Playboy Bachelors. Marie Ferrarella
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the child remained firmly planted on the front step.
He was about to repeat his question when she suddenly answered it—and added to his initial confusion. “I came about the job.”
“The job?” he echoed, momentarily lost. And then it hit him. The woman with the perfect mouth and translucent complexion was referring to the housekeeping position he’d called the paper about this morning. Boy, that was fast.
“Oh, the job,” he repeated with feeling, glad that was finally cleared up. Beautiful women did not just appear on his doorstep for no reason, not unless they were looking for Georges. “Right. Sure. C’mon in,” he invited, gesturing into the house.
Philippe stepped back in order to allow both the woman and the little girl with her to come inside.
The woman still seemed just the slightest bit hesitant. Then, winding her left hand more tightly around her purse, she entered. Her right hand was firmly attached to the little girl. Philippe found himself vaguely curious as to what the woman had in her purse that seemed to give her courage. Mace? A gun? He decided maybe it was better that he didn’t know.
“My name’s Kelli, what’s yours?” The question came not from the woman but from the child, uttered in a strong voice that seemed completely out of harmony with her small body.
He wondered if Kelli would grow into her voice. “Philippe,” he told her.
The girl nodded, as if she approved of the name. It amused him that she didn’t find his name odd or funny because of the French pronunciation. She had old eyes, he noted.
The personification of curiosity, Kelli scanned her surroundings. Had she not been tethered to the woman’s hand, he had the impression that Kelli would have taken off to go exploring.
Her eyes were as blue as her mother’s. “Is this your house?” the girl asked.
He felt the corners of his mouth curving. There was something infectious about Kelli’s inquisitive manner. “Yes.”
She raised her eyes up the stairs to the second floor. “It looks big.”
Philippe wondered if all this was spontaneous, or if the woman had coached her daughter to ask certain questions for her. Children’s innocent inquiries were hard to ignore.
Deciding to assume that Kelli was her mother’s shill, he addressed his answer to the woman instead of the child.
“It’s not, really,” he assured the blonde. “It looks a great deal bigger on the outside, but mine is just the middle house.” He spread his hands wide to encompass the area. “This is actually three houses made to look like one.”
The information created a tiny furrow on the woman’s forehead, right between her eyes. She looked as if his words had annoyed her. “I’m familiar with the type,” the woman replied softly.
“Good.”
The lone word hung in midair between them like a damp curtain.
He’d never had a housekeeper before. As a matter of fact, he’d never interviewed anyone for any sort of position before and hadn’t the slightest idea how to go about it now without sounding like a complete novice. Or worse, a complete idiot. The image didn’t please him.
Clearing his throat again, Philippe pushed on. “Then you know there won’t be much work involved.”
The woman smiled as if she was sharing some secret joke with herself. She had a nice smile. Otherwise, he might have taken offense.
“No disrespect, Mr. Zabelle,” she said as she appeared to slowly take stock of his living room and what she could see beyond it, “but I’ll be the judge of that.” She turned to face him. “Once you tell me exactly what it is you have in mind.”
He had no idea why that would cause him to almost swallow his tongue. Maybe it was the way she looked at him or, more likely, the way she’d uttered that phrase. She certainly didn’t remind him of any housekeeper he’d ever come across while living at his mother’s house.
“Have you done this before?” he asked. In his experience, housekeepers were usually older women, more likely than not somewhat maternal looking. This one was neither and if there was one thing he wanted, it was someone experienced. But he was a fair man and willing to be convinced.
She looked at him as if he’d just insulted her. “Yes,” she replied with more than a little feeling. “I have references. I can show them to you once we finish talking about the basics here.”
He nodded at the information, although when he’d find the time to check her references was beyond him. Maybe he could get Alain or Remy to do it for him. Both had more free time than he did.
She was obviously waiting for him to define the requirements. He gave it his best shot. “Well, I won’t be asking you to do anything you haven’t done before.”
That didn’t come out quite right, he realized the minute he’d said it.
The blonde reinforced his impression. Blinking, she asked, “Excuse me?”
He must have said something wrong but hadn’t the slightest idea what. There was no clue forthcoming from the woman’s daughter either. Kelli seemed amused by the whole exchange. Maybe she wasn’t a little girl after all, just a very short adult. Her face was certainly expressive enough to qualify.
Philippe tried again. “I mean, it’ll be the usual. Some light dusting.” He shrugged, thinking. “Shopping once a week.”
The woman’s mouth dropped open. And still managed to look damn sensual. It belatedly occurred to him that he still didn’t even know her name. “I don’t—”
“Do windows?” he completed her sentence. “That’s okay, I have a service that comes by twice a year to wash my windows.” There was no way he could reach the upper portion of some of them even if he did have the time, which he didn’t. “I just need someone to clean up—nothing major,” he assured her quickly, “because most of the time, I’m holed up in my office.” He jerked a thumb toward the rear of the house. “And I’d rather you didn’t come in there.”
The woman shook her head, as if put off. “Mr. Zabelle, I think there’s been some mistake.”
He didn’t want there to be some mistake. He wanted her to take the job. He couldn’t see himself going through this process over and over again.
Philippe took a stab at the reason for her comment. “You’re full-time, right?”
“When I work, yes.”
Philippe paused, thinking. “I really don’t need anyone fulltime.”
“I think what you need is an interpreter.” Her response confused him, but before he could tell her as much, she was saying, “When I start a job, Mr. Zabelle, I finish it.”
Well, that was a good trait, he thought, but he still wasn’t going to hire her full-time. “That’s very admirable, but like I said, I’m only going to need someone once a week.”
Rather than accept that, he saw her put her hands on her waist. “And why is that?”
Maybe this was a mistake after all. He could have gone to the store and back in the amount of time he’d spent verbally dancing around with this woman. “Because there won’t be enough to keep you occupied,” he told her tersely. “I’m pretty neat.”
She shook her head as if to clear it. “What does your being neat have to do with it?”
“I realize you probably charge the same whether you’re working for a slob or someone who’s relatively neat—”
She cut him off before he could finish. “I charge according to what the client requests, Mr. Zabelle, not based on whether they’re sloppy or neat.”
That sounded a hell of a lot more personal than just cleaning his house.