Pleasured In The Billionaire's Bed

‘You have to be kidding me.’

Lisa gritted her teeth. ‘Not at all.’

His eyes flicked over her again, this time with a coolly sceptical expression. ‘You’re going to clean in that get-up?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ came Lisa’s tart reply.

She had never subscribed to the theory that a cleaner had to look like a chimney sweep. Today she was wearing white stretch Capri pants, white trainers and a chocolate-brown singlet top which showed off her nicely toned arms and honey-coloured skin. Her platinum-blonde hair was up in a white scrunchie, the way she always wore it when cleaning. Her jewellery was a simple gold chain around her neck, a narrow gold watch on her wrist and small gold hoops in her ears. Her make-up was subtle and so was her perfume. In her roomy straw hold-all—currently slung over her shoulder—was a navy, chef-size apron and two pairs of cleaning gloves, along with her calorie-friendly packed lunch and a bottle of chilled mineral water.

‘I assure you I will leave here with your place spotless and without a mark on my clothes,’ she informed him, a tad haughtily.

‘You know what, sweetheart? I believe you.’

Lisa gritted her teeth. She was within a hair’s breadth of telling him she was not his sweetheart, but the owner of Clean-in-a-Day, when he stepped back and waved her inside.

The uninterrupted sight of the spectacular living area compelled Lisa to forget her irritation, her love of all things beautiful drawing her forward till she was standing in the middle of the spacious room, surrounded by the sort of place she dreamt about owning one day. She almost sighed over the huge tinted windows, the amazing view, the acres of cream marble tiles and the wonderfully clean lines of the furniture. Nothing fussy. Everything classy and expensive. Cool leathers, in cream and a muted gold colour. The coffee-and side-tables were made of a pale wood. The rugs blended in. Nothing bright or gaudy.

Ever since she’d been a child, Lisa had hated bright colours, both in décor and clothes. She could not bear the recent fashion of putting loud, clashing colours together, oranges with pinks, and electric blues with lime greens. She literally shuddered whenever she saw red anywhere near purple.

‘I do realise that there are a lot of tiles to clean,’ he said abruptly from just behind her. ‘But Gail never had a problem.’

Lisa swung round to face him, grateful that he hadn’t thought she’d been envying him his house.

‘They won’t be any problem to me, either,’ she said swiftly. ‘I’ve been cleaning houses for years.’

‘You continue to amaze me. You look like you’ve never had a chipped fingernail in your life.’

‘Looks can be deceiving, Mr Cassidy.’

‘For pity’s sake, call me Jack. Now, a few instructions before I get back to work. Do you know about the extras I like done?’

‘You wish your sheets and towels to be changed, washed, dried and put away.’

His eyebrows lifted, then fell, his expression betraying a slight disappointment that he hadn’t caught her out in some way.

‘You’ll find everything you need in the laundry,’ he told her. ‘My bedroom is the last door on the left down that hallway,’ he said, pointing to his right. ‘My study is the first door. Did Gail warn you I don’t like to be disturbed when I work?’

‘She did mention it. She said you were a writer of some sort.’

Lisa almost asked him what kind of books he wrote, but pulled herself up in time. She’d always instructed her cleaners during their training never to become too familiar with male clients, especially ones who were in the house whilst they cleaned.

The corner of his mouth lifted in a wry fashion. ‘Yeah. A writer of some sort just about describes me at the moment.’

The sound of a telephone ringing somewhere in the penthouse brought a scowl to his face. ‘Damn! I should have switched on the answering machine. Still, I doubt it’s telemarketers at this hour in the morning. I’d better answer the darned thing,’ he grumbled before turning and marching off down the hallway to his right. ‘You might not see me later,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘I’m on a deadly deadline. Your money’s on the kitchen counter. If I don’t surface, just leave when you’re finished.’

When he disappeared into his study and shut the door after him Lisa was flooded by a weird wave of disappointment.

The realisation that she’d actually been enjoying their conversation shocked her. What was there to like about it? Or about him?

Absolutely nothing, she decided emphatically as she whirled and went in search of the laundry.

CHAPTER THREE

JACK plonked himself down in front of his computer before snatching up the nearby phone.

‘Jack Cassidy,’ he answered, leaning back into his large and very comfy office chair.

‘Jack, it’s Helene.’

‘I had a feeling it might be you,’ he said drily. Helene hadn’t become a top literary agent by letting her clients fall down on the job. This was her fourth call this week.

‘Have you finished the book yet?’

‘I’m on the last chapter.’

‘Your publisher in London has been on to me again. He said if you don’t deliver that manuscript by the end of this week, he might not be able to get it on the shelves for the British and North American summers. And you know what that means. Lower sales.’

‘It’ll be there, Helene. Tonight.’

‘Is that a promise?’

‘Have I ever let you down before?’

‘No. But that’s because I hound you to death. Which brings me to the other reason for this call. The annual literary-awards dinner is tomorrow night. You’re the hot favourite for the Golden Gun award again, so you will show up, won’t you?’

‘Wild horses won’t keep me away, Helene.’

Although he wasn’t overly fond of award nights, Jack was actually looking forward to going out tomorrow night. It had been weeks since he’d socialised in any way, shape or form. Weeks, too, since he’d slept with a woman, a fact brought home to him this morning when he’d answered the door and found a drop-dead gorgeous blonde standing there, instead of plump, homely Gail.

Despite her hoity-toity, touch-me-not manner, Lisa Chapman had certainly reminded him that there was more to life than work.

Too bad she was married. Jack’s observant eyes had noted the rings on her left hand within seconds of her introducing herself.

‘Jack! Are you there?’

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m here, Helene. Just wool-gathering.’

‘Thinking about that last chapter, I hope.’

‘All the time.’

Jack hated last chapters. He had a tendency to want to end his stories with a happily-ever-after scene. But that would be so wrong for a Hal Hunter book, especially at this stage in the series. Jack needed to come up with something seriously anti-heroish for his hero to do this time to finish up on. Couldn’t have his readers start thinking Hal was some kind of saint, just because he went around making sure the baddies got their comeuppances.

Jack knew that it was Hal’s political incorrectness which appealed to his fans. They enjoyed Hal doing what they would never dare do themselves. They thrilled to his ruthlessness, plus his uncompromising sense of justice and vengeance.

‘I’d better get back to work, Helene.’

‘Fine. But one last thing about tomorrow night. Do try to bring a girl who’s read a book this time, will you?’