At Your Service, Jack. Brenda Hammond
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U.K. Trying not to feel intimidated, Freddi jabbed the bell. Again the door opened.
Dark eyebrows crunched together. “I told you to go away!”
Quickly, before he could close the door, she shoved her foot into the narrowing gap.
“Just a minute!” Her voice rose horribly close to a squeal. “You’re expecting me.”
“I am?” The door opened a fraction wider. “You must be mistaken.” He folded his arms across the not-to-be-ignored width of his chest. “I know that the woman I’m expecting tonight is tall and blond, just as I specified. Obviously, you don’t fit the bill.”
Quickly he looked her up and down, one eyebrow quirking when he saw her footwear. “Quite apart from the fact that—” unfolding his arms, he shot his wrist forward and checked his watch “—if you are the babe from the agency, you’re an hour early.”
Jet lag must have affected her ears, because it simply wasn’t possible that she’d heard him correctly.
“I thought I was precisely on time,” Freddi protested. “And what difference would my height or the color of my hair make?”
He smiled, a slow, sizzling smile, “Blond hair and long legs are guaranteed to turn me on. So now—” he gripped the doorjamb “—you can remove your foot and its reptilian casing.”
Blinking at him, she did as he asked. He promptly stepped back and shut the door.
She stared at the unyielding barrier. Life seemed determined to hand her yet another obstacle, not satisfied with the fact that she was broke, carless and homeless. In spite of the hollow feeling that was spreading through her, she couldn’t give up. Mustering her courage, she leaned on the bell again.
After four seconds her new employer reappeared. “What is your problem, lady?” His frown was fearsome to behold.
“My problem?” In agitation she began to swing her carry-on bag backward and forward. “There must be a misunderstanding here.”
“You misunderstood when I told you to get lost?” His glance flicked down to the purse/pendulum and he took a step back, as if worried that she would hit him in the crown jewels.
“No.” She swallowed. “But are you really sure that’s what you want?” Stilling the bag, she stuck her aristocratic nose in the air. “My idea—” she said in her snottiest tone “—is that your butler is not supposed to turn you on.”
The man goggled at her.
She gave a sniff, determined not to succumb to tears. “Maybe I’ll just climb back into the taxi and return to the airport.”
“Did you say butler?”
“Yes.” She stared back at him, beginning to get annoyed. Even if she usually managed to remain cool and dignified, this combination of circumstances was rather daunting. Her years of secretarial work had gone smoothly, predictably. But her salary had hardly been enough to keep a racehorse fed, let alone pay for the sky-high Visa bill her ex-fiancé, Simon, had saddled her with. His sister Tabitha, her friend who owned the buttling agency, had convinced Freddi to take this job, saying it would solve all her financial problems and set her on track again. Because of her upbringing, Freddi knew exactly what a butler should do. She could easily wing it, and Mr. Jack Carlisle would be none the wiser.
Freddi took a small step closer to him. “As you didn’t hear the first time, I’ll repeat. I’m Elliott, your butler, you…If you intend to send me away, then the least you can do is give me some money to pay the driver. I don’t think he’ll accept my Visa.” Not that it would do any good if he did, she thought.
Maybe the man didn’t understand English too well, because instead of responding, he just stood there, arms folded, biceps bulging, staring at her out of hazel eyes. She clutched at the strap of her bag. This was going from bad to worse. She’d just about called Mr. Jack Carlisle an idiot. Not the best way to impress her new employer. The dreaded jet lag must have exaggerated that impetuous streak she’d been working so hard to eliminate, making her forget that she really needed this job.
So much for the warm welcome she’d been expecting. While snow accumulated on her shoulders, her courage dwindled. Yet another undisclosed, pernicious side effect of air travel. Clearly Mr. Carlisle was far too obtuse, far too crass for her to live with for the next three months. Bad enough to have to perform the role of butler at all. She’d only given in to Tabby’s urgings because she was desperate for a way out of her difficulties. But to perform such a role for Jack Carlisle would be impossible.
Freddi turned on her heel, thinking she’d better cut her losses and leave. She took two and a half tottering steps before Mr. Obnoxious called out.
“Wait!”
At that moment her serpent boots decided she should take a shortcut. Her heels slid out from under her and she found herself dumped on her rear end, gliding downward. Visions of lying in a pathetic heap at the bottom of the stairs were suddenly preempted. Jack leaned out and grabbed her arm, saving her from a slippery fate. The man had quick reflexes, she’d grant him that, even if he was slow on the uptake. Through the thick wool of her Jaeger coat she could feel the strength of his grip.
He hauled her upright with one large, firm hand, and continued to hold her, his gaze steady. “Just a minute. I’m starting to get the picture here. You said you’re Freddi who?”
“Freddi Elliott, your new butler—presuming you are Mr. Jack Carlisle—”
Jack didn’t say anything.
“But I’ve decided to quit before I begin,” she muttered, doing her best to sound aloof, an effect which she could achieve rather well.
“Let me get this straight,” he began.
A mild bout of dizziness hit her and she swayed, closing her eyes. His grip tightened.
“You’re Elliott, my butler, right? The agency sent you.”
Eyes open again, she looked up at him. “Both statements are one hundred percent correct.”
“But you’re not supposed to be a woman!”
She raised her eyebrows and closed her lids in a gesture that used to drive her younger brother crazy. Then, putting on her best expression of disdain, she looked down at the fingers curled around her upper arm. They sent strange sensations dancing across her skin.
“You’d better not be discriminating against my gender,” she warned, latching on to one last hope. “That’s illegal.” Her words were beginning to slur and she felt light-headed. The combination of extreme fatigue and jet lag was taking its toll.
He pulled her toward the door. “You’d better come inside. We can’t sort this out here.”
In spite of the freezing weather, Jack Carlisle wore a sleeveless T-shirt and his feet were bare. When he at last allowed her into the narrow, three-story house, Freddi understood why. Compared with the icy confines of her family’s baronial mansion, which cost far more to heat than her father could afford, Jack’s home was kept tropically warm.
Freddi followed him from the small, slate-floored entrance hall up three steps and into a large open space, one section of which held a long, dark oak table. He skirted the open stairwell with its spiral staircase, passed the dining section and flopped down onto a large, low easy chair. In front of this sat a matching ottoman. Jack put his bare feet up and crossed them at the ankles, regarding her with an enigmatic expression.
Her new employer had not suggested she remove her hat or coat, and now he neglected to invite her to sit down. Mr. Carlisle was definitely in urgent need of tuition in the normal politesse of everyday life. He didn’t even seem to care that it was rude to stare. At any other time, as part of her expanded job description, she would have tactfully pointed out these lapses.
Feeling self-conscious in the focus of Jack’s gaze, she dropped onto one corner of the six-foot-long black leather