'Tis the Season (9 page)

His brow furrowed harder as he tried to recall. “I think you may be right. Probably. Damn. And the year before that? And the year before
that?
” With a shake of his head, now it was he who stared into his cup. “I've missed too many things. It's not fair to them. It isn't right. I'm the only real parent they have. I have to start being around more.”

“Then you will,” she murmured. It wasn't her place to offer opinions. She sipped her tea.

“Don't worry, I still need you,” he kidded. “You're not out of a job, not by a long shot. I just need to start being around a little more, and I'm very aware of that.”

She only nodded. They were his children; she had no say in whatever he did or didn't do in regard to them. If he wanted to spend more time with them, good for the kids. They already didn't have a mother around, and their father was barely home when they were actually awake. All she said was, “I'm sure they'd love that.”

Charles looked down into his cup, then back up at her. “When we were kids, our father was always working. We felt his absence. My mother felt it too, and she . . . started seeking attention elsewhere.”

Lisette had heard plenty of stories about the infamous Laura, of her multiple affairs and the ugly divorce that followed.

Charles stretched his arms over his head and yawned. “My father threw my mother out when I was fourteen. I was away at boarding school, so it didn't affect me as much as it did Pierce. He was only six years old.” Charles took another sip of tea, and Lisette did too. “Pierce quickly turned into a surly, angry, hell-raiser of a kid. He felt ignored, unwanted, which was awful. He and my father have always resented each other. Knocked heads for years, and now they don't speak unless forced to. It's tense and uncomfortable . . . and my God, I don't want that for Thomas and me. I can already see the parallels, and it worries me.”

His marine blue eyes narrowed, making the corners crinkle as he steadily held her gaze. “I know you know what I mean. Hell, you're the one who suggested he might need therapy. He's only
seven
.” Charles shook his head in frustration, huffing out a breath. “He deserves better. All three of them do. So I have to fix it somehow, while I still can. I need to be a better father. I thought I was doing okay, but I've come to realize and admit that's not the case. Thomas wouldn't even hug me willingly on my birthday. That's on me.”

Lisette realized her mouth had dropped open, and she quickly closed her lips tight. He was revealing such private information to her; it was astonishing. They'd always talked, but it was insignificant chatter—typically about the kids, their schoolwork, their activities, maybe even the weather. This was so . . . personal.

“You're shocked that I'm telling you all this,” he said, studying her shrewdly.

She had to laugh. “Did you read my mind or something?”

“Didn't have to. It's all over your face.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “You're not often easy to read, but you sure are right now.”

She was surprised by his words. “You don't think I'm easy to read? Really?”

“Nope. You're very quiet; you keep to yourself. Kind of . . .” He searched for the right word. “Guarded. That's fine; don't get me wrong! But yes, it makes you hard to read sometimes. And I'm pretty good at reading people. In my position, I have to be. So the fact that you aren't . . .” His brows arched as he added, “I have to admit, it's intriguing. I find you interesting.”

She stilled at his assessment. It unnerved her. Maybe because it implied he'd paid more attention to her than she'd ever thought he would.

“So, shifting the topic a bit, what was your childhood like?” he asked in a lighter tone. “Hopefully better than mine.”

She peered at him cautiously. “I thought when you hired me, you did a full background check on me. You know my history already, don't you?”

“Sure, I know the basics,” he said. “But I want to hear a little more, right from you. Something a bit more personal.”

She blinked, and a wave of alarm washed over her. She schooled her features into neutrality and managed, “Why?”

Charles crossed his forearms on the table and leaned in a bit. His posture was casual, but the look in his eyes wasn't. “Because I'm curious. I mean, I've known you for a while now. You've lived in my home for almost two years; you're with my kids day in and day out . . . but really, I don't know you at all.” His eyes were piercing, commanding, and she felt held in place by his gaze.

Her heart pounded erratically in her chest, but she looked right back at him as she said, “Why the sudden deeper interest? Just because we slept together?”

He stared at her for a long, heavy beat. It made a rush of heat whoosh through her. Then the side of his mouth quirked up. “I suppose so. Yes. Is that wrong?”

“N-no,” she stammered. “It's not wrong, but it's just . . . strange, I guess.”

“Everything about this situation is a little strange,” he murmured. “But I do like you. So I want to know more about you. That's all.”

Her heart beat even faster, and her chest felt tight. “We have defined roles, Charles. As it is, some people look at me funny because I call you by your first name instead of ‘Mr. Harrison.'”

He blew out a dismissive breath and smirked. “Let them. Who cares? You live in my home. We're both adults. There's no reason you shouldn't use my first name.”

Even something as simple as that, he didn't grasp how it crossed what most people considered to be unspoken boundaries. She wasn't sure if it was just his way because he was nice, or if it was his way because a man as powerful as him rarely had to adhere to boundaries, so he didn't care about them.

“We've always gotten along fine,” he pressed on. “From the beginning.”

“Yes, we have,” she agreed. “We get along quite well. But . . . in our defined roles, Charles.” Her gaze held his. “We aren't friends or even peers. I work for you.”

“I know. But—”

“But nothing. That's all there is to it.” Lisette swallowed hard. “I love my job, and you've always been more than generous. I don't want anything to jeopardize that.”

“I don't either, Lisette. And I thought I'd made it clear your position here isn't in jeopardy.” His voice was a little rough. “But if I've made you uncomfortable—”

“Well, yeah, it's awkward now; of course it is. I mean, we . . .” Blood rushed to her face, and she had to look away.

“That's why I'm trying to make simple conversation,” he said softly. “We need to find a way to be able to talk to each other again without this . . . tension. The awkwardness. It's been hanging over us since that night, and it's painful. I don't want that to continue, and I'm sure you don't either. We've always gotten along well. I want to get back to that somehow, if we can. I'm trying here.”

She hadn't been prepared for such direct words. But Charles wasn't only the COO of Harrison Enterprises because of his name; he was a born leader. He was brilliant and sharp, bold and upfront. She knew this, and she admired those qualities. They had just never been focused like a laser on
her
before, not since her first of three interviews for the job. It was unnerving, especially because at the moment, he was right.

“Let's talk about something else. Tell me about your family,” he coaxed in a gentle voice. “You never talk about them.”

“Because I don't have one,” she said simply. She rubbed the handle of her mug with her thumb, up and down, up and down. “There's nothing to talk about.”

His brow furrowed. “I know you have no siblings, and your mother passed away when you were a teenager, right?”

Lisette nodded. “She had breast cancer. I was sixteen.”

“I'm so sorry.” He paused. “But still you have your father, don't you?”

“Not exactly.”

“I'm sorry, but what does that mean?”

She sighed, knowing the whole story would likely make him feel sorry for her, and she didn't want that. But she'd given that ambiguous answer; it was her own fault if she'd made him curious. So she lifted her chin and launched into it, wanting to get it over with. “Okay. My father joined the army when he was twenty. He met my mother while he was stationed overseas; she grew up in France. She was half French, half Portuguese, which is why I speak both of those languages fluently. Because she did. They came back to America while my mother was pregnant with me so I'd be born an American citizen. It was important to my dad.”

Charles nodded and sat back, his riveted expression urging her to continue.

“I was an army brat. We moved a couple of times. I was born in upstate New York, near Rochester. Then we moved to”—she ticked off the states on her fingers—“Texas, Hawaii, South Carolina, Maryland, Virginia, then back to New York when I was fifteen. Because my mom was sick. I had an aunt in New York, my father's younger sister, and she helped . . .” Lisette spoke quickly and quietly, mentally editing as she went. “My mother died two weeks after I turned sixteen.”

“I'm so sorry,” Charles said, his voice warm and gentle. “I can't imagine . . . That must have been horrible for you.”

“Yes, it was.” Lisette stole a swallow of tea to wet her suddenly dry mouth. “Anyway, because we moved so often, and my mother was also an only child, we didn't really have roots or a big family. My mother's parents lived in France, I rarely saw them, and they're both gone now. My father's parents lived upstate, but died when I was little; I don't really remember them. My one aunt moved to Vegas after my mother died. So really, it was just the three of us. And then, just the two of us.” Memories battered her, and she licked her dry lips. “My mom and I were very close. It was devastating. I . . . I still miss her all the time.”

“I'm sure you do.” Charles regarded her with sympathy. She knew that look. She hated that look. But at least from him, it didn't seem pandering or disingenuous. His compassion was sincere. Then he said, “Well, now I know what made you so resourceful and resilient. Army training. You needed it to handle
my
kids.”

She couldn't help but smile, and a giggle slipped out. “Yeah, well . . . my dad got a leave from the army when she died because I was a minor. He had to take care of me. But when I turned eighteen, he went back to serve, and I went away to college.”

“Where you studied languages,” Charles said. “What was the plan? What did you want to become? A translator, I think you said?”

She drew a long, deep breath as her mind flashed through more memories, good and bad. “Yes, I planned to be a translator,” she finally said. “Possibly for the United Nations, or a foreign embassy, or something like that. I was used to traveling, and I thought it'd be interesting.”

“It likely would have been.” Charles leaned in, still studying her. “So what changed your plans?”

She felt the telltale flush travel up her chest, then up her neck, before creeping into her cheeks. “Do you really need to know?”

“
Need
to know?” His brow furrowed, and his gaze held. “No. I'm not trying to pry or anything. I'm just trying to get to know you better.”

“I think you already know me better than I'd ever planned,” she muttered.

Surprised, he snorted out a laugh. “You have a point. For the record, I hadn't planned that. Like,
at all
.”

“I know.” She couldn't look at him. She fidgeted with the string of her tea bag.

“But since we're exchanging such personal details, I'll tell you the truth about something . . .” His voice trailed off. It was a long enough pause to make her look up. He was staring intently at his hands as they cupped his mug, a strange expression on his face. “It wasn't planned, and I know it was a huge mistake . . . but I can't stop thinking about it. About that night. About you.”

Chapter Eight

Jesus, what the hell had possessed him to tell her
that
? Was he insane? Charles plowed a hand through his hair and made himself look into Lisette's eyes.

Judging from the look on her face, she was as surprised as he was.

Might as well go the distance. “And now I'm more curious about you; I admit it. I just want to know you a little better,” he said. “That's why I'm asking questions. I didn't mean for all this to feel like an interrogation. I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable. Again.”

“I think I passed ‘uncomfortable' the morning after we slept together,” she quipped. “Curved around stunned, then went straight into flabbergasted.”

He smiled. She had a dry sense of humor that she often kept under wraps. He liked when it burst through.

They stared at each other, the air heavy with awkward tension. Then he realized
no
. . . It was also sexual tension. He could feel it coming off her in waves. “You're thinking about it now,” he said in a low voice. “Aren't you?”

She shivered, and her face flushed anew. “Well, yeah, since you brought it up . . . How can I not?” She gulped down a swallow of tea, too much too fast—her eyes watered as she gasped and choked.

“Went down the wrong pipe?” he asked.

She could only nod as she kept wheezing and coughing. He got up and went around the table, grasped her arms by her wrists, and held them straight up over her head. “Deep breaths,” he told her. “Just try to take deep breaths through your nose.”

She did as he commanded, and after a few seconds, the coughing lessened. Still sputtering, she pulled her arms from his grip and wrapped them around her middle until she was breathing normally again. “Well, that was charming, huh?” she said, her voice raspy and rough.

He brushed a tendril of dark hair back from her eyes and murmured, “Happens to all of us.” Damn, she was so pretty, even all flushed and with watery eyes. He sat down again, next to her this time, noting how she watched his every move. “You still need to explain how you ‘don't exactly' have a father, please.”

“What? Seriously?” Her eyes rounded.

“If you're willing to explain,” he said, gentling his voice to a velvety tone, “I'd really like to know.”

“He has early stages of dementia,” she bit out. “And PTSD. He's a mess. He did a few more tours after Mom died. Iraq, Afghanistan. Suicide missions, if you ask me. God knows what he saw, what happened to him there. Long story short, he lives in a VA facility now. Sometimes he has violent outbursts. Things trigger him without warning. Most times he knows who I am, but sometimes he doesn't. A couple of times, he thought I was my mother. We look very much alike.”

Lisette's voice was steely, but her dark eyes betrayed her; the pain and sadness there were unmistakable. It made Charles want to hold her hand as she kept talking, but he didn't dare. “Two years ago, on a visit when he was lucid, he demanded that I stay away. To go have my own life. That he didn't want to be a danger to me, or a burden, or for me to watch him deteriorate. He's . . . a very proud man. Stubborn as hell. But I have respected his wishes.” She twisted the edge of her sweater between her fingertips, staring down at them. “You gave me a place to live, and you pay me well, and I'm very grateful for that. I send some of it to the VA for extra care. Extra therapy, or new clothes, whatever he needs. I call once a week to check on him and get updates, but there's not much to tell. He's . . . not really there. Not the dad I knew. Not anymore.”

Charles felt a twisting pang that was more than just sympathy. So strong and heartrending, it was something like anguish. She reached for her cup and took a few swallows of tea. “So . . .” he said softly, “you really have no family at all?”

“No. Okay?”

He sat back in his chair, scanning her face. For a young woman—he knew she was thirty-four—she'd suffered so much loss. She'd told him she couldn't get pregnant, so she wouldn't have children of her own. But if she had no parents, no siblings, no extended family . . . The loneliness of the life she revealed pierced his heart. Even when being a Harrison was hard, and he felt no one in the world would understand, he had his three siblings, he had his kids, and he even had his father if he really needed him. Lisette was alone in the truest sense of the word. It was gut-wrenching to contemplate.

And he'd never known. All he'd known was she was always available, which had made her an even better nanny for the kids. She barely asked for days off, much less holidays. Now that he thought back, she'd been there for every holiday, even Christmas, but he'd never . . . shit, he'd never cared enough to ask why or find out; that was the truth of it. He'd been appreciative that she was always there, and had taken it for granted. Now his heart squeezed as he looked at her, actually ached for her. She was so kind, so nurturing . . . God, why hadn't he known any of this before? “Lisette, I—”

“I need to go to bed.” She shot to her feet, clearly indicating the conversation was over. “You wanted to know more about me; now you do. Okay? Good night, Charles.”

“Lisette, wait. I didn't mean to upset you.” He rose along with her.

“I don't need you feeling sorry for me,” she asserted. “I'm fine on my own.”

Whoa. He'd never heard her voice get tough like that. Or seen that glint in her eyes. This sweet woman had a hidden spine of steel, and it intrigued him. “I'm trying not to feel sorry for you, but to be honest, it's hard not to. I mean, when I think about what you—”

“Then don't think about it. It's why I don't talk about it. There's nothing to say. Now that I'm grown and situated and can take care of myself, I'm fine.” She tried to move around him, but he blocked her. He felt even worse now, for bringing up painful memories and for upsetting her. He couldn't let her leave on this note.

But momentum made her slam into him, gasping as her breasts rammed hard against his chest, and on pure instinct his hands flew to her waist to steady her.

Their faces only inches apart, he stared down at her. He watched her eyes widen, her pupils dilate, the spots of color that bloomed on her cheeks. He affected her, that was clear, and seeing that made his blood start to heat. She felt good under his hands, and she was so gorgeous. And the way she looked back at him . . . They had chemistry, all right, and it was crackling in the air right then, like electric shocks around them.

With both hands she pushed back on his chest, putting space between them. But her eyes stayed locked with his. “What—what's going on here?” she asked breathlessly.

“I don't know,” he answered. His heart pumped in thick, hard beats. “But there's definitely something going on. It's called chemistry, plain and simple. We have it. Can't deny it anymore, can we?”

“We have to,” she whispered.

In his head, he knew that. But he couldn't take his eyes off her, and he was dying to put his hands and mouth on her again.

For Christ's sake, he had to remember who he was, and who she was to him. She was right: he was her boss; she was his employee. One time was a fluke, but if something happened a second time, it would be deliberate. As much as he found himself drawn to her, he couldn't do this; she might construe it as sexual harassment and leave, or worse . . .

“You're right.” He cleared his throat and straightened, assuming the same broad, proper stance he would in a boardroom meeting. He locked his arms across his chest. “I apologize, Lisette. I overstepped, yet again. Chemistry or not, it's completely unacceptable. I don't want you to be uncomfortable, and I want you to stay on here. So from now on, I'll keep my distance.” With a curt nod, he added, “Good night,” and strode out of the kitchen without a look back. He went straight up the grand spiral staircase to his bedroom and locked the door behind him. But his heart thumped against his ribs, his blood raced through his veins, and his erection still throbbed in his now-too-tight jeans.

This was crazy. Why did he suddenly want her so much? Why did she have to be so tempting and vulnerable and beautiful and likable and fucking off-limits?

Swearing under his breath, he blindly grabbed the nearest thing and hurled it across the bedroom with all his might. The sound of it shattering gave him only a split second of satisfaction. Breathing hard, he raked his hands through his hair and over his face. He had to stop thinking about her, stop wanting her, just swallow it and shut it all down. His sense of reason seemed to evaporate whenever he was close to her. He'd just have to stop entertaining fantasies about her, stay away from temptation, not be alone with her . . . and pretend he wasn't affected by her that way. Business as usual. For everyone's sake, it was the right thing to do.

Leaning back against the wall, he closed his eyes and took deep breaths. Forcing his feelings down, swallowing them back, was something he'd done millions of times in his controlled life. He'd had to, from an early age. As a preschooler, he'd grasped that Daddy didn't like it when he acted out or lost his temper; he had the Harrison name to represent. He had to be the picture of refinement, strength, and control. After four decades, Charles was a goddamn pro at swallowing back his emotions and desires.

He stayed very still for a minute, waiting until he was calmer. Then, with a heavy sigh, he crossed the room to see what he'd shattered in his fit of pique. He didn't even know what he'd grabbed off the low shelf. Pieces of broken glass and an upside down picture frame lay scattered on the carpet beside his bed. He couldn't help but snort out a laugh—it'd been the framed photo of his father and him, on Charles's first official day at work at Harrison Enterprises.

* * *

Instead of catching up on e-mails and work on Saturday morning, as he usually did, Charles decided to go to Edgewater Park to watch all three kids' soccer games, one after the other, giving Lisette most of the day to herself. As soon as she got Charles and the kids and all their stuff into his Escalade, she called Tina and asked if she wanted to do something together. Being a good friend, knowing how rare a free Saturday afternoon was for Lisette, Tina jumped at it. “Yes! Cleaning my own house can wait. A girls' day out, woo hoo! I'll come pick you up.”

They did some shopping at the outlets, then went to lunch at a small bistro and caught a movie, a rom-com they'd both been dying to see. By the time Tina pulled back through the gates and up the long driveway to Charles's estate to drop Lisette off, the sky was beginning to darken.

Lisette entered the house wondering what she'd find. Chaos? Mayhem? Had Charles survived a whole day, three soccer games, and two meals with his kids? As she dropped her keys into their crystal bowl, she realized she heard some sound, like a TV show or a movie, but no wild kids. Huh.

Realizing the sound was coming from the den, she walked to it and stopped in the doorway. Charles sat in the middle of the U-shaped couch, handsome in jeans and a white turtleneck sweater, his socked feet up on the coffee table. Ava was curled into one of his sides, Myles into the other, and Thomas sat beside Myles. Each of them had a bag of microwaved popcorn in his or her lap as they watched a movie.

It was such a picturesque domestic scene, it made her heart give a tiny ping. “Well, this is lovely,” she said, making all four heads turn her way.

“Hi.” Charles smiled brightly at her. “How was your day?”

“It was great,” she said.

“Good, I'm glad.” He gestured with a flick of his chin in the direction of the kitchen. “Eileen made pizza tonight. There's plenty left if you haven't eaten.”

“If Eileen made it, I'm likely to steal a slice or two,” Lisette grinned. She looked at the kids, then back to him. “Did they take baths yet?”

“When we got home from soccer,” he said.

“We won our game,” Thomas told her proudly.

“So did my team,” Ava piped in.

Myles frowned and pouted.

“Aww, Myles,” Lisette said. “Your team didn't win today, I guess?”

“No,” he said. “But there's always next week. Right, Daddy?”

“That's right,” Charles said.

“Only two weeks left in the season,” Lisette said. “We'll discuss if you plan to take them to those games too?”

“Absolutely,” Charles said. “I'll be here next weekend, but I have a trip coming up midmonth. West Coast offices. So yes, we'll work that out.”

“Okay.” Lisette watched the four of them for a minute. They looked very much a content family, which both warmed her heart and released a whisper of melancholy at the same time. Suddenly, she felt like an intruder on the scene. “I'll go get that pizza now,” she said. “Enjoy the rest of the movie.”

“Why don't you bring it back in here?” Charles asked. “You don't have to sit in the kitchen by yourself.”

She forced a smile. “Thanks, but you should have your time together.” Before he could say anything more, she walked away.

In the kitchen, she found Eileen cleaning up. “Ah, hello there. Just finished the dishes,” she said. “I'm leaving in a few minutes. You need anything, sweetie?”

“No, you go,” Lisette insisted. “I'm just going to help myself to dinner. Heard you made some pizza.”

“I sure did.” A broad grin spread on the older woman's face. “One plain, one with mushrooms, onions, and pepperoni. Just finished wrapping them up; they haven't been in the fridge for more than a few minutes. Might still be a bit warm.”

“Thanks. Now go home, lady.” She and Eileen exchanged good-byes, and Lisette went to the wide steel refrigerator. Finding the wrapped slices, she took out two and put one in the toaster to warm up.