Blue Clouds (7 page)

Pippa thought she detected the hint of a curve on Wyatt's chiseled lips, just enough to send something wickedly delicious plummeting fast and furious through her middle. Startled by her primal reaction to his proximity, she turned her attention back to the boy. For all she knew, Seth Wyatt was a dangerous psychopath. She should be afraid of him, not attracted. She had sick hormones and lousy taste in men.

“Okay, so I lied,” she said breezily, dismissing her unpleasant thoughts. “Dead men don't sneeze. We'll fight it out again tomorrow, and you can make the rules. But I want the machine gun next time.”

“The machine gun's mine,” Chad grumbled, snuggling back into the pillows and making a face as his father spooned the medicine down his throat.

“Then I'm going to look for a hose,” she warned.

Chad gave her an evil look that would have done his father proud.

“Good night, cowboy. I've got to go change, before I join you on Boot Hill.” Pippa hoped that was a small snicker she heard as she swept out. If her new charge didn't have a sense of humor, she would have her job cut out for her. Surely he hadn't lost all his humor by the age of six, even in this grim prison.

Seth caught up with her as she reached the open library overlooking the foyer below. “Miss Cochran, wait a minute. I must apologize for my son.”

She halted and gave him a quizzical look, grateful for the dim lighting. She still felt as if a catfish bellyflopped in her stomach when she looked at Seth Wyatt. Perhaps it was the penetrating arctic eyes beneath those craggy brows that had her feeling as if she'd just been hooked and reeled in. She needed to be afraid of him for more than one reason.

“Your son has nothing to apologize for except an excess of pent-up energy. Does he have access to a gym or pool?”

Seth stopped short and glared down at her. “What in hell would he do with a gym?”

Pippa stared at him in disbelief, her concern instantly diverted to the child and away from the father. “Hasn't his doctor recommended a competent physical therapist? She would put together an exercise plan that would strengthen his muscles as well as work off some of that energy. You can't keep a growing boy confined to his room.”

She couldn't read Wyatt's expression. She suspected that even if the room contained more light than the dusk currently glimmering through stained glass, she wouldn't discern a hint of emotion behind that stony mask.

“The doctor says his lungs are too weak for vigorous exercise and that encouraging him beyond his physical capabilities would only traumatize him further.”

“Then get another doctor. That one's a quack.” Not having patience for a man who gave up so easily, and not having patience for her own jangling nerve endings, Pippa left her new boss leaning on the library railing, staring after her.

She really should quit arguing with her employers, she told herself. Look at where it had led last time. Instead of firing the incompetent hacks who sat quietly drinking coffee at their desks, doing as they were told, the hospital had fired the troublemaker first. Would she never learn?

Still, she couldn't leave that child cooped up in his miniature palace for the rest of his life. She couldn't live with herself if she did. Of course, if she insisted on arguing with Wyatt, she'd find herself bounced out on her nose. What good could she do the boy then?

The age-old question. Sighing, Pippa struggled out of her wet dress as soon as she hit her room. Was there any point in going down to dinner now?

But if she didn't, she would not only starve, she would lose her last chance to have Miss MacGregor show her the ropes before the woman left in the morning. Pippa seriously suspected it would be much easier forming a clear idea of her duties from the efficient secretary than her taciturn employer.

Wishing for a map like the ones convention hotels handed out, Pippa eventually wended her way through the maze of rooms to the dining chamber. She could only call it a chamber. The light from the antique crystal chandelier danced over a table long enough to host a state dinner. Idly, she wondered if the servants wore roller blades. Pedometers maybe. Then they could be paid by the mile.

Deciding the businesslike red suit Meg had insisted looked spectacular with her complexion was definitely not the choice for a formal evening in the Reaper's mansion, Pippa hesitated on the threshold.

Crystal and china place settings for two glittered in the light of the chandelier. An acre of starched linen covered the table, an enormous floral arrangement occupied the center, but the settings had been placed only at one end. Perhaps they expected her in the kitchen.

“Debating which silver to use, Miss Cochran?”

Pippa nearly jumped out of her shoes at the sound of the voice behind her. Swinging around, she glared at the man standing with arms crossed over his chest. He'd at least changed from the turtleneck to a fitted white dress shirt, although the contrast with his dark coloring created dancing images in her head that were far from businesslike. Pippa detected a mocking smirk on his glacial features. “Debating which
table
to use, Mr. Wyatt. I think I prefer the kitchen.”

Damn. She had just done it again—flapped her tongue before putting her brain in gear. There was just something about this man that rubbed her in all the wrong ways.

“Miss MacGregor prefers eating in her room. Since I have no business to go over with her this evening, I didn't object. You, however, will need to take notes.”

When she didn't immediately leave the doorway, he gave her a pointed glare rather than ask her to move.

Pippa hurriedly stepped out of Wyatt's way. She held her tongue also, although the question of whether pen and paper came as part of the cutlery scorched the roof of her mouth.

Sure enough, he snapped open a leather notebook and handed her a Mont Blanc pen as soon as she took her place.

“Miss MacGregor wants you to drive her to the airport at eight tomorrow morning. Allowing for traffic, you should be back by two. Miss MacGregor hasn't had time to edit the last two chapters. They're still sitting on her desk. You'll start with those. I'll have another before you're through.”

The first course arrived. Ignoring the pen and notebook, Pippa sipped the delicious onion soup and wondered if the omnipotent Mrs. Jones managed the kitchen, as well as the house and nursery.

“Your responsibilities include sorting and answering the mail, taking all phone calls, and directing to me only those from people on the list on your desk. I'm on deadline and haven't time for trivial questions. You will handle all other calls.”

Pippa tasted the wine and tried not to grimace. She had never developed a taste for alcohol. The sparkling water suited her better. Blind obedience came hard, and swallowing all the questions and protests burning her tongue made her thirsty.

“You haven't written a word of this down,” he accused as grilled swordfish and sautéed asparagus replaced the soup.

Pippa didn't think she'd ever eaten swordfish or asparagus. She wouldn't have known what they were without the neatly printed menu card in front of her. She wondered if one of her responsibilities was printing these little cards every day. After tasting the vegetable, she decided she would make a point of going into town and filling up on French fries the nights asparagus appeared on the list.

The icy silence from beyond her left elbow warned Tyrant Tarant had finished another lecture. Giving him a brief smile, she answered, “I have a tape-deck memory. It records everything I hear.”

“A tape-deck memory?” The question dripped sarcasm.

Pippa shrugged. “Other people have photographic memories. What would you call it?”

“A tape-deck memory.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Do you want to reel everything I've said back by me?”

“Not particularly. It was spectacularly boring. Where in the schedule does Chad fit in? I promised him a return bout.”

“Chad amuses himself. Nana is available if he needs anything. You might check on his cold before you begin work on the chapters, I suppose. And it probably wouldn't hurt to drop in on him before dinner as you did tonight. Your duties with Chad will be quite light.”

Rebellion raised its ugly head, and Pippa finally focused her attention on her employer's forbidding features. “Your damned book is more important than your son?”

Wyatt's face shuttered more than before, if that was possible. “I am available to my son every moment of the day, which is more than most parents can say. I did not hire you to question my parenting, Miss Cochran.”

“He's six years old. He should be in school making friends.” Pippa had heard the ominous tone in his voice, but she couldn't help herself. Getting fired the first day on the job wasn't part of her game plan, but her conscience wouldn't let her leave the subject alone.

“He has a tutor. His intellectual skills are well beyond those of most six-year-olds, Miss Cochran. I ask you to refrain from any further interference with my son.”

She bit her tongue until it hurt. She beamed a smile at him and nibbled at the sugar biscuit accompanying the raspberry sorbet that had just arrived.

“Aye, aye, Captain. I won't be around when he turns thirteen and burns this place to the ground. He's all yours.”

The look he gave her was definitely suspicious and on the fair side of venomous. She should be terrified of living in a lunatic asylum with a potential murderer in charge. Apparently the beauty of the countryside had given her a false sense of security. She simply couldn't fear a man as desperate as she was.

Pippa had ten dozen questions she could have asked, but like Scheherazade, she thought she'd drag them out for a thousand nights or so and avoid beheading. Some of the answers she could find out for herself. As her brusque host finally took his towering frame off to whatever cave he inhabited, Pippa went in search of her new office. Thoughtless of him not to show it to her, but she had already begun to suspect
thoughtless
was just the tip of the descriptive iceberg for Mr. Seth Wyatt.

***

In his office, Seth glared at his computer screen. The words swimming before him could have been little white lines for all he noticed. Instead of focusing on the gore and havoc wreaked by a deadly gopher run amuck, his inner eye produced visions of a redhead with a blinding smile.

He'd have to write angel books if this continued. Grunting in dissatisfaction, Seth rocked his chair back and took another sip of coffee. He wasn't even certain he could bed a woman with a smile like that. Did she smile when she was on her back and between the sheets?

Contemplating Phillippa Cochran naked wasn't conducive to concentration either.

Dammit! He knew this would happen. His libido always churned into overdrive when he'd gone without sex for a while. He'd have to arrange to go into L.A. for a few days.

But he didn't like leaving Chad that long, especially with a new member of the household. And he really didn't fancy coming within reach of Tracey's claws again. She'd accommodated him more than once since his divorce, but she was developing dangerously territorial habits. The last time, he'd practically had to lock her in the house to stop her from following him. He definitely did not want another predatory female in his life.

Seth glared at the computer screen a minute more, then popped open the lid of a can of hard-coated English toffees and helped himself to one. He'd given up cigarettes when the doctor had told him Chad had weak lungs and would suffer from the secondhand smoke. But the damned candies were every bit as addictive.

A sound from the outer office roused him.

Probably Pippa. Ridiculous name. He shoved away from the desk. He didn't need her rattling around and disturbing his concentration.

He found her examining the framed book covers Miss MacGregor had arranged around the room. He hated the things, but Mac regarded them as some sort of trophies. He suspected she considered herself two-thirds responsible for his success. Miss Cochran, on the other hand, seemed to regard the gruesome artwork with revulsion.

Even though he'd slipped quietly behind her, she sensed his presence. Without turning around, she pointed at a particularly striking black cover with a mummy's head eerily lit from the inside. “That's physically impossible, of course,” she informed him coolly. “The skull would disintegrate if unwrapped and the wrappings would catch fire. They're highly flammable, you know.”

Seth had never given it any thought. “That book wasn't even about mummies. The blamed cover artist just had a thing for them.”

He'd told her not to wear perfume, but he caught a whiff of some elusive scent. He knew all the expensive fragrances, had learned to recognize the exorbitant French designer perfumes Tracey and his ex-wife favored. But he couldn't identify the light, herbal scent wafting around him now. The fragrance was provocative, especially as she turned and gazed up at him with those devastatingly long-lashed eyes. He felt as if he stood on the edge of an unfathomable pool, teetering on the rim.

“I won't read them,” she announced firmly. “I'll have nightmares. I can type without reading and run spelling and grammar checks with the software, but I don't think I can edit them, as Miss MacGregor does. You didn't mention anything about editing when you hired me.”