Or what if my mom decided to punish me, by telling me the wrong time? That’s exactly the kind of thing she would do, and if I called her on it, she’d tell me to stop lying.
I head downstairs to check the front room, because I’d rather lose a few minutes of time for makeup than be surprised by one of Daddy’s “secret” grown-up magazines on the coffee table with Sergio De Fiore beside me.
My feet slap the wooden floors as I skip downstairs. The sound always echoes more when I’m alone. Or maybe I’m louder because I know can be, without either one of my parents yelling at me to be quiet.
I stand stock-still at the arched entrance to the front room. There’s a man inside, his broad back facing me. Air whooshes out of my lungs, in a hurry even though I’m frozen in place. For only a second terror speeds through my veins, as if maybe he’s Di Fiore let inside by the butler we don’t have, wearing a smudged white T-shirt instead of a suit.
Except it’s not the mobster.
No, worse than that. It’s the gardener.
* * *
He smiles when he sees me, as unconcerned as if we were friends saying hello in class. “Good morning, princess. You’re up early this morning.”
I don’t even know where to stay with him. That smug handsome smile. The word princess. Or the fact that he’s making fun of my sleeping habits. How does he even know my sleeping habits?
“What are you doing here?” I sputter.
He lifts a crystal tumbler, one finger of some no-doubt expense liquor at the bottom. “Having a drink. You said the kitchen was off limits, but I was thirsty. Hope this is okay.”
His twinkling dark eyes tell me he knows it’s not okay.
Challenge lights the air between us, electric and hot. Part of me wants to pick up the phone on the side table and call mother. The second she knows he’s stomped all over her oriental rugs with his muddy work boots, he’s fired.
That would be a cheap win, though. Too easy. Too banal. Besides, I like the thought of him stomping all over her oriental rugs with his muddy work boots.
“Of course,” I say, sarcasm sharpening my words. “We always offer gardeners top shelf vodka.”
He merely lifts a dark eyebrow. How is it possible for eyebrows to look low class? His do. They’re a mess, broad and unruly. I want to run my tongue over them, smooth them out.
“Do you always show up half-dressed for them, too?” he asks in a musing tone. “Because that’s a real perk. They should put that in their classified ad.”
My cheeks burn hot as I realize how little I’m wearing. The bath towel covers from the slope of my breasts to the tops of my thighs. It’s held together by so little—only the tuck of terry cloth. If it came undone right now I’d be naked in front of him.
“Tell me your name,” I demand, lifting my chin.
“So you can tell your mother about me?”
“Maybe I will.”
“And if I tell her that you came downstairs in only a towel? That you tried to have sex with me? That you were the one who drank half the bottle of scotch?”
My mouth drops open. “That’s a lie.”
“Does that surprise you? That other people lie, too?” He must see the shock on my face; his smile is smile and smug. “Yes, I know about you. Poor little Emily Coulter, can’t tell the truth to save her life.”
A knot around my throat, pulled taut by thick dirt-stained fingers. “How would you know that?” That’s my family’s dirty little secret, but not the worst one. Not by far.
“I know lots of things.”
“And anyway, why are you back already? It’s only been three days. The hedges don’t need to be trimmed every damn day.”
His smile comes slow. “You don’t trust me?”
“Not as far as I could throw you.”
There’s something strange about him, something a little dangerous.
Unfortunately that only makes me like him more.
“In that case my name is Niko. And I don’t think you’re going to tell your Mom a damn thing. Not when she’s drunk half the time and gone the rest. Not when she wouldn’t believe you anyway.”
“How do you know anything about her?”
“And your dad,” he continues as if I didn’t speak. “Well, he’s barely ever home. I wonder if that’s why your mother drinks. Or maybe it’s because her daughter is a liar.”
My eyes narrow. “What I tell my parents is none of your concern. They aren’t here right now. You’re in my house, and I’m your employer.”
His dark gaze calls me on the bluff, sweeping over me in from my neck to my ankles, the space in between flushing warm as if he can see through thick towels. He can’t, he can’t. But my nipples bead tight beneath his perusal, and God, I think he can see the points of them. His smile is blinding white mischief. He can definitely see them.
