Dangerous Ladies (55 page)

“Of course, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.” Rashida stood up. “Come on, girls. Time to go back to work.”

Buzzy stood up, too. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, would you like us to tell the third cleaning crew you’re tired so you can rest up? For, you know . . . later?” She weighed the last word with significance, and glanced eloquently at the door where Devlin had left.

The others giggled.

“No! Really! I’m fine. Mr. Fitzwilliam simply overreacts; that’s all.” Meadow blushed again.

“Is
that
what you call it?” Teresa picked up her lunch. “How many more days are you supposed to rest, Mrs. Fitzwilliam?”

“I can get up tonight.”

“If I were you, I’d angle to stay flat on my back,” Buzzy said.

As the women left, laughing, Meadow heard someone say, “Amen, sister. Amen!”

W
hen Meadow stepped into the office, Sam was already staring at the door with a resigned expression, as if he expected her. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam. How can I assist you?”

“I came to see my husband. I want to show him I’ve completely regained my health.” Actually, she’d come to view the paintings Devlin hung on his walls, because she really needed to get out of Waldemar, hopefully before she spent another night sleeping with a very warm, very active, very horny Devlin.

“Your recovery is a relief to us all.” Sam’s flat tone belied his voiced concern.

But she knew that with the right incentive—and someday she would figure out what that was—he could be cajoled into a smile.

“Mr. Fitzwilliam is busy right now. Would you like to wait?” he asked.

“Sure.” She wandered around, examining the office. “You’ve got a great place here.” He did. The room was spacious and nicely furnished, with large windows looking out toward the ocean, oak file cabinets, a printer/fax/copier, and absolutely no interesting paintings on his walls.

She wandered toward the file cabinet. “What did you do before you worked for Mr. Fitzwilliam?”

Sam looked up from his work and glowered.

Hastily she added, “Not that I have gender-biased thoughts about a guy being a secretary—”

“Executive assistant.”

“Yes, executive assistant. That’s what I meant to say. But you”—
with your constant scowl and impatient efficiency and your eyes, which are way too observant
—“seem to be more of a general.”
Or a serial killer.
“Someone in command.”

“I
am
in command. Of Mr. Fitzwilliam’s time and a good deal of his organization.” Sam went back to shuffling papers.

“I’m sure Mr. Fitzwilliam is glad to have you.” And now she knew better than to ask Sam personal questions. Maybe he
was
a serial killer. “Is there a map for the hotel? I keep getting lost.”

“There’s a stack of maps on the corner of the credenza by the door.”

She nabbed one, folded it up, and stuck it in her pocket.

“And if you remained in your room, you would not get lost.”

It was obvious the guy didn’t like her, and since he knew that she’d broken into the house, and suspected she wasn’t really Devlin’s wife, she supposed she could see why. But that didn’t stop her from trying. “I get bored. You understand, Sam. You’re very fit. You must play sports. Keep active. You must play football, like Devlin?”

“I lift weights and I run. Those are the two most efficient methods of staying fit.”

“What do you do for fun?”

“Fun?” His brow knit in puzzlement.

Okay.
That line of questioning wasn’t going to pan out. She glanced at the open door to Devlin’s office, and sidled toward it.

“Won’t you have a seat while you wait?” Which was Sam’s less-than-subtle way of telling her to sit down and shut up.

“Sure.” She sat down in the chair opposite him, and smiled.

He didn’t smile back.

“I guess Mr. Fitzwilliam keeps you really busy? Do you always work this late?” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s after five.”

“Yes, he does. Yes, I do. So it is.”

Not much of a conversationalist, our Sam.
“How late do you usually work?”

“Very late. In fact, right now I need to finish typing up the requisition list for the groceries for the next week.” He turned to his computer. His fingers hovered over the keys.

“That’s a great telephone.” She turned it toward her and examined it. “It’s got four lines. Do you answer them all?”

“Yes.”

“Is that all the lines for the hotel?”

“No. But I do monitor the use of all lines on that switchboard.” He indicated the electronic panel hung on the wall. “For instance, I’ve noticed that your line has been almost constantly in use since about eleven.” He bent a dark frown on her.

“How about that?” she asked cheerfully. “Is someone using it now?”

“Yes. One of the maids, I suppose.”

“I suppose. Can we listen in?”

“It is against the law to listen to private calls in a hotel.”

“Oh.” She barely managed to keep from rubbing her palms together.

“Do you have any more questions?” Before she could speak, he added, “Because these last few days I’ve had very little sleep, and until this is done, and all the jobs after it, I won’t be able to sleep tonight.”

Testy. “I don’t want to keep you from your work.” She stared at him while he typed.

She didn’t know if he was dedicated to his work, or immune to her charm, but he didn’t pay her any attention.

Standing, she wandered over to the fax machine and frowned at it. “I’ll bet this gets a lot of use.”

“Yes.”

If only she could get a glimpse into Devlin’s office without having to actually confront Devlin . . . She wandered closer to the open door.

She could hear voices. Devlin’s deep, distinctive Southern accent, and a woman’s thin, frightened tones.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fitzwilliam. I won’t let it happen again. At least . . . I’ll try to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Mia, I don’t understand. Until three days ago you were a model employee. What’s happened?”

“It’s . . . it’s my son.” The cook sounded miserable and embarrassed. “He dropped out of school. He’s getting in trouble. I try to keep control of him, but he’s seventeen. Mr. Fitzwilliam, I told him we’re going to starve if I don’t keep this job, but he said he had a way to provide . . . provide for us . . .” Mia’s voice was wobbling. “And I’m afraid . . . afraid . . .”

“Sit down. Take some Kleenex. For God’s sake, stop sniveling.” Devlin’s voice was a slap in the face after Mia’s miserable recital.

What a jerk.
Didn’t he see Mia needed special care right now?

“Yes . . . yes, sir,” Mia said.

With a glance at Sam, typing furiously, Meadow moved close enough to peek into the office.

Mia sat in the chair opposite the desk, dabbing at her nose.

“Mia, are we romantically involved?” Devlin snapped.

She lifted her outraged face out of the tissue. “No, sir!”

“Then blow your damned nose. I don’t care what it sounds like.” Devlin scowled ferociously. “I just want you to stop sniveling.”

She blew.

What a jerk!
He really was as awful as everyone said. Meadow ought to go in there right now and tell him—

“All right. Look at me.” Devlin leaned forward and stared right into Mia’s eyes. “Your seventeen-year-old son has dropped out of school, your husband has abandoned you, you’ve got a thirteen-year-old daughter, and you’re afraid your son’s involved in drugs. Have I included everything?”

“My son cashed my last paycheck, and I don’t know what he did with the money.” Mia started to cry in earnest and stood. “I’m sorry, Mr. Fitzwilliam. I know it’s not your job to worry about my family. Do you want me to leave now?”

“Not until we’ve figured this thing out. Sit
down.
”

She sat.

“Now. Look at me.”

She did.

“I have a project working on the island of Elmite.”

“Where’s Elmite?”

“In the Caribbean. I bought it.”

“The whole island?”

“It was uninhabited. No water. I drilled. There’s a huge reservoir under the island. I’m building a resort.”

“Okay.” Mia nodded.

“Since your son has already dropped out, what do you say I give him the incentive to get back in school?”

Mia stared, the beginning of hope flickering on her face. “Okay.”

Perhaps Meadow had misjudged Devlin.

“If he were kidnapped”—Devlin paused to see if Mia would object—“and sent to work construction, hard construction labor, on an uninhabited island for the summer—”

“How soon can he go?” Mia’s voice changed, became cool, poised, eager.

“Mrs. Fitzwilliam!” Behind her, Sam whispered, “Are you eavesdropping?” He tried to move her.

“Shh.” Meadow shoved back at him. “I want to hear this.”

Devlin glanced at the door, saw them, then returned his attention to Mia. “He’ll go tonight.”

She didn’t waver. “Take him.”

“On your way out, give my secretary the information he needs to find him. Then go back to work, and good luck. Jordan’s in one hell of a mood today.”

“I know, sir. Thank you, sir.” Mia stood. As she marched past
Meadow, she nodded—and for the first time since Meadow had met her, she looked happy.

Sam tried to move Meadow aside. “I’ll announce you.”

“Don’t bother.” She bounded into Devlin’s office and shut the door in Sam’s face.

Devlin did
not
look pleased to see her.

Yeah, because the big, bad, ruthless developer had been caught in a generous act.

She rounded the desk.

He stood up. “You should be in bed.”

“Forty-eight hours are up.” She shoved him back down on his chair, followed him down, and straddled his lap. “You are so nice.”

“Mia’s a good cook.”

“The nicest man in the whole world.” She put her lips to his and kissed him.

When she released his lips, he said, “If I fired her, Jordon would be furious.”

“The nicest man in the whole world,” she repeated, kissed him again, and pushed her hips further into his lap.

By the time she took her tongue out of his mouth, he would have agreed with anything she said. “I’m the nicest guy in the world.” He looked into her eyes, a half smile on his damp lips, his hands holding her hips. “Did you lock that door?”

“No. Why would I have to? The nicest guy in the world doesn’t screw women in his office chair.”

“No, but he would screw his wife.”

“You silver-tongued devil, you.” She was as close in his lap as she could be, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her breasts almost touching his chest, her scent warm and womanly. . . .

My God, she was smiling at him. Not at Four. Not at the old farts. Not at the maids or Sam or Mrs. Cognomi, but at him.

Yet he felt compelled to speak. “Really, I didn’t want to lose one of the few people from Amelia Shores willing to dare the displeasure of the old farts and work for me.” What was wrong with him? Why
was he talking her out of thinking well of him? He
wanted
her to smile at him.

But not to reward him for being a Boy Scout. Which he was not. He wanted her to smile at him because she felt at ease with him, because she wanted him.

Hell.
She was smiling at him for the wrong reasons, and before this moment, he hadn’t even known there were wrong reasons.

It took a discipline he didn’t know he possessed to move her hips away from his crotch. “Look, I’ll get my money’s worth out of the kid, too. He’s going to work like he’s never worked before.”

“Tough love. I get it. But without your help, Mia wouldn’t stand a chance.” Meadow kissed him again, then slid off his lap.

He wanted to stand up, but he couldn’t move without groaning.

“Wow, look at all the monitors.” She faced the wall where they all hung. “Man. What a bunch of monitors.” She sounded uneasy, and she glanced around.

Her gaze lingered on the wall behind him—or rather, at the paintings on the wall behind him.

Damn it.
She hadn’t come here to smile at
him.
She’d come to check out his art.