Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
marlowe
H e sends a car for me a week later.
His driver is an attractive, burly Texan named Trace. He’s not the same guy who chauffeured us that night, otherwise I would’ve given him an earful for participating in Gunner’s charade.
He loads up my boxes and suitcases while I say goodbye to Sansa, hugging and kissing her as she purrs in blissful ignorance. I feel guilty for leaving her behind, but I know Quinn will take good care of her.
When I reluctantly put her down, she prances off without a backward glance.
I poke my bottom lip out.
“Don’t worry. She won’t forget you.” Quinn hugs me tight, then pulls back and winks. “Your chariot awaits, Cinderella. Off to the palace you go.”
I scowl at her, and she laughs.
Forty minutes later when I arrive at Not-Prince-Charming’s estate, Mrs. Calder welcomes me at the front door.
“Trace will bring your things inside. Let me show you to your room.” She starts across the foyer. “There’s an elevator around the corner, which will make it easier for you to carry your cleaning supplies between floors.”
Nodding, I follow her up the grand circular staircase and down a hallway that seems to stretch on forever. I assume she’s taking me to a small, modest room in the servants’ quarters. So I’m blown away when we end up in a freaking suite with a bedroom, sitting room and private bath overlooking the lake. It’s bigger than my entire apartment and luxurious enough to rival a presidential suite in any five-star hotel.
I turn slowly in a circle, looking around in astonishment. “ This is my room?”
“It is.” Mrs. Calder smiles, amused by my reaction. “Mr. Ransom wanted to ensure your maximum comfort. The bathroom is stocked with toiletries and fresh towels, and you’ll find five sets of your new uniform in the closet. They must be kept clean and pressed at all times.”
I process these details with a nod. “Is he here? Mr. Ransom?”
“No. He’s away for the weekend.”
I tell myself the twinge in my chest isn’t disappointment.
“I’ll let you get settled in. When you’re ready, come to my office so we can go over your schedule and duties.” Mrs. Calder leaves as the driver starts bringing in my stuff.
A few hours later, my boxes are unpacked and my clothes are hung up in the walk-in closet. To personalize the room, I place a few pictures on the bedside table. One photo is of my father and me playing the piano together when I was eight. Another photo captures Sansa sunbathing in a window. The third picture shows Ember and me wearing Steelers jerseys at the last game we attended two years ago. Our faces are painted in black and gold as we mug for the camera with our arms slung around each other’s shoulders.
A therapist would have a field day analyzing my mother’s absence from my pictures, but that’s another story for another time.
When I head down to Mrs. Calder’s office, she gives me a tour of the mansion. There are fourteen bedrooms, eleven baths and too many other rooms to count. The place is immaculate, every surface sparkling.
After the tour, we have lemonade in the sunroom while she goes over my cleaning schedule. It’s dauntingly thorough, detailing how each task should be performed and how long it should take.
When she finishes her rundown, she asks if I have any questions.
“No, I think you covered everything.” I sip my lemonade and stare out the window, admiring the beautiful gardens. “How long have you worked for Mr. Ransom?”
“Just five years,” she says. “But I’ve known him all his life.”
“You have?”
“Indeed. His father and I grew up together in Bullsboro,” she explains, smiling faintly. “It’s one of those small towns where everyone knows everyone or has at least heard rumors. Dale Ransom was the boy next door, rowdy as a wild mustang. We used to fight like cats and dogs, but there wasn’t anything we wouldn’t do for each other.” She smiles again, her face looking softer in the sunlight spilling into the sunroom.
She’s a very beautiful woman. I can tell she must have been an absolute stunner when she was my age. I wonder if she and Gunner’s father had feelings for each other.
“Dale left home at seventeen to work on an oil rig,” she continues. “He ended up going to college and landing a good job in Houston. You would think he’d struck gold the way he used to call and write me letters, urging me to join him in the big city. I was very tempted, but ultimately I wasn’t brave enough to leave our hometown.” Her eyes twinkle at me. “Perhaps I could have used your courage.”
I smile at her.
She smiles back before picking up her glass, ice cubes clinking. “After Dale got married, he brought his sons home for a visit every summer. He wanted them to know where he came from. He said seeing his humble beginnings would inspire them to work hard and always strive for the best. Turns out he was right.” She pauses to sip her drink. “After my dear husband passed away, I felt lost and purposeless. My parents were long gone and my daughters had moved away, so there was nothing left for me in Bullsboro. When Gunner invited me to come stay with him, I didn’t want to feel like a charity case. I told him to give me a job, put me to work. After some wrangling, he agreed. And the rest is history.”
I smile quietly, appreciating the story and the insight it provides.
“It goes without saying that I’m proud of the man Gunner has become. He donates generously to worthy causes, and his charitable foundation awards millions in scholarships and grants every year. He also put my youngest through college and helped her land her dream job in New York.” Mrs. Calder smiles softly, allowing me to absorb the magnitude of Gunner’s kindness before she speaks again. “He has a heart of gold, but he’s not always the easiest man to deal with. As long as you perform your duties satisfactorily, you should have no trouble staying out of his crosshairs.”
I nod, not entirely reassured.
She finishes her lemonade and sets the glass down. “I’m glad you accepted the position. I thought you might have changed your mind.”
“I did,” I sheepishly admit. “But Mr. Ransom was very . . . persistent.”
Mrs. Calder’s eyes twinkle with a woman’s intuition. “I bet he was.”
i don’t see him for the first three days of my employment.
He leaves early in the morning and doesn’t come home until late. According to Mrs. Calder, he starts each day with a workout and then spends long hours at the office, capping off most evenings with business dinners at high-end restaurants.
I’m in no hurry to see him again, so his absence comes as a big relief. As long as he pays me every two weeks, I’m good. The less I have to interact with him, the better.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
But lying in bed late at night, I find myself thinking about him. I imagine him pacing the floor of his master suite in the south wing. I imagine him tossing and turning in that massive bed, his body aching for mine until he can’t take it anymore. I imagine him sneaking into my room, prowling through the shadows to reach my bed. I imagine him above me, moving deep inside me as I moan his name.
Last night I got so turned on that I rolled onto my stomach and started humping the mattress, desperate for any sort of friction. Visualizing Gunner’s smoldering blue eyes and sexy mouth, I reached between my legs and rubbed my clit until an orgasm burst over me, hard and fast.
Afterward I was mortified beyond belief. But that didn’t stop me from adding a vibrator to my wish list of things to buy with my first paycheck.
When my shift ends on Thursday evening, I return to my room and treat myself to a hot bath in the huge soaking tub. Luxuriating in the fragrance of lotus blossoms, I close my eyes and try not to think dirty thoughts about my absent boss.
I doze off and wake to the feeling of someone standing over me. But the room is empty, the water has cooled and my skin has turned pruney.
With a lazy sigh, I step out of the tub and dry off with the plushest towel I’ve ever felt in my life.
Mrs. Calder is meeting with her book club tonight, so I’m on my own for dinner. Just as I finish getting dressed, there’s a knock on my door.
When I open it, I’m surprised to see Mr. Leland standing there.
“Good evening, Miss Somerset.” He refuses to call me by my first name, though I’ve repeatedly asked him to. “Mr. Ransom instructed me to summon you.”
“He’s home?” I say, sounding more hopeful than I intended.
“He is, ma’am. And he’s requesting your presence downstairs.”
I frown, wondering if he’s going to reprimand me for some minor infraction. Maybe I didn’t polish the silverware to his satisfaction. Or maybe he didn’t like the way I folded the guest towels, all gazillion of them.
“Miss Somerset?” the butler prompts.
I glance down at myself. I’m wearing a comfy T-shirt and gray yoga pants, and my hair is pulled up in a messy topknot. I consider changing my clothes, then decide against it. I’m off the clock. I can wear whatever I want on my own time.
The butler escorts me downstairs to the elegant dining room, where Gunner sits at the head of a long table sipping wine while listening to Vivaldi’s “Spring.” He looks darkly magnetic in a black dress shirt, his thick black hair shining in the soft chandelier light.
At the sight of him, my stomach does a crazy flip-flop.
There are two place settings with two dinner plates covered by silver lids. An expensive bottle of wine breathes on the table.
Gunner puts his glass down and lets his gaze roam over my body, starting at my feet and slowly working his way up my thighs, stomach, breasts and lips. By the time he reaches my eyes, I feel flushed and stripped bare. Which was undoubtedly his intent.
“Evening.” That liquid sex voice slides through me, raising goose bumps along every inch of my skin that wasn’t already tingling. “How was your day?”
“Fine,” I mumble. “Yours?”
“Productive. I was just about to have dinner.” He motions toward the empty chair on his right. “Join me.”
My mouth goes dry. “I was going to eat in my room.”
“Not tonight.”
Bristling at the authority in his voice, I give him a defiant look. “I didn’t realize dining with the boss was a requirement.”
Those dark blue eyes glint at me. “Is it always going to be a power struggle with you?”
I smirk at him, ignoring the question. “Are you sure you should be eating with the help? It could send the wrong message.”
He raises an eyebrow. “This is my house. I eat with whomever I please.”
I open my mouth to respond, but I can’t think of anything else to say.
“Have a seat, Marlowe.”
I grudgingly obey.
“Good girl.” His voice is deep and rumbly, and hearing him call me good girl sends a rush of heat straight to my core.
He picks up the wine bottle. “Montrachet?”
I hesitate, then nod.
He fills my glass with the white wine. “I trust your accommodations are to your satisfaction.”
I almost laugh. “You could say that.”
His lips twitch. “So you’re settling in okay? Sleeping comfortably?”
I think of my nocturnal cravings and blush. “I am.”
“Glad to hear it. Shall we?” He removes the lid from his plate, and I do the same. The food looks and smells delicious, and I’m hungrier than I thought. But I reach for my glass first to take a fortifying gulp of the rich wine.
Gunner’s eyes gleam as he watches me. “You don’t have to be nervous around me.”
“I’m not.”
“Liar,” he says softly.
“Whatever.” I set my glass down, pick up my fork and cut into my fish. It’s tender and flaky, grilled to perfection. I’m secretly grateful that my duties don’t include preparing meals. I’m a decent cook, but I could never compete with Gunner’s Michelin-trained private chef.
I must’ve sighed or made some sound of pleasure, because Gunner grins at me. “Enjoying the halibut?”
“I am. It’s scrumptious.” A wry smile touches my lips. “Between my luxurious suite and Gustav’s five-star cuisine, I feel more like a guest at the Ritz than the help.”
“Stop calling yourself the help.”
“I’m your housekeeper. That’s literally the definition of the help.” When Gunner frowns, I shrug a shoulder. “It’s all good. There’s no shame in domestic work, especially when you’re being generously compensated. Honestly, I’m lucky to have a boss who likes throwing his wealth around. You know what they say about a fool and his money.”
Gunner releases a throaty rumble of a laugh that vibrates through my chest. “Christ, you’ve got a mouth on you.”
I smile sweetly and take a sip of wine as he regards me with glittering eyes. I’m a novelty to him. A pretty toy to amuse himself with. The thought is unnerving.
“You’re home earlier than usual,” I say with forced casualness. “I was beginning to wonder if you actually live here.”
He grins slowly. “You been missing me?”
My face heats. “Not hardly.”
He laughs like he doesn’t believe me.
Trying not to squirm in my seat, I eat a forkful of braised potato and wash it down with another gulp of wine.
Gunner tops off our glasses before resuming his meal. His lashes are so thick and long, fanning his cheeks every time he blinks. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to his gut-punching beauty. Not likely.
“Talk to me,” he says.
“About what?”
“Anything. You, mostly.”
I shake my head. “No.”
“No?” He looks surprised. I’m guessing he doesn’t hear that word very often.
“You ran a background check on me, which means you already know way more about me than I know about you. In fact, given your technical prowess and vast resources, I wouldn’t be surprised if you know how many books I’ve read since kindergarten.”
“I don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Know how many books you’ve read.” His eyes glimmer. “But it’s a fascinating bit of trivia I wouldn’t mind learning.”
“Be that as it may, it’s your turn to share.” I smirk. “Now that you’re not impersonating someone else, you can tell me something real about yourself. Like I said, there’s so much I don’t know.”
He looks skeptical. “You expect me to believe you haven’t googled me?”
“I haven’t,” I tell him honestly. “On the way home from my interview, I pulled up your company’s website out of grudging curiosity. As soon as I clicked on your bio and saw your picture, I almost chucked my phone out the window.”
He bursts out laughing, the delicious sound echoing around the room.
I feel my lips twitch. “I was too pissed off to google you. It was only after I accepted your job offer that I went back to your website to learn more about your company.”
“And what did you learn?”
“I learned that you provide tech solutions and security services to corporations and governments around the world. You have sixty thousand employees and are breaking ground on a new campus next year. You’ve won numerous industry awards for innovation and technology, and you’re consistently ranked a top employer. Mrs. Calder also told me that you give out a ton of scholarships and grants, which is admirable.” I pause with my fork poised over my plate. “What I know about you personally is pretty limited.”
“I see.” He sets his own fork down and reaches for his glass. “What do you want to know?”
“Whatever you want to tell me,” I say as if I don’t care one way or the other. But I do. I care more than I’m willing to admit.
He drinks his wine as he considers his next words, sorting through what he’s willing to share and what he won’t. “I was born in Houston. My father worked at Chevron and my mother was a pampered housewife. Maverick?—”
“Your twin brother,” I interrupt. “Pantheon’s executive vice president and chief operating officer.”
Gunner smiles at me. “You have done your homework.”
“I know the basics. So who’s older? You or Maverick?”
“I am, by an hour.” He chuckles. “Lazy bastard didn’t want to leave the warm comfort of the womb. As the story goes, he had to be vacuumed out, and boy did he raise holy hell over it. When the doctor pried him free, he was redder than a matador’s cape, shaking his fists and hollering to the rafters. Dad called him the world’s maddest evicted tenant.”
I burst out laughing.
Gunner smiles, watching me with a fascinated expression. “You have an amazing laugh.”
“So do you.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
The way his gaze softens makes my body feel as if it’s falling from a fifty-story building. We stare at each other, lost in the moment.
Forcing myself to break the spell, I take a sip of wine and then another, trying to find my center of gravity. “Your names—Gunner and Maverick—sound like a pair of gunslingers in an old western.”
“I know,” he agrees with a wry chuckle. “Dad is a bona fide good ol’ boy who wanted his sons to have the most cowboy-sounding names possible.”
“Mission accomplished.”
“Pretty much.” Gunner smiles. “He named us based on our personalities at birth. He says he chose Gunner for me because I came barreling out first like a sharp-shooting point guard, ready to kick ass and take names.”
“Nice,” I say with a grin. “Seems you’ve lived up to that first impression.”
“I try.” He forks up the last bite of his fish and chews absently. “Where was I?”
“I think you were telling me about where you grew up.”
“Right. Let’s see . . . we lived in River Oaks, had servants and chauffeurs, and went to the best private schools money could buy.”
“So you were born into privilege.”
A black eyebrow rises at my tone. “Is that condemnation I hear?”
“No.” I give him a sardonic look. “My mother is a high-powered attorney. I didn’t exactly grow up poor.”
“And yet you had to put yourself through college.” His eyes probe mine. “Why didn’t your mother help?”
My body goes rigid as a bowstring. “We weren’t talking about me. We were talking about you.”
He continues studying me, searching for answers. When they aren’t forthcoming, he wipes his mouth with his cloth napkin and leans back in his chair. “We moved to Dallas after my parents got divorced.”
“Your parents are divorced?”
He nods, his gaze lowering to his empty plate. “My father was a profligate womanizer who chased anything in a skirt. When he worked at Chevron, he had an affair with his secretary. When she quit, he banged the next secretary and the next one, and so on and so forth.” Gunner’s mouth twists cynically. “As you might imagine, his cheating wasn’t exactly conducive to a happy marriage.”
“I’m sorry,” I say softly.
He gives a short nod and drains his glass. I can tell there’s a lot more to the story. I remember what Mrs. Calder told me about her longtime friendship with Gunner’s father. If they loved each other, did that affect his marriage? Did he stray because his heart belonged to his childhood sweetheart? It wouldn’t justify his infidelity, but it might explain it.
“Gustav made sticky toffee pudding for dessert,” Gunner announces. “He’s gone for the night, so we’ll have to serve ourselves.”
I smile. “Dessert sounds delicious, but I couldn’t eat another bite right now. I can bring you some if you want, though.”
He shakes his head, watching me with a quiet little smile. “Thanks for your company.”
“You didn’t give me much of a choice.” I stand and start clearing the dishes. When he rises to help, I wave him off. “I got it. It’s my jo?—”
“Hush, woman.”
We clear the table together and carry our dishes into the sprawling chef’s kitchen that still dazzles me every time I enter it. Gustav cleaned up before he left, so all we have to worry about are the plates and utensils we used.
Ignoring the state-of-the-art dishwasher, I fill the sink with hot water and add dish soap as Gunner comes up beside me.
“I’ll wash and rinse, you dry and put away.” He rolls up his sleeves, revealing the ropey sinews of his forearms.
My mouth runs dry. “When was the last time you washed dishes?” I ask, slanting him a dubious look. “Do you even know how?”
He looks offended. “What kind of question is that? Of course I know how to wash dishes.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. For your information, my brother and I shared an apartment in college, and I did most of the cleaning.”
My eyes narrow skeptically. “You didn’t have a maid?”
“No.” He hesitates. “Not till junior year.”
“Ha! I knew it!”
His face breaks into a boyish grin that makes me weak in the knees.
Clearing my throat, I grab a towel to dry the dishes. “Be careful with the wineglasses. You don’t want to scratch them.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawls with a wink.
Standing this close together heightens my awareness of him on a primal, cellular level. I can feel the heat emanating from his big body, and the brush of his shirtsleeve against my bare arm sends shivers through my blood. It doesn’t help that he smells so damn good I want to bury my face in his shirt and inhale his scent, take in every molecule of it.
He washes the dishes slowly, leisurely, in no rush to finish the task. If I didn’t know better, I would think he was trying to prolong our time together.
He hands me a plate to dry, his wet fingers grazing mine. Electricity crackles over my skin like I’ve just touched a live wire. My lips part as I stare into his eyes, feeling my heartbeat double.
Long seconds pass.
I’m the first to look away, licking my lips as I dry the clean plate. “What a picture we must make—a gazillionaire washing dishes with his housekeeper. Somebody call Forbes or Guinness World Records .”
Gunner slants me a crooked grin. “Smartass.”
I let out a shaky laugh. It’s absolute hell being so wildly attracted to a man I want so badly to hate.
Just as we finish our task, Mr. Leland enters the kitchen and stops short, his eyes widening at the domestic scene before him.
Gunner sends a lazy glance over his shoulder. “What’s up?”
“Ahem.” The flabbergasted butler clears his throat. “Will you be needing anything else before I retire for the evening?”
“Nope. I’m good.” Gunner looks at me. “You?”
“I’m fine.”
“Very well, then.” Giving us one last speculative look, the butler says goodnight and leaves.
Gunner and I stare at each other for a long time without speaking.
I’m just about to make my escape when he brushes a stray wisp of hair away from my face, his fingertips caressing my cheek. The gossamer touch makes fire erupt across my skin.
His eyes lower to the goose bumps scattered across my neck and collarbone. The longer he stares, the tighter and heavier my breasts grow, aching for his touch.
When he trails his finger down to my heart, it thumps so hard I gasp.
His gaze darkens before he slides his hand into my hair and cups the back of my head, tilting it so my mouth is just inches from his.
I stare into his eyes, our breaths mingling. I’ve never wanted to kiss someone so badly. I want to taste him. I want to feel his mouth between my thighs and all over my body. I want him to lift me onto the counter and fuck me senseless. But I know once we cross that line, there’ll be no turning back.
He leans in closer, his breath feathering over my lips.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
He pauses, his pupils dilating. I can see the struggle in his eyes, the internal battle to regain his self-control. His fingers tighten in my hair almost to the point of pain, and my core clenches with need.
Finally he releases me and steps back as if he doesn’t trust himself not to touch me again.
We stare at each other for several charged moments, the only sound the barely audible hum of the refrigerator.
“Let’s have some dessert,” he finally murmurs.
I swallow hard and shake my head. “Maybe later.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Suit yourself.” He walks over to the massive center island where his chef set out two dessert plates and spoons. With a flourish, he lifts the cover from one plate to reveal a spongy mound of cake with toffee sauce artfully drizzled over the top.
“Mmm.” He picks up the plate, turning it this way and that. “Looks good, doesn’t it?”
“It does.” The scent of warm toffee and molasses has me drooling.
“You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted Gustav’s sticky toffee pudding.” Gunner makes a show of sliding his spoon through the cake and into his mouth, his eyes closing with a groan that curls my toes. “God, that’s delicious.”
I gulp hard, my thighs clenching.
He shoots me a taunting smile. “Are you sure you don’t want any?”
My mouth is watering like crazy. Am I greedy for wanting the dessert and the yummy man holding it?
“I’m good,” I croak. “Really.”
Gunner chuckles softly. “You’re a terrible liar, Marlowe. We both know you want some. Why deny yourself the pleasure?”
I swallow thickly and shake my head.
“You don’t know what you’re missing.” He drizzles more toffee sauce over the cake and eats another spoonful. “Mmm. So damn?—”
I scurry over and snatch the plate out of his hand like a hungry bandit.
He throws back his head with a shout of laughter.
Grinning, I scoop up a deliciously gooey mouthful of cake and lick the spoon. His spoon. The one that was in his mouth. On his tongue.
His eyes glitter at me as I back away clutching the plate. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.”
I don’t know if he’s talking about himself or the dessert. Either way, I need to get out of there while I still can.
“Goodnight, Mr. Ransom.”
“Goodnight, Marlowe.” His darkly wicked voice trails after me. “Sweet dreams . . .”