What a Woman Gets (10 page)

She didn't know how to cook or clean. Seriously? How hard was it to figure out? He and his brothers had been young but they'd gotten it real quick that a rag and some furniture polish equaled hours of drudgery. But that same rag and polish also equaled a happy grandmother who made amazing chocolate chip cookies and smothered them with hugs for all their efforts. They'd hated cleaning, but had understood the mess they made was their responsibility. That they were all in it together and Gran couldn't do everything. So they let her do what they couldn't—cook amazing things—and they picked up the slack in other areas.

Cassidy Davenport had probably never had to pick up slack in anything.

Liam backed out of his driveway, praying he wasn't making a mistake by having her here, but what else could he do? She had nowhere to go.

God, wasn't that ironic? The woman who'd had more money than he'd ever hope to see in his lifetime was homeless. And dropped by all her rich, so-called friends. Hell, with friends like that, who needed enemies? And the whole situation with her father . . . Didn't people realize how special the relationship was between parents and children? How, once that other person was gone, there was no going back? He missed his parents every day of his life and he wouldn't care whatever the fight was between them, he'd fix it in a heartbeat. But Cassidy and her father couldn't. Or didn't want to.

Sad. Just sad.

He turned right toward the penthouse. No. He was not going to feel sorry for her. It wasn't his problem that she was a spoiled brat who'd taken everything for granted. Why wouldn't she have any money of her own? Why not sock some of Daddy Dear's allowance away into an account he'd know nothing about for just such a day?

Because she'd probably been off partying in LA or Cannes or any one of those zillion jet-set places her friends were now staying at without her, not thinking that the money train would ever end.

Just like Rachel. Spoiled, selfish users.

Yet he'd just put her up in his home.

To
clean
.

Liam couldn't stop the chuckle as he pulled into the underground garage at her father's building—the one used for the “common folk.” The one without the painted concrete and pretty landscaping.

Cassidy Davenport was at his home, right this minute,
cleaning
. He probably should have mentioned the box of rubber gloves on the top shelf. Wouldn't want her to ruin her manicure.

He nodded to Marco in the lobby as the guy was going on break from his elevator-operating job. Wonder how much he got paid to do that? Must be a nice sum if that was his main source of income.

Liam shook his head. He'd never understand the super rich. But then, since he'd never
be
super
rich, he didn't have to. He was perfectly happy with the home he'd renovated, the ones he flipped, and his one indulgence—the vacation home on Kiawah Island in South Carolina. Not that he got there a lot, but it was there for him if he ever wanted to.

Maybe he ought to let Cassidy stay
there
instead. That way, he wouldn't have to worry about walking in and finding her in his bed.

There was a thought. What
would
it be like to have her waiting for him at the end of a long day?

He let himself indulge for a second. Okay, maybe thirty of them.

It was a nice dream. A good fantasy. But this was Cassidy Davenport he was lusting over, the exact sort of woman he'd vowed to stay away from. The exact
wrong
sort of woman for him. Because she might say she's not going to do what her father wants, but once reality set in, she'd go back. Her kind always did.

The penthouse was eerily quiet when he entered. No yipping dog—Christ. He hoped that thing didn't scratch his leather furniture.

Liam walked through the living room, everything picture-perfect. No one would ever know it'd been the scene of someone's life-changing moment. Of a fight so big between father and daughter that she'd been cut off. No phone, no credit cards, and no Mercedes.

Okay, he wasn't feeling all that sorry about the last part for her, but still . . . It sucked having everything yanked out from under you at once, as he and his siblings knew firsthand.

He headed toward the dining room, a massive spread of glass and pastel upholstery with a birchwood credenza along the one solid wall in the room.

He opened the bottom drawer and saw the paints, along with an assortment of power tools that was surprising, to say the least. As was the fact that nothing was stored with any sort of organization or care. Just like her kitchen cabinets, everything had been tossed into the drawer as if she'd been in a hurry.

He looked down the hallway toward her bedroom. Were her dresser drawers just as messy?

No, he was not going to snoop. The peach nightie and spiked heels had been enough; he didn't need to imagine her in anything more. Or less. Or nothing—

Hell.

He turned back to the living room and took a few steps when he thought of something. The picture and bracelet.

They had to have meant something to her for her to keep them all these years, though he didn't know why she hadn't taken them with her. Maybe she'd been too upset to remember. Maybe she'd even blocked them out—another parent abandoning her had to be tough. At least he and his siblings had known the reason they didn't have their parents was because of the accident, not because they hadn't wanted them.

Liam knelt down beside Cassidy's former bed and felt around under it until he found the items. Cassidy and her mother looked happy there on the beach. She had her mother's smile. The same shaped face and the same nose. The eyes were different though, her mother's much smaller and closer together than Cassidy's wide green ones with lashes so thick people would probably think they were fake.

He shoved the picture into his back pocket and tucked the bracelet in the front one. Enough about Cassidy's looks and her thongs and anything else he had no business noticing. He was here to do a job and get out. One month and then he'd never have to see Cassidy Davenport agai—

Except she was living with him. Hell. What had he gotten himself into?

S
HE
was in his bed.

Liam looked heavenward.
Really?

He stood in the doorway to his bedroom after a long, fairly shitty day of cleaning, and ran his hand over his mouth. She was willing to pay with her body to get out of cleaning? Did she really think he'd fall for that? Memories of Rachel sashayed through his brain.

The princess must have decided that this would be easier than an honest day's work cleaning his place. Too bad she didn't know him.

She's offering to know you
very
well.

Not going to happen. He wasn't the same idiot he'd been with Rachel.

He walked toward the bed. “Who's been sleeping in my bed?” he asked loudly.

Cassidy sat up as if he'd electrified the sheets, her hair flying around her head in a mess of waves.

A sexy mess of waves.

Dammit.

“Huh?” She blinked those green eyes at him.

Double dammit. That act wasn't put-on; she was too groggy to be trying to entice him.

“I said, who's been sleeping in my bed?”

“Me?” Her eyes widened. “Oh my gosh. I'm sorry.” She scrambled off the bed. “I don't know what I was thinking. Well, yes, obviously I thought I could just take a quick nap, but since you're here—”

She flipped her hair over her head with her forearm and it settled behind her like a fluffy cloud he wanted to tangle his fingers in—

Dammit.
Triple
dammit.

He took a step back from the bed. And another just to be safe. He was trying to do a good deed and help the woman out, and her sex appeal was following him around like a rain cloud. “So did anything get cleaned today?”

“I did the kitchen, the living room, your bathroom, and I was cleaning in here when—”

“When you decided to play Goldilocks?”

“I did not. I'd just thought I'd”—she yawned—“take a five-minute or so catnap.”

He looked at the mess her hair had become and the sleepy puffiness to her eyes. “I'll go with the ‘or so' option.”

She winced then scratched her head. “I'm sorry. I really didn't intend for you to find me on your bed.”

Everyone knew the road to Hell was paved with good intentions, and she was practically dragging him down this one.

“Oh, Liam, I was hoping I could ask you a favor.”

Of course she was. Just like Rachel. If he ever stopped thinking with his dick, he'd remember that he couldn't trust women like Rachel and Cassidy. Didn't seem to stop his stupid libido from wanting them, though. Damn libido.

“I'll pay you back. I promise.”

“Look, sugarbritches, not everything in
my
world is about money.”

She winced and he, idiot that he was, felt bad about causing it. It'd make things easier if she made him angry, but no. With her, he got the guilts.

“I . . . I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. I just wanted you to know that I'm not expecting you to do things for me simply because you're nice enough to do them. I will pay you back. I promise. It's just that, today was . . . um, well, I'm not exactly on top of my game. It's been kinda rough, you know?”

“Yeah.” He didn't want her to get to him, but he apparently didn't have any more control over his empathy than he did his stupid libido. “So what's your favor?”

“I was wondering if I could borrow your truck.”

“You want me to lend you my truck?”

“Just for an hour or two.”

“For?” What would a woman like her want with a
truck
? And did she even know how to drive or was she used to chauffeurs? He wasn't giving her his truck for her to crash it into a tree.

She turned her head to the left fast enough so that her hair swung in front of her face. “It's, um . . .” She tucked the hair behind her ear with a big sigh and looked at him head on. “It's for my furniture.”

“I thought you said you left with just the clothes on your back. And your paints, of course. They're out in my truck along with your power tools. Oh, and I grabbed a few things for you to wear.” The underwear had been an issue, but he'd sucked it up and grabbed a handful without going through the rest of her drawers—it was better than knowing she was walking around his home without any. “There was a pile of clothes at the bottom of your closet without any tags, so I figured your father wouldn't be able to account for them.”

“Oh wow. That's so sweet of you. Thank you so much!” She hugged him.

Hugged
him. As if they were best friends.

Or more.

The moment got awkward in a hurry. Especially when his hands—no more under his control than his libido or his empathy apparently—stole up to her waist and hung on.

Her smile disappeared.

His stomach clenched. He needed to let go. Step back. Get away.

He didn't.

She slicked her tongue over her lips then tilted her head, exposing a long line of tempting skin from beneath her ear, down her neck, and along her shoulder to where the shirt barely clung to the curve to her arm. If he took just a bit of it in his teeth and tugged . . .

“I, uh . . .” She let go of his shoulders. One finger at a time, perhaps, but still, she let go.

He'd better, too.

He took one last lingering look at the curve of her neck and removed his hands from her waist. Took a step back, too. “I'll get your stuff.”

Then he got the hell out of his bedroom before he did something they both might be happy with for a few moments, but would ultimately regret in the long run.

*   *   *

S
HE'D
almost kissed him—and she was pretty sure he'd wanted to kiss her, too. If that didn't just make this all that more complicated . . .

She was attracted to him. Talk about the wrong place and time. Her goal was to move out on her own.
Be
on her own.
Make it
on her own. Staying here was temporary. Just until she sold a piece of furniture or two and had enough money for an apartment. She just needed a little time to get on her feet, and him sweeping her off of them was not part of the plan.

“Come on, Titania.” The dog had been curled up on the pillow and hadn't even barked when Liam had come in, the traitor. “Let's get out of here before he gets back.”
And
before she lost whatever strength it was that had made her let go of his shoulders. His big, broad shoulders—

Yep, she got the hell out of there.

He wasn't any less appealing when she met him in the living room.

“The room looks good. You did a nice job.”

“Glad you approve.” If only he knew the effort she'd put into getting it that way. She'd almost had to pick up cracked glass from the sofa back table when Titania had tried to help out by pushing the mop around. Then there were the three times she'd had to polish that table.

Yes, three. First, there'd been streaks on the glass, so she'd cleaned it again. More streaks. She finally read the fine print on the back of the cans only to find out she'd been using wood polish that wasn't designed to be used on glass.

So then she'd had to
find
the glass polish in that scary thing he called a mud room that was filled with gadgets and hoses and way too many chemicals for her sensitive skin, until she'd gotten lucky and found a box of rubber gloves and glass cleaner.

Then there'd been the whole what-to-use-in-the-bathroom-and-does-it-work-in-the-kitchen-as-well investigation, followed by wet mop/dry mop analytics. The whole mold/mildew thing had turned her stomach. When she had her own place, it was going to require only three bottles of cleaning solutions, one mop, and one vacuum. Anything else was overkill. Who had the time or the money for six different bottles, a mop for tile, a vacuum for a hardwood, a vacuum for carpet, and some weird attachment for steps? Thank God his steps were wrought iron and the dust mop worked for them because she wasn't quite sure how all those attachments hooked together.

“So where do you want this?” He held up the bag that'd been in her closet. Good call on his part, because Dad wouldn't know those clothes were missing.

She just wasn't sure she'd be able to wear them around Liam and not feel self-conscious, though. They were her painting clothes. Ones Dad would never sanction her being seen in, which was half the reason she'd bought them. The other half had been because they were completely opposite of what she usually wore and she'd been feeling rebellious. That whole trip to the flea market with Stacey one weekend had been rebellious and a hell of a lot of fun. Wearing the clothes had made her happy.

She could use that feeling right now.

“I guess my bedroom.” Whichever one that was. There was one more downstairs next to his and two upstairs. Common sense would dictate that she use the one downstairs, since it was on the main level, but self-preservation said to head upstairs.

He didn't help matters by just staring at her.

“Or . . .” She'd already asked for the truck; she ought to get everything out in the open. “What about the empty side of your garage? I was hoping I could use it for storage and a temporary studio. I have a few more pieces in a warehouse, and once my father finds out about its existence—if he hasn't already—he'll have it sealed and I'll be out of luck. Hence, the need for your truck. I'll put a tarp down so you won't have to worry about the floor, plus the smell and mess would be outside. The sooner I can start working on the furniture, the sooner I can sell something and begin paying you for taking me in. You won't even know I'm here and I'll be out of your hair, so it really won't be that much of an imposition—”

“Stop.” Liam held up his hand. “Take a breath before you pass out on me. I don't need a trip to the hospital on top of everything else.”

Instead of taking that breath, she swallowed her panic. She'd sounded desperate, spewing everything to him all at once, but she needed his cooperation with the plan or she'd be stuck here for a long time.

“Fine. You can borrow the truck. But I'm going to put pads in the back. I don't need the bed scratched. Are you going to be able to get the furniture in without my help?”

Oh crud. She hadn't thought about that. “Well . . .”

He exhaled and wiped his forehead with his arm. “Yeah, that's what I figured.” He set the bag on the floor by the wall and stuck his hands on his hips. “And how many pieces are we talking? Am I going to be able to park the truck in the garage if it's your art studio?”

“You will. It's not that many. Maybe half a dozen.”

“Okay. Fine. Let's go after dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“Yeah, you know. The meal that comes at the end of the day? The thing in the Crock-Pot?”

The Crock-Pot. Oh. Crud. She'd forgotten about that.
“Um, Liam, about that—”

He held up a hand and exhaled. “I'll make the rice. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we keep your father from finding your secret stash.”

Was this the same guy who'd mocked her by calling her
Princess
? The same one who believed all the hype about her life? Yet here he was, being nice to her, taking her in, and wanting to one-up her dad. That could be career suicide for the guy should Mitchell ever find out.

If he wasn't careful—hell, if
she
wasn't careful—she could find herself falling for Mr. Liam Manley.

*   *   *

T
HIS
is what you wanted to salvage?” Liam stood in the doorway of her storage facility with his mouth hanging open after their hurried meal. “Princess, I hate to tell you this, but no one's going to buy this stuff. It's . . . well . . . it's junk.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don't mean to be harsh, but this stuff looks like shi—uh, crap. Old. Run down. You're not going to make money with any of this.”

“I'll have you know, the piece I just sold was in worse shape than most of these, and it sold for five figures.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope.”

“So where's that money? Why can't you use that to get your new lease on life going?”

Now she did take that breath. And a second. “I deposited the check. In an account with my father's company's credit union. You know, the one my debit card is attached to. And since Dad didn't think painting and—heaven forbid—
selling
what I painted were dignified pursuits, he bought the piece back when he found out about it.
And
demanded that I forfeit my commission. So, yeah, that account's closed.”

“You're kidding.”

“Do I look like I'm kidding? Would I move in with you, a virtual stranger, if I were kidding?”

He dragged his palm down his face. “I guess not, but shit.”

She exhaled. “I know, right? I can't believe he did that.” Or that she hadn't seen it coming. Why oh why hadn't she opened her own secret bank account? Hindsight truly was twenty-twenty. All her frivolous pursuits keeping up with her friends and their families . . . If only she'd thought ahead.