'Tis the Season (4 page)

He stormed to the standing bar and poured himself a new glass of scotch.

Chapter Four

Someone was knocking.

Lisette forced herself to consciousness, opening her eyes a crack as the knocking repeated. Someone was knocking on her door. She was in her bed. The sunshine that poured through her windows was bright, so it was morning. What day was it? Had she overslept?

“Set?” It was Myles's sweet helium voice. “Set, can I come in? You awake?”

She glanced at the clock. It was almost seven-thirty. Her mind was blurry. She hadn't overslept; it was okay; it was Sunday. And . . .
oh, God
.

Her heart skipped a beat before taking off with an anxious hammering as a chill skittered over her skin. Charles. Oh, God, oh no, oh noooo. They'd had wild, crazy, clawing animal sex on the couch in his study.

The anxiety forced nausea up into her throat, and she swallowed hard. Her life as she knew it was probably over.

“Lisette?” Myles knocked again. “Aren't we going to get pumpkins today?”

Shit.
Her mind and heart racing, she threw back the covers and jumped out of bed, looking around nervously. She still wore her nightgown, the soft one with the red and hot-pink swirls, the one Charles had pushed up to under her armpits last night as he screwed her senseless. She wore no panties . . . He'd all but torn them off in the heat of the moment, in a lust-driven frenzy. Good God, where were they now?!?

“Lisette? Are you sleeping?”

She went to the door and flung it open, but forced her voice to stay calm as she looked down at Myles. “Hi, sweetie. Yes, I was still sleeping. Um . . . are you the only one awake?”

“Uh-huh.” He smiled and nodded, his dark hair mussed, looking adorable in his light blue Olaf pajamas. “Ava and Thomas are still sleeping, and so's Daddy. But he's sleeping on the couch in his office. In his clothes. Isn't that funny?”

Lisette swallowed hard. “Yeah, it is kind of funny. He must've been really tired.” Yeah, he'd likely been tired, all right. “Just let your daddy sleep, okay, sweetie?” she said, forcing lightness into her voice.

“Okay.” Myles looked at her hair and giggled. “Your hair looks crazy!”

Her hand flew to her head, feeling the tangled mess; she could barely get her fingers through some of the knots. God, what she must look like. She probably looked like Medusa . . . or someone who'd gotten her brains screwed out by her hot boss on a couch in the middle of the night. She swallowed convulsively.

“I'm hungry,” Myles said. “Can I have some breakfast?”

“S-sure.” Poor baby was hungry. And why not start the day? It wasn't as if she was going to be able to fall back to sleep. Eileen would get there at eight, but she couldn't let Myles starve. “Just let me put my hair up, get my robe on, and I'll meet you in the kitchen in five minutes. Okay?”

“Okay! I'm gonna get some of my cars!” Happy and blissfully clueless, the little boy shot down the hall to his room.

Lisette closed the door and leaned back against it. Anxiety welled, closing her throat and knotting her stomach. She started to tremble as she slid down the door, sinking to her knees. Her heart jackhammered wildly as she closed her eyes and tried to breathe. She had to own this. Because goddammit, she'd been just as responsible for what had happened as he was. She'd been a willing participant as they'd gone into forbidden territory together. But of the two of them, she was the one whose whole life was likely going to fall apart.

Would he be overly kind as he fired her, or cold and aloof? She didn't know which would be worse. Looking around her room, the place that she adored, sick misery filled her. This had become home to her. She loved her job, the kids, living here. And she'd blown everything sky-high for one insanely passionate encounter. Her eyes slipped closed as shame and regret flooded her.

Yes, she'd had something of a crush on Charles Harrison III from the day she started working for him. And yes, over time, that harmless crush had developed into some real feelings. But never in a million years had she dreamed something like
this
would happen. And deep down, she knew the dark truth of it: if she had it to do over again, she still wouldn't be able to resist him. The chemistry between them . . . it had ignited in seconds, like a brushfire in the desert. She was surprised that once they got started, they hadn't burned the house down with that scorching fire.

Her days as a nanny here were over; she was convinced of that. Now she just had to wait until he woke up and actually pulled the trigger. Shaking, she wrapped her arms around herself. Whatever happened, she was sure it was going to be hell on earth, but she'd deal with it. God knew she'd had enough practice with that.

* * *

Charles groaned, wishing he would just die already. Lying on the tiled floor of one of the three bathrooms on the first floor, the one closest to his study, he cursed himself for the hundredth time for being a moron. How much scotch had he drunk after Lisette left the study? He had no idea, but he sure was paying the price now. Another wave of nausea rose up, and he stuck his head back in the toilet. When he was done retching, he flushed and flopped back down to lie on the floor. At least the black-and-white tiles were cool against his face.

He could see the headlines now:
USUALLY DIGNIFIED COO OF HARRISON ENTERPRISES FOUND DEAD FROM HANGOVER ON BATHROOM FLOOR
. Yeah, that'd be perfect. Just great. But at least he'd be dead, instead of puking his guts up with his head pounding and a clammy, sick feel to his skin.

There was a soft knock on the door, then Eileen O'Rourke's light Irish brogue. “Mr. Harrison? Can I come in? I want to check on you again.”

“I'm alive,” he called out feebly.

“Well, that's good,” she said through the door. “I have some saltines and ginger ale for you. And some Gatorade. Whichever will stay down. Got to keep you hydrated, sir. Please, let me come in.”

Charles closed his eyes and groaned. Eileen, the weekend housekeeper, had five children of her own, all grown now. Surely she'd seen worse than him in his present state. And he was getting light-headed; crackers and a drink could be good. “Come in.”

He heard the door open, then close, and footsteps across the floor. “Oh, you poor dear.” He opened his eyes to see Eileen set the tray on the sink as she looked him over and softly tsk-tsked.

“How long have I been in here?” he asked.

“About two hours now. Figure the worst must be behind you.” She held out the glass of ginger ale. “Here.”

He leaned up onto his elbows. “Jesus. I'm a little dizzy . . .”

“Then it's a good thing I'm here.” She crouched down beside him and held the glass to his lips. “Drink this slowly,” she instructed. He did as he was told. “There you go. Hopefully it'll stay down.” She straightened again, and he watched her put down the glass and lift a washcloth from the tray. “You're a mess, mister.”

“Can't deny that.”

She ran the cloth under the faucet, wrung it out a bit, then came back to sit beside him. “Come here.” With gentle care, she moved the cool, wet terry cloth over his forehead, then the rest of his face.

“God, that feels good,” he murmured, his eyes slipping closed. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” She pressed it to the back of his neck.

“I don't think anyone's done this for me since I was a kid.”

“I'd bet you didn't need anyone to do this for you.”

“Probably.” His eyes opened and focused. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Half-past two.”

“Jesus. I've lost the day.”

“Still have some of it left, and the evening. The sky won't fall without you.” She smiled kindly. “Let's try a cracker now, shall we? And if you keep that down, we'll get you some ibuprofen for what I'm sure is a nasty headache.”

Fifteen minutes later, Charles was sitting up against the wall, feeling more human. He'd kept down four crackers, a few sips of ginger ale, and some Gatorade. “I owe you for this, Eileen. Really, I'm very grateful.”

“Nonsense,” she said dismissively. “Though I don't mind telling you, you had me worried. I've never seen you like this.”

“What, hungover? To the point of pathetic and massive vomiting? Because I don't think I have been since Vanessa left.” He scrubbed his hands over his face, feeling the stubble across his jaw and chin, then froze. “Oh, God. The kids. Do they know?”

“Lisette told them you were very tired and weren't feeling well,” Eileen said. “So that they'd leave you be. They just think you're a little sick. But they're fine. They're in the playroom, playing video games.”

“Oh, good. Thank you.”
Lisette.
His heart skipped a beat, then started pounding.
Holy fucking shit. Lisette.
Flashes went through his mind . . . her beneath him, him kissing her, running his hands all over her body . . . the feel of her lips against his neck, of her breath hot against his skin . . . of him thrusting deep inside her as her legs clamped around him. Her sexy moans rang in his ears. His eyes slipped closed as a deep chill ran through him.

But years of practice tamping down his emotions helped him swallow back the new surge of nausea and keep his voice neutral. He opened his eyes and cleared his throat. “Is Lisette with the kids, then?”

“No, sir. It's Sunday; you know it's her day off. She started breakfast for the children, but when I got here at eight, she went about her day. She was out the door by eight-thirty.”

His eyes squeezed shut again. They were all supposed to go pumpkin picking together, but he didn't blame her for wanting to vanish. Who knew what she was thinking? He'd have to wait to find out. Lisette didn't usually come back to the house until late on Sunday nights, leaving him—or Eileen, if he was away on a business trip—to put the kids to bed. Which meant at least he had time to think and figure out what the hell to do next.

More flashes of his time with Lisette went through his mind . . . Her beneath him in the dark, soft and warm and smooth, her arms and legs wrapped around him . . . Her voice echoed in his head, raspy with desire:
“Take me.”

Something low in his groin heated at the memory. How the fuck had any of that happened?

He snorted at himself in derision. Getting slightly drunk and feeling lonely and sorry for himself, that's how. They'd toppled onto the couch . . . and the feel of her, the scent of her, the taste of her, had ripped all logic out of his head and replaced it with pure animal lust.

“Oh, my God,” he moaned, raking his hands over his face. “What have I
done?
”

“You'll be all right, Mr. Harrison,” Eileen assured him, patting his knee.

His head pounded along with his heart. He hoped so. Because this could be a mess of epic proportions. He'd slept with his children's nanny. How cliché could he get? What if she . . . Oh, God, would she quit? He'd never forgive himself if his kids lost her because of his recklessness.

“Eileen,” he asked carefully, opening his eyes to look at the older woman, “how did Lisette seem this morning?”

Eileen's brows were as white as her hair, and they creased as she said, “Funny you ask that. She seemed off. Not at all right, actually. She seemed . . . anxious, maybe? I asked her if she was okay, but she insisted she was fine and went up to her room.” She peered at her employer. “I hope she's not getting sick. Why do you ask?”

His eyes shut again, and he softly banged his throbbing skull back against the tile wall. Lisette was likely upset and probably even scared. He didn't know much about her personal life; she kept it to herself, and he'd always respected her privacy. In fact, she was very private. He didn't know much about her beyond what had been in her file when he hired her, and what he saw of her in his home. What he did know was that she was totally dedicated to her job, to his kids. That she was smart, refined, and disciplined, but warm and incredibly sweet . . .

He had to talk to her. He had to do something. He wasn't sure what, but he'd figure it out. Holy hell, what a fiasco. God only knew what was going through
her
mind. If she was even half as thrown as he was by this bizarre turn of events . . . Dammit, he had to fix this.

“Help me up, please,” he said to Eileen, grabbing a few crackers. “I have to get in a shower. I have to get myself together. Enough of this.”

“That's the Charles Harrison I know,” she said, reaching out to help him stand.

* * *

Lisette stayed away all day, as she usually did on her day off. She'd gone to the little coffee shop down by the water that she liked and had a bowl of seafood bisque, then took a long walk along the Sound. It was a gorgeous fall day, with a hint of crisp coolness in the air. She sat on a bench by the water and sketched in her spiral pad for a while. The feel of the pencil scratching against the heavy paper helped a little, but not enough. Her brain was a tangled mess, her chest felt tight, and her body prickled on and off with anxiety all day. Her mind kept spinning in chaotic circles as she overthought and analyzed every bit of the night before.

Finally, she'd gone to the movies, and that had helped, a brief escape. It was already dark by the time she got out of the theater, and cooler outside too. So she went to the bookstore, always a safe haven. Finding a novel she'd heard about, she settled into a cozy chair and started to read, lingering for two hours before her stomach rumbled. She got a muffin and some tea at the bookstore café, but was unable to swallow all of it down. She knew she was doing anything to avoid going back to the house. Really, all she wanted to do was crawl into her bed and pull the covers over her head.