The Maid's Daughter. Janice Maynard
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faint, unintended criticism in her tone. “As you’ve already mentioned, I live in Atlanta,” he said stiffly. “When I visit, I usually stay up in the big house with my dad and uncle.” He paused. “If it would make you more comfortable, we can stay at Jacob’s place. He and his wife won’t care.”
“He’s the one married to the movie star, right? Ariel Dane?”
“Yep. She’s a sweetheart.”
Gillian’s spirits plunged to a new low. The gorgeous, sexy Wolff men had their pick of models, heiresses and celebrities. It wasn’t simply a matter of money. It was a lifestyle.
“I don’t think it would be appropriate for the two of us to spend the night alone,” she said, regretting the prim stuffiness in her words as soon as they left her mouth.
Devlyn snorted, and tried to pretend it was a cough. “I promise to be on my best behavior,” he said, irony in every syllable. “But if it makes you feel more comfortable, we’ll stay at the big house.”
“Thank you.”
By the time they pulled up in front of the massive structure that looked like Cinderella’s castle on steroids, Gillian had trouble getting out of the car. Devlyn took her arms and gently pulled her to her feet. “Poor Gillian,” he said.
The soft croon in his deep voice made her tremble. She was unable to protest when he scooped her up and carried her into the house. Striding through darkened hallways, he set a course for a back staircase that led to the second floor. Thankfully, they met no one on the way.
Devlyn paused before a half-open doorway. “This is my room. There’s an adjoining suite with a door you can lock. But if you need assistance during the night, you can text me or call me and I’ll get you anything you need.”
How about you, Devlyn Wolff? In the buff. Sliding on top of me and …
Her breath caught in her throat. She was suffering the effects of a long dry spell in the sex department. That’s why she wanted to nibble his throat despite the fact that she felt as if she’d been run over by the proverbial truck. Proximity and deprivation. Simple explanations for the electric connection she felt to a man who was in no way an appropriate object of her fantasies.
Well, yes … for fantasy … in the abstract. But not at all healthy or practical to imagine him … and her … together … Oh, Lord. Her thighs clenched and her nipples tightened. She prayed he didn’t notice.
His bed was neatly made. But a pair of jeans hung haphazardly over the back of an armchair, and a paperback crime novel lay upside down on the mahogany nightstand.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she croaked.
Without acknowledging her comment, he took her, still in his arms, through the doorway into a room that was almost as large as his but was decorated in more feminine tones. Ever so gently, he set her on her feet. “Bathroom’s through there. I’ll see if I can round you up some clean clothes, and I’ll call Jacob to see what medicine you can take.”
Before she could catch her breath, he was gone.
She hobbled into the luxurious bathroom and stared in the mirror. If she’d had any illusions about her comparison to the female companionship usually enjoyed by Wolff men, they were shattered decisively by her reflection. Even on a good day, she didn’t stand out in a crowd. Right now, she looked ghastly.
Stripping out of her rain-damp clothes, she adjusted the water and stepped into the shower. The hot pelting spray hurt in a good way, the steamy warmth penetrating her bones. Already, bruises were showing up on her too-pale skin. She’d taught a summer-school session instead of going to the beach with her girlfriends, and look where that had gotten her.
Knowing she didn’t have the strength or the will to blow-dry her hair, and since she’d shampooed it the night before, she was careful to keep it from getting wet. As she stepped out of the shower and was drying off, a knock on the door startled her so much that she dropped her towel. “Don’t come in,” she cried, scrambling to cover her indecent bits.
A chuckle was her only answer. The door eased open a scant foot. One long-fingered, tanned hand reached in holding soft, clean clothes. The items landed on the counter with a muted plop, and the hand withdrew.
Gillian scurried forward and locked the knob with what sounded like a gunshot-loud click. She was pretty sure she heard Devlyn laugh again. The bounty he had provided included a set of lounging pj’s … the kind you see in the Neiman Marcus catalog, the kind only rich women owned and wore.
The fabric was incredibly soft and warm, though not thick … some sort of cashmere blend. The cinnamon shade flattered her hair and added a snippet of color to her washed-out complexion.
She put on naughty silk panties that most likely belonged to Devlyn’s sister, Annalise, then slipped into the top and pants. Devlyn hadn’t added a bra. Gillian’s own underwear tended toward cotton practicality. The new undies made her aware of the place between her thighs that throbbed as insistently as her injuries. And her breasts rubbed sensuously against the velvetlike fabric.
When she exited the bathroom, barefooted, she stopped short. Devlyn stood by the fireplace where a fire crackled with blissful heat. He had dragged a small table near the hearth, and it was set with an array of dishes. Her stomach growled audibly.
He held out a hand. “Come eat. And Jacob said you can double the usual dose of over-the-counter pain meds. If he were here, he could give you something stronger.”
Shyness engulfed her. She had to force herself to approach him. “That will be fine. Don’t worry about me.”
He held out her chair, his arm brushing her shoulder as she sat down. “I can’t seem to help it,” he said wryly.
The carpet beneath her feet was soft as a cloud. She curled her toes into it and took a deep breath. “I know you didn’t cause my accident,” she said, looking up at him through downcast lashes. “I was just in a bad mood. I’m sorry.”
He sat down as well, and poured each of them a cup of tea. The juxtaposition of his big, manly hands against the wafer-thin china teapot was incongruous and alarming. How could she keep him at arm’s length if he didn’t remain in the box she had labeled “spoiled rich philanderer.”
She didn’t want to like Devlyn Wolff. Not at all.
He took her lack of enthusiasm the wrong way. “It’s herbal tea,” he said. “No caffeine. But I can get you coffee if you’d rather have it.”
Picking up the lovely ivory cup scattered with blue forget-me-nots, she shook her head. “I prefer the tea. Thank you.”
He had fixed a tray of sandwiches as well—tiny, slightly ragged squares of white bread with the crusts removed. Peanut butter and honey.
Her whole body tensed. “Why did you make these?” she asked, her insides in a knot.
Devlyn shrugged, his expression moody. “As a penance, I guess. I remember watching you eat them in the kitchen when your mother was on her lunch break. I was jealous, you know. My mother never cooked anything.”
Gillian didn’t know what to say to that. No one cooked peanut butter. But she understood what he was telling her.
He waved a hand. “You need to eat something so the medicine won’t upset your stomach.”
Too late. The accident, this intimate tête-à-tête, Devlyn’s unexpected domesticity … all of it had her in turmoil.
Mute and uncomfortable, she picked up a piece of sandwich, chewed and swallowed. The familiar tastes from her childhood opened a floodgate of memories. His hostility. Her feelings of inferiority. The emotions were as sharp and crisp as yesterday.
Yet he spoke of penance.
“You have nothing for which to apologize,” she said slowly, eyeing him over the rim of her teacup. “You were hurting. We