The Maid's Daughter. Janice Maynard
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alarm clock set for 6:00 a.m. For a moment, he was completely disoriented. And then everything came flooding back. Gillian Carlyle.
Though it was an anomaly to begin the day fully dressed in a woman’s bed, the details were clear. He’d been driven by a combination of guilt and lust, determined to take care of the prickly woman who was a thorn in the side of his past.
He rubbed his gritty eyes, wishing he had the option of going back to sleep. But Wolff Enterprises expected him at the helm this morning, and he had already made one costly mistake because of this woman.
Gillian sighed in her sleep and nestled more closely into his embrace. He was on top of the comforter, hard and ready to take her. All she was wearing was a pajama top, and below the covers a next-to-nothing pair of panties. Unable to help himself, he slid a hand beneath the sheet and caressed her bottom.
Gillian sighed and turned to curl an arm around his neck. Now her breasts were pressed snugly against his arm. He slid his fingers beneath the silk at her hip and felt her warm skin. His body throbbed with arousal. A few more inches and he would be touching her most intimate secrets.
Somewhere in the house he heard muffled laughter. The sound snatched him back to sanity. God in heaven. What was he doing? Had he learned nothing from the past?
He slid from the bed with all the care of a cat burglar hoping to elude detection. It took everything he had to turn his back on Gillian and return to his room. As he showered and dressed, he reminded himself of all the reasons he couldn’t start something with his overnight visitor.
First and foremost was Gillian’s clear discomfort about the fact that her mother worked for Devlyn’s father. Devlyn could not care less, but even so, he acknowledged the difficulty of coaxing Gillian into his bed with little or no privacy for their fledgling relationship, especially when either or both of their parents might not approve.
Secondly, he owed Gillian more than a verbal apology for his shameful actions in the past. Acknowledging that he had been merely a boy when it happened was not enough. He was determined to clean the slate, and he knew just how to do it. He told himself that in this instance he was doing the right thing and not merely perpetuating his tendency to play hero to every woman who crossed his path needing help.
In college, he had supported his roommate’s pregnant girlfriend, both emotionally and financially, when the father of her baby dumped her. That altruistic action on Devlyn’s part had severed his relationship with a young man he had considered his best friend.
Not only that, the girl had latched on to the idea that lovers were interchangeable … and she set her sights on Devlyn. Only by graduating and moving hundreds of miles away had he been able to extract himself from the messy situation.
Unfortunately, it was a pattern that repeated itself in subsequent years. Every time he rushed in on his white horse to save the day, he got screwed. The secretary at work whose brother needed a job ended up hating Devlyn when he finally had to fire her worthless sibling.
Even worse was the fifty-something caterer who had accused Devlyn, over two decades her junior, of sexual harassment. He had offered to help her load her van after a staff Christmas party, and the woman had seen a chance to make a quick buck.
The Wolff lawyers settled out of court, costing the family an indecent amount of money. Now that Devlyn thought about it, it was a miracle that his dad and uncle had trusted him enough to make him CEO.
But despite his sometimes unfortunate judgment in dealing with the female sex, he was a whiz kid when it came to money matters. He’d earned his own first million, aside from the family business, by investments he’d made in his late teens.
The intensity and daily challenge of running the far-flung Wolff empire suited him perfectly. He was due back at his headquarters in Atlanta soon. Barely enough time to present his proposition to Gillian and ensure that he had finally made amends for the past.
So why was he obsessing over the image of long, slender legs and a sweetly curved bottom? The answer was simple. Logical or not, he wanted her, though she certainly deserved better than the flawed man he was.
Picking up his smartphone from the bureau, he took a deep breath and strode out into the hall. He had a dozen balls to juggle today, and he was already running behind. His personal life could wait.
Gillian rolled over and glanced at the clock, her muddled brain trying to understand why both hands pointed straight up toward the twelve. Then everything came rushing back. Her accident, the multiple disturbing and faintly erotic encounters with Devlyn Wolff. Her lack of a job.
Not the best memories with which to begin a day in which her body felt like an old woman’s. She turned her head carefully, hoping to stave off the jackhammers that threatened to crush her skull. Though she was alone in the bed, the pillow beside her bore the unmistakable imprint of someone’s head. When she tugged it closer for a sniff, the soft, expensive fabric emanated the unmistakable scent of Devlyn Wolff.
Holy cow. What had she done? Squeezing her eyes shut, she reached for images that hid in random corners of her brain. She remembered going outside. She even remembered Devlyn bringing her in and watching her take off her pants. At that point, things became hazy.
He had touched her hair … had lulled her to sleep. Then what? Surely the memory of his big, warm hand on her butt was a dream.
Stumbling into the bathroom, she splashed water on her face and noted in surprise the neatly folded pile of clean clothes that turned out to be a khaki skirt and a black scooped-neck T-shirt with a matching thin cardigan.
The clothes fit perfectly, which in itself was alarming. A man who could choose women’s apparel with such an eye was a man with far too much experience in pleasing women.
Her boots were still muddy, perhaps beyond repair, but her stealthy benefactor had included a pair of black canvas espadrilles. The shoes were a little too large, but she stuffed tissues in the toes until she was certain they were snug enough to stay on her feet.
Feeling a bit too much like Little Orphan Annie, she finally opened the envelope that lay like a coiled serpent on the bedside table.
Please join me for lunch in the library at one. Devlyn.
The house was still and quiet, almost somnolent, as if everyone in the Sleeping Beauty castle snoozed for a thousand years. Thank God her mother was not scheduled to work today. Gillian’s face would have given her away, her mother seeing at once that her daughter had fallen under the spell of a Wolff prince.
Gillian remembered the way to the library with ease. It was another place where Doreen Carlyle had kept her daughter entertained while she worked. Gillian had always been a compliant child, not one to make messes or break things. She had been more than content to curl up on the velvet-covered bench seat in the window alcove and read her favorite books for hours at a time.
In many ways, the Wolff Castle library had been her magic carpet, taking her to lands beyond the horizon, introducing her to characters whose lives were far more exotic than her own. The library had been her haven, her cozy nest. When she was there, she felt safe.
But nothing about today’s visit inspired such warm, fuzzy feelings. When she opened the door, Devlyn was already in residence, his stance at the fireplace much like the night before in her bedroom. His lips curved in a welcoming smile, but his eyes were watchful.
“Good afternoon, Gillian. I hope you were finally able to get some sleep.”
He was playing with her, trying to make her nervous. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had been the one to enter her room and drop off the clothes and the note.
“Yes,” she said stiffly. “I did. I need to check on my car.”
He shrugged. “Already taken care of…. The garage will drop it off at your mother’s house by the end of the week.”
She bit her bottom lip. “I’d like an estimate. So I can contact my insurance.”
“Let me handle this. It’s the least