Nothing to worry about,” she said breezily. “If I can use that phone, I’ll just let my housemates know I’ll be late home.” It was Harry’s turn to provide dinner and he usually bought a take-out meal, anyway. Purposefully she moved toward the phone.
Benedict shifted aside. “Won’t you need to arrange—”
She put a hand on his chest and gave him a small, reassuring pat before she picked up the phone and began dialing. “Look, it’s not your problem, okay? But it will help to solve mine if you let me take it off what I owe you. Tell you what,” she added, fishing Snoopy and her keys from her pocket, “you could go and get the bag that’s on the back seat, for me. It’s got my good clothes in it.”
Looking rather stunned, he took the keys from her, opened his mouth to say something, closed it again and walked out.
By the time he returned with the cheap shopping bag, Riley had realized how she’d spoken to him, and as she hung up the phone she said guiltily, “I’m sorry—I treated you like one of my housemates, didn’t I, instead of my employer for the night? Thanks, anyway.”
“Is it okay with them, then?”
“No worries.” She took the bag and peeked into it.
“I suppose it’s handy to be living with other people.”
“Yes,” she said, rummaging in the bag for the blouse and skirt. She could never afford a place on her own, and she’d been lucky that they got on so well. “I’ll need to borrow an iron later. I hope these’ll be all right?” She held the clothes roughly against her and looked at him anxiously.
Benedict cleared his throat. “They’ll be fine. You looked very nice this morning. The iron’s in the laundry, through there.” He indicated the direction. “Look, it’s a bit much, throwing you into this. I can help if you tell me what to do.”
She wondered if he had an ulterior motive, like keeping an eye on her to ensure she really could do what she claimed and still leaving himself the last-minute option of a restaurant. But she smiled unoffendedly at him and said, “I’ll let you know. Now, where’s the dining room?”
“Uh…” For a minute she was afraid he’d decided to turn down her offer after all. His eyes had gone glassy. Then he seemed to give himself a little shake, a fine tremor running over his hard-muscled body inside the sharp business suit. “This way,” he said.
Chapter Three
Riley left Benedict putting plates and cutlery on the big dining table and hurried away to the kitchen.
When he came back she was slicing onions. “I thought I’d serve the oysters au naturel with lemon wedges,” she said, pausing to wipe her forearm over her eyes, “and arrange them around the fish salad.”
“Sounds fine.”
“What about wine?”
“I’ll deal with that.”
He probably wouldn’t have trusted her with it, anyway. Not that she often got a chance to sample good wine, but she did know enough to bluff her way through a wine list.
“Glasses,” she said, sniffing as she tipped the onions into a dish. They were very strong. “I couldn’t find wine goblets.”
“They’re kept in a cabinet in the dining room, and I’ve already put them on the table. Do you want a tissue or something?”
“Thanks, I’m okay.” She turned to rinse her hands and then eyes at the tap.
When she raised her head he was standing beside her with a paper towel ready. Riley took it from him and blotted her face. “Ta.” Raising her reddened eyes to him, she was surprised to see him looking back at her rather fixedly, his own eyes dark and intense.
Riley blinked again, uncertainly. Her tongue crept unconsciously to her crooked tooth, parting her lips.
Benedict’s black brows drew together, and he stepped back. “What else do you want done?” he asked, looking at the table.
“Um…” For some reason she felt a bit breathless. She walked jerkily to the stainless steel lidded bin near the twin sinks, dropping the crumpled paper towel into it. “You could get a tin of coconut cream from the pantry for me. I can’t reach it.”
“Whereabouts in the pantry?”
“I’ll show you.” She led the way, stood in front of the shelf where she’d seen the tins, and pointed. “There.”
“One tin?” He reached past her to lift it down.
Riley felt him brush her shoulder, and moved aside. “Thanks.” Taking the tin, she glanced up to find him smiling slightly, a disconcerting gleam in his eyes. “What?”
“You wouldn’t want to know,” he said mysteriously. “Do you need any more help?”
He found, fetched, grated and chopped at her behest. When savory aromas began to seep into the room from the wall oven, and Riley was piling used bowls and saucepans into the sink, he glanced at his watch and said, “Anything else? And by the way, there’s a dishwasher for those.”
She looked at the white machine under the counter. “These things will take up a lot of room, and I can wash them in five minutes.”
“As you like. I should go and change before my guests arrive. The downstairs bathroom is all yours. Next to the laundry.”
“I’ll clean up and change when I’ve done the washing up. Do you want me to answer the door?”
“No, just look after the food.”
When he’d gone upstairs Riley inspected the table setting, straightening some knives and adding condiments, then ran an iron over her blouse and skirt and had a quick shower in the small but elegant marble bathroom, using one of the fluffy peach-colored towels she found on a brass shelf. She combed her hair and wove the strands into a braid before winding her hair tie round the end. It looked neat and efficient, she hoped.
She put out fresh hand towels for the guests and hurried back to the kitchen. Finding a full-length apron hanging on the back of the pantry door, she dropped it about her neck, and tied the strings firmly at her waist. Also behind the door was a folded step stool. She wondered if Benedict Falkner even knew it was there.
The apron fell below her skirt, and the broad band around her neck was far too big, making the top flop into a pouch, but it was also too wide to knot.
She found a short, sturdy knife and began shucking oysters, laying them in their half shells around the edge of a large serving platter.
Benedict returned in a cream shirt and a dark-red figured waistcoat with black trousers. He looked stunning.
Carefully Riley laid the lemon wedge in her hand onto a nest of green fennel between the last two oysters, and picked up a tiny carrot rosette from the dozen or so she’d made.
“Very impressive,” Benedict said. “You said you’d worked in restaurants—where?”
“New York, a couple of places in England, and here.”
Deftly she was placing more rosettes.
“How long were you in America? I thought I detected an accent.”
“I went to high school there, and college.” She moved the completed dish out of the way and pulled another toward her. “I was born in New Zealand while Dad was working in agricultural research here, but my parents are American. Hand me that bowl of chives?”
Passing it, Benedict looked down at her, and the skin around his eyes crinkled. “You look like a kid wearing her mother’s apron.”
So much for the hairstyle. Riley yanked up the top of the apron, but it immediately flopped again. “Do me a favor,” she said, pulling apart the bow at her waist. “If you can loop one of the strings through the neck bit and tie it again…”
She turned her back to allow him to do it. It took him a while, and she could feel his breath stirring her hair as he fumbled with the bow, even hear him breathing, but finally he said, “Okay?”
“Thank you.” The bib of the apron came to the base of her neck but it was more comfortable, and she no longer resembled a kangaroo. “I’ve made a platter of hors d’oeuvres—shall I bring it into the lounge when your guests arrive?”
“I’ll take it through now. They should be here any minute.”
Over the next thirty minutes the bell rang three times, and Riley heard voices in the hall, becoming muted as the guests moved into the lounge.
It was some time before Benedict pushed through the swing doors. “When can we eat?”
“Is fifteen minutes okay?”
“Yep.” He crossed to the fridge to take out a couple of bottles of wine before he left again.
Exactly fifteen minutes later Riley pulled off the apron and carried the oysters, now surrounding a glass bowl of coconut-cream-drenched fish salad, into the dining room, along with two silver baskets of breads cut into wedges.
Everyone was already seated around the long table. Benedict poured wine into a glass set in front of a young woman seated to his right, who inclined her head in order to catch something he was saying, her sky-blue eyes fixed on him. Thick, loose blond curls fell about an exquisite face without a freckle or a blemish, and her mouth was the kind that men were supposed to find irresistible—pouting and lush and painted a bright poppy pink.
Her neck was smooth and graceful and she had real cleavage, not too blatantly shown off by a shoestring-strapped dress that matched her lipstick and played up a faint, glowing tan. That simple-looking little dress had probably cost more than a month of Riley’s wages.
Riley hated her on sight. The woman wasn’t an inch below five-six, she suspected, and utterly gorgeous. In high heels she’d be about as tall as Benedict—maybe taller, Riley guessed hopefully as she leaned over the table between two other guests, just stopping herself from plonking down the platter with a thud. Instead she slid it gently onto the cloth, placed the bread baskets on either side of it and stepped back.
Benedict looked up. “Thank you, Riley.” He gave her the glimmer of a conspiratorial smile.
As she left, a light, feminine voice said, “Where’s Mrs. Hardy, Benedict?”
That voice had been trained at one of Auckland’s best private schools—Riley would have taken a bet on it—and she just knew who it belonged to.
Already on her way back to the kitchen, she couldn’t hear Benedict’s reply.
Taking in the next dishes, she deliberately refrained from looking at either Benedict or the blonde.
The other guests were a middle-aged pair and two thirtyish couples. Riley gathered from the conversation as she went in and out, clearing and serving, that the older people were the blonde young woman’s parents, that her name was Tiffany, and that Benedict had some sort of business connection with the family. The thirty-somethings were obviously friends of his, and they too had that air of sleek well-being and sophistication that came with money.
When Riley had served dessert—a quickly made chilled specialty of her own involving fruit and whipped cream and topped with freshly toasted slivered almonds—she stopped by Benedict’s chair. “Would you like your coffee served here?”
Tiffany interjected, “Oh, let’s have it on the terrace! It’s lovely out there. And it isn’t too cold, is it?”
Everyone agreed that it wasn’t too cold, and Benedict nodded to Riley. “On the terrace, then.” He indicated the broad tiled area outside the dining room, where several canvas chairs and a couple of loungers were grouped. A palette-shaped swimming pool gleamed and glittered under outdoor lighting set among glossy shrubs.
Riley was placing cups on a tray when she looked up to see Tiffany’s face above the center curve of the saloon doors before they parted and the young woman carried in a pile of emptied dessert plates. “Can I help?” she asked. “It was a magnificent meal. That wonderful dessert is going to be awfully bad for my figure though!”
“Thank you,” Riley said. Darn, the woman was nice! In addition to the hair and the face and the cleavage, and the long legs that Riley would have killed for. And she wouldn’t be taller than Benedict. Just about on a level, in her heels.
Tiffany crossed to the dishwashing machine and opened it. “Benedict had two helpings. I suppose you wouldn’t give me the recipe?” she asked, loading in spoons and plates.
Riley swallowed. “Yes, of course. Do you want to write it down?” She looked toward the telephone where a grocery pad and pen hung.
“Thank you!” Tiffany grabbed the pen, tore off a blank page and sat down at the table.
Riley dictated the simple recipe while she waited for the coffee machine to finish doing its thing.
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