'Tis the Season (10 page)

“Lisette.”

She turned at Charles's low, commanding voice. “Yes?”

He cocked his head to the side, studying her. “You don't have to banish yourself to the kitchen. I hate the thought of you eating in here all alone when we're all home. It . . .” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “It doesn't feel right.”

She looked at him blankly. “I eat alone often. It doesn't bother me.”

“Well, tonight, it bothers me,” he said.

“Charles.” She looked into his eyes. Framed by the black-rimmed glasses, their brilliant blue beauty seemed even more pronounced to her. “This is the weekend, and you're home. It's family time. Go be with your family. I'm not part of it.”

He gazed at her for a minute, assessing long enough for her to feel uneasy from his stare. Her arms slid around her middle.

“I know all that,” he said quietly. “I'm merely saying you don't have to isolate yourself from the kids whenever I'm home. Especially if I'm going to start being home more often.”

“But that's exactly what I've always done,” she pointed out. “I don't infringe on your time with them. You never even blinked at that before.”

He nodded, considering that. “I suppose that's true. But Lisette . . . at this point, they're just as comfortable with you as with me. Maybe even more so, in a way. You make them feel genuinely cared for—which I'm very grateful for, by the way, if I don't tell you that enough.”

She held herself tight and acknowledged the compliment with a demure smile.

“So you don't have to disappear when I'm around,” he said.

“Just three nights ago, you said you wanted to keep your distance from me,” she reminded him in a murmur. “And you have. I'm doing the same.”

His eyes narrowed. “Playing tit for tat?” he asked. “I didn't think you were like that.”

“I'm not. Not at all. I'm just following your lead.” She met his intense gaze directly.

He didn't move, but a muscle jumped in his jaw, and his lips flattened in a thin line of frustration.

“I'm an employee,” she said, her tone sharper. “Like anyone else on your household staff.”

“You're not like the other staff members,” he said. His voice and gaze took on a steelier edge.

“Why? Because we slept together?” she whispered hotly.

“
No
. Because you're—you're like—you're kind of a mother figure to them,” he sputtered. “They adore you. They love you.”

“That's nice to say, but—”

“But nothing. It's the truth. They're not attached to any other staff members like they are to you, so it's totally different.”

“You're being purposely obtuse,” she said, her self-control starting to fray. “You don't ask Eileen or Tina to come hang out with you and the kids. You
are
treating me differently.”

“Solely because you have a different relationship with the kids!” he said, voice rising. His mouth twitched. “And did you just call me obtuse?”

“Oh my God, I did.” Her face bloomed with color. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. It'd be funny if we both weren't getting frustrated.”

“Still, you're my boss. That was disrespectful.”

He stepped to her, standing so close that his hot breath fanned her cheek as he said, “You don't have to defer to me like that. You think I'm being obtuse, fine, tell me so. It's not like you called me an asshole or something.”

She wanted to laugh, but her breath was stuck in her chest.

His blues blazed as he said, “Don't ever act as if I should treat you like a second-class citizen because you work for me. I never have, I never would, and I resent the implication.”

“But I am, Charles,” she said quietly. “In this house, I am.”

“Bullshit!” he spat, eyes flashing.

“It's not bullshit!” she cried in response. “You can't make facts obsolete just because you want them to be. We are on different levels, Charles. That's a fact.”

He muttered a curse before insisting, “The only one who'd ever make you feel that way is
you
. I treat everyone in this house with nothing but respect and appreciation.”

“You do. And that's wonderful,” she said. “And no, you've never made me feel beneath you. But it doesn't change the fact that
I work for you
.” She turned away, pacing for a few seconds. What could she say to get through to him? “This isn't my home; it's yours. That's not my car; you own it. The money I make all comes from you. Don't you understand? My livelihood—everything in my life—is dependent on you. No matter what kind of chemistry we have, no matter what happened the other night, no matter what you're choosing to willfully ignore, that is the bottom line. Please . . .
hear me
.”

He looked stunned. She almost felt bad for him. “I hear you,” he finally said. “Doesn't mean I have to like it.”

She nodded, not knowing what to say.

With a heavy sigh, Charles leaned back against the marble-topped island in the middle of the kitchen and gazed at her balefully. “My kids love you,” he said. “Therefore, I think of you as special in this house. I always have.”

“Not like you do now.” She also took a long, deep breath. “Just admit that.”

“Fine, you're right, not like I do now,” he ground out. “All right?”

She turned away, unable to look at him, and opened the toaster. Without thinking, she pulled the slice of pizza out to put it on the plate, but it was too hot. A gasp and a hiss escaped her as she dropped it onto the plate.

“Did you burn yourself?” he asked with concern.

She rushed to the sink and ran her fingertips under the cold water, furious with herself.

“Lisette,” he said sternly. “Are you all right?”

“No, I'm not all right!” she cried, feeling the last frayed threads of her control unravel and snap. “Up until two weeks ago, I was fine. I'm good at my job; I'm capable and strong; everything was fine. Now, every time I see you, I'm off-kilter. I'm bumping into things, or choking on water, or saying things I shouldn't, or burning my fingers to hell . . .” Hot tears of frustration sprang to her eyes.

He moved to her side and took her hand from under the stream of water. “Let me see.” With tender care, he examined her fingertips. She saw how gently he attended to her, and it made her heart flutter. His eyes lifted to hers. “You'll be fine. Your somewhat burned fingers, and the rest of you too.”

“Of course I will,” she whispered. With her free hand, she turned off the faucet. He was still holding her hand and staring at her intently.

“I've been off-kilter too,” he said, his voice low. “You're not the only one.”

She licked her dry lips and saw his eyes travel with the motion, glued to her mouth for a few seconds before looking back up to her eyes again. She saw hunger flare in his blazing blues, and searing heat. Her heart started to thump in heavier beats. Oh, God, what was happening? He was attracted to her; it was obvious. And she'd always been attracted to him too. It was as if the heated discussion they'd just had had never happened, and sizzling lust had taken them both over. This was disastrous. He edged a bit closer, his eyes focused on her mouth, and she couldn't move. She wanted him to kiss her, and if he did, she knew she wouldn't push him away. She could barely breathe.

“Daddy?” Myles padded into the kitchen, holding an empty popcorn bag. “Are you coming back? We're waiting for you. And I'm thirsty.”

Lisette yanked her hand from Charles's, whirled to face the little boy, and said, “Of course he's coming back, sweetheart. And he'll get you a drink, okay?” She swept her plate from the counter and grabbed a napkin. “I'm just taking this up to my room. You all have fun.” She tousled Myles's hair as she passed him and practically ran from the kitchen without a look back.

Chapter Nine

Charles scribbled on a pad beside his keyboard, then went back to looking over the itinerary of his trip to the West Coast offices in less than two weeks. He'd be away from home for ten days. Some of the plans were golf outings, meals, the social aspects. If he cut out some of the superfluous things, he'd only be away for seven or eight days, not ten. His kids needed him. He'd simply have to disappoint some of his investors and break a few plans. They'd get over it.

His private line rang, and he picked it up without hesitation. Only a few select people had that number: his father, his siblings, his closest colleagues, and his kids' nanny. He hit the
SPEAKER
button. “Charles Harrison.”

“Funny, that's my name too.” His father made the same joke every time. “How's it going, Tripp?”

“Fine, just busy as usual.” Charles hadn't minded that nickname when he was younger, but he almost hated it now. It was one of the reasons he hadn't named either of his sons Charles and made them a fourth. He'd adamantly wanted to let them have their own names, their own identities, free of all the preconceived notions that moniker would have brought.

“I want to further discuss the Benson Industries deal,” his father said. “Come to my office for breakfast tomorrow so we can discuss it.”

“Can't,” Charles said, even as he tapped on his keyboard. “Have a meeting at nine, a meeting at eleven, and my afternoon is pretty booked too.”

Charles II snorted. “Shit, you'd think you were running a company or something with that kind of schedule.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, come earlier, then.”

“No. I'm—”

“You putting me off, son?” A steely edge crept into the patriarch's tone.

Charles bristled at it. “Yeah, I am. Tomorrow's not good for me.”

“Make it good for you.”

A dry laugh escaped him. “No. I'm busy. Running a company, remember? I can see you on Thursday. How about lunch?”

“I said I want you to—”

“I heard what you said.” Charles kept his tone even but firm. The fact was, even though Charles II still held the CEO position, it was Charles III who was more hands-on with all aspects, even as number two. “If you're that concerned, call Collins or Bosworth. If you want to discuss anything with me, we'll go over it on Thursday.”

Charles II grunted, but said, “Fine. Noon. Meet me at the steak house; I'll have Patty make a reservation. Don't be late.” He ended the call with a click.

Charles clicked off his phone, turned back to the monitor, and rubbed his temples. His father's arrogant demands and surly tone had brought on the start of a headache. He wanted to get out of there in time for dinner. Soon, he'd call his driver to make sure he'd be ready to go. But when the private line rang again, this time he jabbed at the
CALL
button and bit out, “Charles Harrison.”

“Wow. Whatever it was, I didn't do it.” His sister's voice floated from the speaker.

He snorted out a laugh, instantly relaxing a bit. “No, you didn't. Dad just . . . irked me a little.”

“Ah. Shocking,” Tess said sarcastically.

“Yeah, right. Anyway. How are you, sister dear? What can I do for you?”

“I'm fine, thanks. And what you can do for me is tell me which works best for you: Friday, Saturday, or Sunday. I haven't had any quality sibling time in a while. I miss my guys. So I'm inviting you to my house—you, Dane, and Pierce, sans their women. Just us four.”

“That sounds nice,” Charles admitted. “Um . . . hold on . . .” He pulled up his Outlook and checked, but then remembered Lisette had Sundays off. “Saturday would be better.”

“Then Saturday it shall be,” Tess said. “How about lunch? One o'clock work for you?”

“Kids all have soccer on Saturdays, goes past one o'clock. How about dinner?”

“Okay,” Tess said. “Six o'clock?”

“I'll make it work.” Charles rose from his leather chair to stretch his arms and legs. “What brought this on?”

“It's like I said. We haven't had any quality time in a while, and I thought it'd be nice to get together before the holiday craziness kicks in.”

“Does sound nice,” Charles said. “I'll bring something sweet and decadent.”

“Your brothers will love you for it.”

“I know my audience. Speaking of holiday craziness, how's work going for you? You must be up to your eyeballs in preparations.”

“I am,” Tess said. “But the Holiday Ball is my favorite event of the year. I don't mind the insanity that goes along with it.”

“If you say so.”

Tess ran the Harrison Foundation, the family's nonprofit organization that worked with charities. Since she had taken over, the roster of charities they worked with had doubled, and the annual Holiday Ball the foundation threw had turned from a lovely black-tie affair at the Harrison estate to a tremendous social event at the Waldorf Astoria. One of the year's biggest parties, it always boasted an elite guest list of celebrities, socialites, activists, artists, and business people from all walks of life.

“How many are invited this year?” Charles asked.

“Five hundred and twenty-three.”

“People?”
he shrieked. “Jesus.”

“This will be our biggest ball yet,” she said, unable to keep the pride from her voice. “Make sure your tux is ready.”

“When is it again? I know I have the invite somewhere, but remind me.”

“December eighteenth.”

“Okay. Got it.” He scribbled it on the pad. “Ava is pissed that it's adults only. She's dying to go.”

“I know,” Tess sighed. “When she's thirteen, I might break the rules for her.”

“I'll tell her that. Maybe it'll appease her . . . for at least three minutes.”

Tess laughed softly. “Give all the kids hugs for me. Gotta run. See you on Saturday. Six o'clock, don't forget.”

“I won't. See you then.” Charles removed his glasses, set them on the desktop, and rubbed his eyes. He was tired. A glance at the clock showed it was only three-thirty. He wondered what the kids were doing now . . . and what Lisette was doing now. She'd been avoiding him since Saturday night, when she'd all but run out of the kitchen and up to her room.

He huffed out a breath of frustration. The whole thing was nuts. He was drawn to her; he couldn't deny it. The night before, he'd watched her from the doorway as she sat on Myles's bed and read him a bedtime story. She was so . . . nurturing. It was obvious that she truly loved the kids.

Her inside was as beautiful as her outside, and he just didn't know many people like that anymore. Something deep inside him wanted that warmth and gentleness to be lavished on him too.

He moved to the wide windows and looked out again at the impressive view. The tall buildings of Manhattan lay before him, with Bryant Park visible a few blocks away. The trees were changing, more yellow and rust in the leaves than green now. Fall had always made him a bit melancholy—the disappearing daylight, the longer nights, the knowledge that the long, cold winter was just ahead . . . At times, it made him feel even more lonely.

He leaned against the window ledge and dug his hands into his pockets. He was tired of being lonely. He hadn't even realized how much until that one encounter with Lisette. It made him grasp how much he missed simple human touch, some intimacy, and yes, passionate sex. He was only human, after all.

With a soft grunt, he dropped his forehead against the glass. If people knew that the COO of Harrison Enterprises was dissolving into a lonely sap of a guy, they'd never believe it. He was known for his strength and for staying unruffled. But the past few months, there had been times when he wasn't 100 percent sure who he was anymore.

He gazed down at the street far below. When he had his moves planned for him in his youth, he hadn't minded so much. He'd been proud and honored to take his place in the family legacy. This year, something had shifted. It wasn't the tryst with Lisette; that was a symptom of the problem, as Dane had said. Things had been changing in his head long before that. Maybe it had been watching his father clash with Pierce last year, when Pierce moved back to New York. That had turned ugly, downright vicious, and Charles had been more than disgusted; he'd been horrified. But had stayed silent ever since.

He didn't feel right about that.

Charles had spent his whole life rationalizing his father's sometimes malicious behavior toward the youngest Harrison. When they were younger, Charles had believed Pierce's wild behavior, the way he always snubbed his nose at the family like an ungrateful brat, had warranted such strong words from their father. But after that party last year, there was no rationalizing it, no goddamn justification for the way Charles II had gone after Pierce and Abby. It'd been way over the top. Only now did Charles realize that since that night, he hadn't felt the same about his father, or Pierce . . . or his own place in everything.

He spun away from the window. Who did he want to become? A copy of his father, or his own man? God knew he'd taken the company to new heights in the past decade, and he was proud of his accomplishments. But he was . . . tired. He shouldn't be so tired at forty. His father's words echoed through his mind:
You're never off the clock, Tripp.
Dammit, his life wasn't his own. What good were insane amounts of money and power if you never had time to enjoy the benefits of them? To know his own children, who were growing up before his eyes, and without getting to know and be with him like they should?

The sticky truth welled inside him. He wanted something else out of life . . . something for himself, as selfish as that sounded.

Was it any wonder he'd grabbed at Lisette that night as if she were a damn life raft? He was just lucky his spectacular fall from grace had been with someone as kind as she was. His explosive actions with her that night, wrong though they might have been, had made him feel alive for the first time in forever.

Of course he hadn't been able to get Lisette off his mind since that night, and he felt the chemistry crackle around them whenever she was close. But he had to stop this nonsense and get his head out of the clouds where she was concerned. Stop with this . . . infatuation, or whatever the hell this was.

Then he could focus on the other things. Like finding a way to balance his work with being a better father, and feeling more alive again in some other way. Because with each passing day, the Harrison legacy, the COO title, and everything that went with it were feeling less like a privilege and more like a cage.

* * *

Lisette always brought her e-reader with her wherever she went. That way, she could read one of her many books or play Trivia Crack while she waited in between kid pickups. Between Ava's being in one place and the boys in another, Lisette found it wasn't worth going all the way home to go back out again to get them. She'd sit in the car and make use of her time.

During the day, when the kids were in school, she helped Tina with the kids' laundry and cleaning their rooms. She took a yoga class in town two mornings a week, and an art class once a week. These were the hobbies she allowed herself to indulge in.

Now, Lisette left the minivan and entered the lobby of the gymnastics center just as Ava walked through the other door, her duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

“Perfect timing,” Lisette smiled. “Ready to go?”

After that, it was off to the Sandy Point Pools, where they picked up the boys from their swimming lessons.

“I don't want to do swimming anymore,” Thomas said as soon as they pulled out of the parking lot. “It's boring.”

“It is not!” Myles cried. “I love it!”

“I think it's boring,” Thomas repeated emphatically. “I wanna do hockey.”

“Well,” Lisette said, glancing into the rearview mirror to meet Thomas's eyes for a moment, “you'll have to discuss that with your father.”

“He won't let me,” Thomas grumbled. “He never lets us quit anything once we've started.
You made a commitment; you have to see it through. Harrisons aren't quitters
.” His stuffy impression of Charles was amusing, but Lisette managed to press her lips together hard to hide the smile that threatened.

“Well, we aren't!” Myles said, pride in his little voice. “We're tough! We're strong!”

“You're six,” Thomas sniffed. “Real tough guy, you are.”

“Neither one of you are tough guys,” Lisette said calmly. “And no one wants you to be.”

“Uncle Pierce is tough,” Thomas said. “He has tattoos and everything.”

“Well, Uncle Pierce is cool,” Ava put in. “Daddy isn't. Daddy is . . . a boss. In a good way. Like a leader. Daddy's a leader.”

“He's boring,” Thomas said, “just like swimming.”

Lisette concentrated on the traffic. Since the time change a few weeks before, they always came home from activities in the dark now. By the time she pulled through the gate at the edge of Charles's property, the kids were bickering over who was cooler, Uncle Pierce or Uncle Dane. Pierce seemed to be in the lead by virtue of his former pro-athlete status and tattoos. She drove up the long, winding driveway to the front of the house, tripping the sensor for the bright security light that went on. The kids piled out of the minivan; she wrapped her scarf around her neck to ward off the chilly evening air and wondered if Charles would indeed be home for dinner as he'd said he would.

She opened the front door, the kids all went inside, and before she could even turn around, she heard Myles cry happily, “Daddy! Daddy, you're home!”