What a Woman Gets (3 page)

Because the image of her in those heels and that nightie, all wrapped up in silk, had nailed him to the floor.

“You don't make your bed?” Anger was always good for dispelling tension, sexual or otherwise, and right now Liam knew which one he needed to focus on. Not focus on. Whatever.

“I forgot you were coming.”

Did she have to use that particular word?

What was
wrong
with him? He didn't even
like
the woman.

“Are you going to hover over me while I do this?”

These were going to be four really long, hard weeks.

He so wished he hadn't used
those
words.

And when he saw the look on her face—fleeting though it was—he wished he hadn't used that tone. It wasn't her fault that he'd reacted this way to her.

“Um . . . well, no.” She backed up, her green eyes wide and—shit—teary.

“Hey, I'm sor—” Damn it. He wasn't going to apologize. He'd learned his lesson when it came to women's tears. Rachel had been a master of the waterworks and he, fool that he'd been, had bought them. Every single time she'd used them.

“I guess I'll leave you to it.” She spun around on her sexy-as-hell stilettos and strode out of the room, her ass-hugging pants leaving nothing to his imagination. Which sent it into overdrive.

Liam cursed beneath his breath and turned around—

To stare at the rumpled, unmade bed with sheets that had been wrapped around that curvy ass, those long-as-sin legs, and her perfectly natural breasts, and Liam didn't know if he was going to make it four
hours
in this place let alone four weeks.

C
ASSIDY
gulped the San Pellegrino and blamed the fizz for the tears in her eyes. They certainly weren't caused by Mr. Manley Maid in there. Mr. Rude-Obnoxious-He-Man Manley Maid who probably expected every woman to fall at his feet for one small glimmer of his interest.

Well she'd seen the interest—fleeting though it'd been—but she was still standing. Bastard.

She would have thought he'd have been a little nicer. After all, all she had to do was make one phone call and his ass would be canned.

Cassidy fumbled for her cell phone and hit her contacts list. Yeah, she didn't have to put up with his attitude. Who did he think he was? Did he
know
who her father was?

Her finger hovered over the Manley Maids' phone number for a second.

Two.

Was she
really
going to throw her father's name around to demand respect? Seriously? Where was her backbone? Her sense of pride? Self-esteem?

Cassidy set the phone on the counter.

She couldn't make that call; she'd be just as bad as her father. Wasn't that what today's lunch was all about? To prove to herself that she didn't need him? That she had her own talent, her own skills, and she didn't need him and the made-up position at his company to support herself?

She took a deep breath, not really looking forward to the conversation. It would be a battle. Dad always expected everyone to jump to do his bidding, her included.

Look where that'd gotten her.

Cassidy walked into the living room. Okay, so this wasn't a bad place to be, but while it might be a giant, gorgeous room with the best furniture and view money could buy, a Steinway in the corner, a sound system fit for a Philharmonic, and enough artwork to feed a third world country, it was still just as empty and devoid of warmth and hominess as any of the other top-of-the-world penthouses or hotel rooms or boarding school dorms Dad had put her up in over the years.

If he'd let her, she could've made this place a home. With splashes of color and personal knick-knacks, and that granny-square afghan she'd found at a flea market in college and had kept hidden in the steamer trunk in her closet ever since for the day she'd have a house of her own.

If she didn't get this lunch with him, that day was going to be later rather than sooner.

Something crashed in her bedroom and Mr. Rude cursed. Cassidy bit her lip to keep from smiling. It wasn't funny, really, but served him right for being so testy. Normally her room was in pristine shape when Sharon showed up, but she'd been more focused on the lunch with her father than the fact that someone new was coming by.

Titania growled and that
did
elicit a smile from Cassidy. She picked up the teacup-sized dog and nuzzled her topknot. “Hush, Titania. I can't hear him cursing if you start barking.”

Titania licked Cassidy's neck, little tail brushing the side of Cassidy's breast, reminding her all too well what her breasts had felt like pressed against the guy's hard, muscular back. She'd had to jump away to keep him from noticing her body's reaction. He was one giant pheromone in a way Burton, her father's right-hand man and her semi-regular date these past eight or so months, wasn't.

Mr. Maid cursed again and Cassidy winced, waiting for the crash. Luckily, it didn't come, though, honestly, there wasn't anything in that room that she'd mourn the loss of. She'd learned long ago not to put out anything personal that wasn't designer-selected or Dad would have a fit. Everything had to be picture-perfect for her father. Everything. Including her.

She twisted one of the diamond studs her father had given her on her birthday. The ones he'd picked up in Dubai. She'd seen them when Deborah had unpacked his briefcase, both of them figuring they were for the flavor
du jour
, neither one of them certain what that flavor's name was since it'd only been one
jour
. But that's all that one had lasted and Dad had given them to her. What was there to be said for getting a bimbo's cast-offs?

Cassidy sighed and set Titania, the show-dog-caliber pet, back in her pen. She needed to talk to Dad; this living in a gilded cage thing was over. She was almost thirty years old and after her mother had walked out, she'd practically been in limbo waiting for her real life to start.

Well now it was time and Dad was just going to have to face it. He couldn't go jet-setting all over the world and expect her to sit here, twiddling her thumbs or arranging flowers or meeting with women old enough to be her grandmother on some charitable board to discuss which tea sandwiches to serve, waiting for the moment he needed a hostess. “Event Director” was her official job title within the company, but it was as shallow as she used to be. This was no kind of life, and after twenty-nine years of being a Barbie doll he put on display when the mood suited, she was sick of it.

Not that Dad would ever understand. He'd think she was nuts. But then, his life hadn't been changed by witnessing one young boy's battle against a disease that didn't care how much money someone had. It'd put life in a whole new perspective for Cassidy and she'd changed hers the day they'd buried poor Franklin.

She slid the deposit slip from the bank for the gallery's check from her pants pocket. Her first sale, and now that she'd actually sold a piece of handmade furniture—
without
Dad's help or his name attached to it—Cassidy finally had the proof and the resolve to show him she was more than just a pretty face.

Dad owed her this lunch, whoever the hell he was “meeting” with. She grabbed her purse and the keys to the Mercedes and left a card with her phone number on the kitchen counter, then decided to let Mr. Rude know he could now clean without having to suffer her presence. She poked her head back into her bedroom to tell him so.

That was her first mistake.

Mr. Manley Maid was bent over, those green pants stretched tight across the finest backside she'd seen since that last World Cup match she'd attended. So she stared at it. After all, it was there, just begging to be stared at.

Staring was her second mistake.

“Need something?” He stood up and looked over his shoulder at her, and her third mistake was taking a few nanoseconds too many to take her focus off his backside.

When she finally did, it was to find his blue eyes boring into hers. Gorgeous blue eyes. Cerulean, like the sky she'd painted on the bombe chest she'd sold.

“Is there something I can do for you, Ms. Davenport?”

She ignored the slight sarcasm on the
Ms.
and instead thanked God
she didn't make a fourth mistake and tell him exactly what he
could
do for her.

“I'm going out,” she answered calmly, willing herself not to clear her throat to cover her embarrassment. Those Swiss finishing classes came in handy. “There are extra cleaning supplies in the hall linen closet, and if you have any other questions, my cell number is on the kitchen island. Please lock up when you leave.”

She willed herself to smile warmly and turn slowly, the perfect tilt to her head that said
I am in complete control
, and walked calmly out her front door.

With his gaze boring through her shirt the entire way.

*   *   *

J
ESUS,
the woman could light a fire in him. Standing there, looking so unbelievably cool, yet so utterly hot in that nude outfit, with her head held high and that lingering glance on his ass . . .

He'd wanted to turn around and call her on it, but he hadn't been
able
to turn around. Let her think he was arrogant—he could be—but in this instance, it'd been all about self-preservation. She'd had him harder than the stupid vacuum cleaner wand he'd been holding and just as thick.

Liam threw the wand away in disgust. God, comparing his anatomy to a vacuum cleaner only brought images of suction and that went down a road he had no business—nor interest—in going.

Liar.

Hell. Yeah, he was lying. He was definitely interested—at least physically. Any other way? Out of the question.

But she packed one hell of a punch to his libido, so he'd better keep his guard up. Forget kissing her or he'd be kissing this stupid job goodbye. And in under twenty-four hours, no less. Mac would kill him.

Liam sank onto the bed and swiped a hand over his face. He couldn't let Cassidy Davenport get to him. She was everything he hated in a woman: spoiled, pampered, self-entitled, condescending . . .

Sexy, gorgeous . . .

He exhaled. The physical part had been his downfall with Rachel. He'd been so infatuated with that part of her, that he'd missed the rest—who she really was beneath the gorgeous veneer. It was time to go on a date. Find someone else. Someone new. Someone
real
. All these months—all eighteen of them—since Rachel, he'd steered clear of women, even for the most basic of his needs. Rachel had done one hell of a number on his heart, his goals, and his judgment. To find out she'd been using him solely for the things he could give her . . .

The yippy little dust rag Cassidy Davenport called a dog started imitating a mouse on steroids, dragging Liam back to the present. Christ. Mac hadn't mentioned anything about dog-sitting for this job. He'd ignore the thing, but unlike its owner, the dog wasn't to be blamed for being a spoiled little monster used to having its demands met with the first shrill bark. Liam headed out to see what was wrong.

The thing was running circles inside its pen, hopping onto its back legs when he walked up to the enclosure, a rippling bundle of white silk, complete with a stupid little bun on the top of its head, its little pink tongue hanging out as if Liam were carrying a steak.

It'd probably expect Chateaubriand.

“What do you want?” Liam practically growled when it yipped at him again. He couldn't even call it a dog. Dogs were animals of substance. Man's best friend. Saver of kids who'd fallen into wells. This thing was a feather duster on paws. An animated accessory and he couldn't believe Cassidy Davenport had forgotten to take hers with her. That purse she'd been carrying had been big enough for this little thing.

The dog yipped again.

“I don't know what you want, dog.”

The thing ran clockwise around the pen a few times, then stopped, yipped again, and ran the other way a few more times.

Liam walked into the kitchen to get it some water.

The room looked like a mausoleum. White marble floor and countertops, pristine white cabinets with glass doors, everything lined up inside like a showroom. And of
course
the dishes were white china rimmed in gold. He wouldn't be surprised if Evian came out of the faucet.

He took a bowl of water out to the dog. The thing sniffed once, then ran circles around it.

Oh hell. It probably needed to go out. Mac definitely hadn't mentioned dog-walking in his duties.

But the other choice was to let it do its business on the floor and that he
would
have to clean up.

No thank you. Besides, he didn't have any issues with the dog.

“All right, hold on. Where would she have put your leash?”

After some deductive reasoning because he did
not
want to go searching through her closets and drawers—that peach nightie he'd picked up probably had a matching thong to go with it that he did
not
need to see—Liam found the leash in the closet in the foyer.

It was pink. Not that he'd expect anything else. This dog and its owner screamed pink.

He
wanted to scream when he saw the leash was covered in rhinestones. Christ, he couldn't get away from the stupid things. What was it with women and sparkly things?

He clipped the leash onto the dog's matching pink and rhinestone collar—which matched the pink bow around the silly bun—and headed out of the condo.

Just before the front door closed behind him, however, he tossed that stupid pink bow back inside. Bad enough people were going to see him walking this stuffed animal; that ribbon was too much.

The building's elevator operator smiled politely as he got in with the dog, but laughter hovered at the corner of the guy's mouth.

Liam couldn't blame him. It was funny—
if
it was happening to someone else.

“I'm assuming you know this dog's name?” he asked the guy. Marco, his name tag read.

Marco nodded. “Titania.”

Figured Cassidy Davenport would name her dog after the queen of the fairies. Nobility and fairy tales. Could be a metaphor for her life. She even lived in a gilded tower.

“She likes the patch of grass beneath the dogwood tree,” Marco said. “It's to your right out the front door.”

He probably also knew what Titania ate for breakfast, the last time she'd taken a constitutional, and what designer costume her owner had put her in for Halloween. That was the kind of service buildings like this offered and what people paid millions for.