At Your Command. Anna Leonard
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in some way she couldn’t determine. “I … summoned you.”
“Yes, Madame.” His voice was polite, almost deferential, to match the calm expression on his face, but she could pick up a hint of exasperation behind it, as though he thought she was mocking him somehow. “You wished for dinner. If you would inform me as to your preferences, I will prepare it for you.”
“I … wished …”
“Madame? Were you not informed as to the terms of your bequest?”
Susannah’s legs gave way, and she sat on the sofa in an unlovely pile, making Max get up and shove his nose under her hand, worriedly. Tilted, hell: the world had gone down the rabbit hole while she wasn’t looking, that was the only possible explanation. “You … dinner … the brooch?”
He seemed to suddenly understand something she didn’t, and his posture relaxed a hint: still at attention, but no longer quite so tense. “My name is Anthony, Madame. As you are now owner of the brooch that holds me, it is my duty to serve your pleasure.”
Once upon a time, Susannah had been fanciful. She had read romantic novels, and sighed over heroes she now recognized were flawed and possibly dangerous. She had devoured fantasy novels where magic saved the day, and mysteries where the heroine unraveled plots to put the villain away.
But faced with a man in her apartment who was telling her that he was a … a genie, for lack of a better word, bound to serve the owner of the brooch her great-aunt had willed to her… . Susannah’s practical side revolted.
She had taken the pin off her blouse, almost pricking her fingers in her haste, and started to throw it across the room, but something stopped her, keeping her fingers closed around the tiny bar.
Whatever else, it was valuable, if it was real. You didn’t throw valuable things away. And … she had already become fond of it, in one day. It was a link to a family she never knew, an unexpected present.
“You can’t be serious.” Her usually generous mouth was set firmly, and she crossed her arms across her chest as she glared at him. “I am not going to let you … what?” It was too insane to even consider. And yet …
She had heard his voice before. All day, whispering in her ear, the hint of an accent—French, she realized—at odds with the crisper tones underneath. American, but not local.
Great-Aunt Zannah had lived in Paris.
No. Impossible.
“Madame, you must accept the inheritance.” His calm voice broke slightly, showing a hint of near desperation, as though he expected the world to end if she refused.
“Don’t call me that. My name is Susannah.” It was a delaying action, and she knew it. Why was she arguing with this man? Good-looking, with a voice that was just sexy enough to make her toes curl, saying he was here to do whatever it took to make her happy. Your command, had been his actual words. Whatever she asked for …
“You show up here, break into my house and offer to cook me dinner …” It was insane. Worse, it was absurd. And yet, it happened. This was either the most elaborate practical joke she had ever seen, or—
Or it was real.
“Madame.” He sounded slightly offended. “I did not break in. You signed for me.”
The package. The delivery guy. Genies came parcel post? And who said he was allowed to have a sense of humor? Because that was definitely the hint of a smile on his lips, and his eyes had a crinkle of laughter in them, quickly.
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