Her Man Friday (23 page)

"Tea and… cookies, Miss Rigby?" he said with just a trace of hopefulness touching his voice, as if she might be defining the word
cookies
in something other than its traditional meaning.

She nodded, curling the fingers of one hand lightly over his nape, knifing the others idly through the silky hair at his temple. "I have a lovely Earl Grey that Mr. Kimball brought me from England last month. Not to mention some Peek Freens custard cremes to go with."

The hands linked lightly at her back tightened, pulling her forward. Clearly, Mr. Freiberger intended to ignore her invitation to tea, and invite himself to something else entirely unless she put a stop to it.

"Truly, Mr. Freiberger," she said as he drew her close and lowered his head to hers, "as… promising… as I find this little interlude, it really isn't a good idea."

He pulled back slightly, but didn't release her. The look in his eyes shifted from playful affection to grim acceptance. "Because of Mr. Kimball?" he asked.

Lily nodded. "I'm afraid so."

For one brief moment, he tugged her close again, pressing his body into hers with enough force to send her heart rate propelling to the stratosphere. He was just so wonderfully… hard, she thought. So deliciously… hot. So very, very…
very, very
… male.

"Because you and Mr. Kimball are intimately involved?" he demanded.

The question surprised her almost as much as his proprietary claiming of her had. Still, she knew she shouldn't be surprised. It was a common misconception by nearly everyone, after all, that she and Schuyler were still involved, even though it had been more than a decade since the two of them had been intimate. There was no reason for Mr. Freiberger to assume otherwise, she told herself. What bothered Lily was that he had. And in doing so, he was obviously under the impression that she was the kind of woman who, in addition to sleeping with her boss, would let that boss's bookkeeper put his hands on her cookies. So to speak.

Which meant it would be necessary to educate Mr. Freiberger as to the proper way of doing things at Ashling.

Opening her own hands lightly over his chest, she gently pushed him away. But she couldn't quite make herself release him entirely and continued to press her palms into that hard, hot, male chest. For some reason—well, she was fairly certain she knew
what
reason—she didn't want to let him go.

"No," she said simply. "Not because of that. There's nothing like that between me and Mr. Kimball. But he does like an occasional afternoon cup of tea, too, and would doubtless show up in the kitchen just when you and I were getting to the good parts. His timing has always been frightfully bad."

Mr. Freiberger blinked three times in rapid succession, as if a too-bright flash had just gone off in front of his face. But all he said in response was, "Oh."

So Lily continued, "Therefore, I think, perhaps, it might be wise for us to continue with our little, um… discussion… in more promising surroundings. Like, for example… your place."

Mr. Freiberger blinked again. "Oh."

"Say… tomorrow night?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, we could say that."

"Could we also say sixish?"

"Fine."

"Well then. I'll see you there."

"O-okay."

There, she thought. That ought to correct any misconceptions he might have about her relationship with Schuyler. The big doofus. Honestly. The things that men assumed. Somehow, Lily managed to make herself release Mr. Freiberger, and, with obvious reluctance, he let her do it. She took a moment to rearrange her clothing and smooth a hand over her hair, then, with a faint smile, she turned and strode out of the pantry. She spun hastily back around, however, when she remembered something of rather significant importance.

"Oh, and, Mr. Freiberger?" she asked.

Still looking quite flummoxed, he said, "Yes?"

"It might be helpful if you'd leave your address on Mr. Kimball's desk, where I can find it."

He nodded, but his mind had clearly already moved on to other things. "Consider it done, Miss Rigby," he said softly.

"Fine. Then I'll see you tomorrow night."

"Yes. You will."

Lily stumbled a bit at the sound of his assurance, then quickly recovered and moved forward. For some reason, when he'd said,
Yes. You will
, Mr. Freiberger had seemed to be talking about something other than seeing her tomorrow night.

How very interesting, she thought.

As Leo rounded the corner toward Kimball's private rooms and left behind the wide gallery, not to mention the kitchen pantry—which he wouldn't mention, because mentioning it meant he replayed over and over again that incredibly erotic encounter with Miss Rigby, which in turn made him feel something that was really quite unmentionable, so he just wouldn't mention it—he tried hard not to think about what the two of them had just done. Later, he promised himself. He would think about all that later. Much later.

But not
too
much later.

Unbidden, though, the memory of how her smooth, silk-covered thigh had felt beneath his fingertips unfolded in his brain. He recalled the scent of her, the sound of her, the heat of her, and just like that, he started to get hard. So, as quickly as the memories collected, he scattered them to the far corners of his brain.

Later, he told himself again.

Fortunately, he was distracted by the sound of music coming from the direction of, of all places, the music room. The music room was across and down a ways from Kimball's office, so Leo had to walk right past it if he wanted to return to his work at the billionaire's desk. Something about the lilting piano piece slowed his stride as he passed, but when he glanced into the room and saw Chloe seated at the bench, he stopped dead in his tracks.

She had her back to him, but even if she hadn't, he suspected she wouldn't have noticed him watching her. The sun spilling through the window beyond her winked off the ring in her eyebrow, and splashed with gold the wild, dark tresses tumbling around her shoulders. She was dressed in a pair of massive, baggy, extremely disreputable blue jeans—actually, the garment appeared to be a series of shreds and tears that were joined, kind of, by denim—and a short, blood red sweater. Her head was turned in profile, her eyes were closed, and her fingers skimmed easily, confidently, along the keyboard. She appeared to not even be paying attention to what she was doing, as if the piano were simply an extension of her body, and the activity she was performing was as natural and as essential a practice as breathing.

Her choice of clothing was utterly at odds with the music that flowed from her fingertips. The music was soft, gently cadenced, pleasantly complicated. Nothing at all like its creator. Nevertheless, Chloe seemed to be transformed, transcended even, by it, turning soft and gentle and pleasant herself. Leo was even able to overlook the facial jewelry for the moment, because he became so caught up in the sounds so subtly surrounding him.

Whatever the piece was she was playing, it was, quite simply, beautiful. He was by no means an expert on classical music, so he had no idea who the composer was. Still, he mused, it might be worth investing in a couple of CDs by the man. Even to his untrained ear, there was something about the piece she was playing that was simply too wonderful to ignore.

"Is that Bach?" he asked as he took a step into the music room. "Or Beethoven?"

The moment he began to speak, Chloe started stumbling over the piano keys as if her fingers had suddenly become paralyzed. She leapt up from the bench, spun quickly around to face him, and, just for a moment, had that look of stark terror on her face that she had worn the first time he'd encountered her. As she had done then, however, she immediately masked the fear, injecting in its place a fair amount of adolescent insolence.

"Do you get off on scaring the shit out of everybody?" she demanded in that grating tone of voice that put Leo's back up faster than fingernails on a blackboard would. "Or is it just little girls you like to spook?"

He held up both hands, palm out, wondering why he'd even bothered to try to be civil with the kid. "Forget it," he told her as he began to back up again. He had better things to do with his time than defend himself against a young girl whose greatest enemy was herself. "Just forget I asked. Forget you ever saw me. If you'll excuse me, I'll be on my way."

He had turned to leave, had, in fact made his way through the door, when Chloe called out after him, almost tentatively, he thought, "It wasn't Bach
or
Beethoven."

Very slowly, Leo pivoted back around, wondering if this was some kind of trick. For a moment there, Chloe had sounded almost nice.

"It was Sandusky," she told him.

Leo shook his head slightly. "Never heard of him."

"Sandusky's not a him," she said, still looking a bit uncertain about what she was doing. "Sandusky's a her."

He arched his brows in surprise. "No kidding. I didn't even know women were allowed to compose music in those days."

There was a slight hesitation before Chloe replied, and for some reason, Leo got the impression that she was taking great care in choosing what to say. "Sandusky didn't compose it in those days," she finally said. "She composed it just now."

This time Leo dropped his mouth open in surprise.

"Sandusky is me," she added unnecessarily, scrunching up her shoulders in a rare show of modesty.

"You?" he asked. "You wrote that?"

She nodded.

"Just now?"

She was clearly becoming more than a little self-conscious, obviously disconcerted by his vehemence, but she nodded again, more slowly this time.

Leo forced himself to relax. The last thing a kid like Chloe needed was to have someone gawking at her as if she were the eighth wonder of the modern world. "It, uh… it was really good," he said lamely.

And even at that lame compliment, Chloe smiled. A shy smile. A smile of gratitude, of satisfaction. It was a smile that nearly took Leo's breath away, because when she smiled like that, she looked just like… just like…

Just like a fourteen-year-old-girl who'd done something she was really proud of, something that made her feel good about herself. Imagine that. Chloe could be a normal human being after all.

She thrust her hands behind her back, an action that brought into stark focus the gold hoop glittering in her navel, and only then did Leo remember what kind of a kid she was—namely, an unconventional one. However, even at that, when she dipped her head forward and swayed her body to and fro, he thought for a moment that she might actually say "Aw, shucks" and stub the toe of her shoe—her really big, really ugly shoe—against the huge Aubusson rug that spanned the floor beneath her feet. Then, as quickly as she had turned human, Chloe seemed to recall that she was, in fact, a surly adolescent, and, just like that, the facade went back into place.

"Yeah, well, you don't have to sound so surprised about it," she snapped with a toss of her head that sent her curls flying. "It's not like I'm an idiot here. Unlike
some
people."

But Leo wasn't going to take the bait as easily this time. "No, you're certainly no idiot," he said calmly. "On the contrary, Miss Sandusky—"

Her head snapped up again at his formal address, and she eyed him warily, as if she were trying to figure out whether or not he was being sarcastic or insulting in his formal address.

"I'm sorry I interrupted you," he said further, before she had a chance to verbally assault him. "I hope I didn't blow your concentration and make you forget what you were doing."

Her expression turned puzzled for a moment, then cleared. "Oh, I never forget," she said. She pointed to her forehead. "It all goes right here and stays. I'll be able to find it again when I need to. It's kinda like a filing cabinet."

Leo hid the smile that threatened when he noted Chloe's use of common English. Obviously she could communicate with anyone if she tried. "You seem to have a rare gift," he told her. "I hope you don't neglect it."

She stared at him for a long time without changing her expression, as if she couldn't quite figure him out. Well, that made two of them, Leo thought. Because he sure as hell didn't know what to think about her now, either.

Dipping his own head forward, he murmured, "Miss Sandusky. It was nice chatting with you. Please, by all means, continue with your playing. I myself have to get back to work, and your music would be a welcome accompaniment."

"Maybe I don't feel like playing anymore," she said. But there was no venom, no surly adolescent anger, tainting the comment.

He wondered if she had intended for the remark to have a double meaning, then decided that, even though she was obviously brighter than the average kid, she probably hadn't.

"Well, then," he said. "I suppose that will be my loss, won't it?"

She studied him in silence again, until the moment began to stretch taut, making Leo feel more than a little awkward. So with another hastily offered, "Miss Sandusky," he spun around again and made his way out, pushing thoughts of Chloe Sandusky and her
oeuvre
to the back of his brain. The last thing he needed right now was to be bewitched, bothered, and befuddled by a child genius.

Because God knew he had plenty of other things to bewitch, bother, and befuddle him right now. His phony identity. Kimball's booby-trapped files. Fifty million missing dollars. Lily Rigby's delectable underwear. Man, his work never seemed to end.

Seating himself in front of Schuyler Kimball's computer one more time—for all the good it would do—Leo went back to work.