The Ring on Her Finger (4 page)

Only the very,
very
rich lived in such houses. Lucy couldn’t help but feel intimidated by the place, even with her own socially advanced upbringing. The Coves obviously claimed at least three more zeroes on the bottom line of their personal wealth than the Hollanders did. And billionaires, ironically, tended to be even more possessive of their wealth than run-of-the-millionaires did. Nobody touched their bottom lines. Nobody touched them.

What must it feel like for someone like Rosemary to live in a place like this? Lucy wondered. Or for someone like Lucy French? If Lucinda Hollander was anxious about entering the house, Lucy French would be terrified.

“It’s not as scary as it looks,” Rosemary said from a few steps ahead, evidently reading Lucy’s mind. Again. “I thought the same thing when I first saw the place. Halfway expected to hear some ghostly Heathcliff calling for Cathy the first few nights I was here. After a while, you get used to it. Even if you never quite feel comfortable.”

They had arrived at a point in front of the house where the cobbled drive divided to circle a fountain depicting a trio of frolicking dolphins. But Rosemary strode past the front door without a glance. “Servants’ entrance is in the rear,” she said. “Which is more convenient for us, anyway, because that’s nearer where your quarters are. In the carriage house out back.”

“Is my room close to yours?” Lucy asked hopefully.

Even having just met Rosemary, she already liked her—with her frank speech and wry smile, it was impossible not to. It would be nice if Lucy had someone to talk to, to help her make the adjustments she was going to have to make over the next few days. Weeks. Months.

Oh, she really didn’t want to think about it.

“No, I live in the big house,” Rosemary said. “My room is next to Abby’s. The Coves travel frequently, and the child doesn’t sleep well. Someone needs to be there when she calls out.”

Meaning the parents evidently couldn’t be bothered with that, Lucy translated, even when they were home.

“But you won’t be alone out here,” Rosemary continued. “Max also lives in the carriage house.”

Max, Lucy recalled. The car guy. She formed a quick impression of a wizened, little old man of German descent who knew auto mechanics backward and forward, and who tinkered under the hoods of everything on wheels, murmuring things like, “Hmmm... Hmmm... Ah hah! De problem, you see, iss viss da discombobulator intravector svitch, vich hass gone kablooey.” Except that he would probably use real car words and not discombobulator intravector svitch. But Lucy didn’t know any real car words. So sue her.

Then another realization hit her: She’d be sharing her quarters with a strange little foreign man?

“The top of the carriage house is divided into two apartments,” Rosemary told her. Lucy wondered how long it would take for the other woman’s psychic abilities to stop giving her the willies. “Max lives in one, and you’ll be staying in the other as part of the agreement with Dust Bunnies.”

“So the Coves have lots of servants, huh?” Lucy asked, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. Just how many people was she going to have to deceive while she was here?

Rosemary nodded. “They have Mrs. Hill to cook for them every day, and Mr. Cadogen, who cares for the stables.”

Stables? Lucy thought. Just how many acres did the Coves have?

“And there’s also Dimitri,” Rosemary continued, “who comes a few days a week to see to the grounds. A few others. But it’s only me and you and Max who actually live here on the estate.”

A second building came into view, which Lucy concluded was the carriage house. She was immediately relieved. She’d be lucky if she ever met Max, because, like the Coves’ primary house, the carriage house was huge for a structure of its kind. It, too, was Tudor in design, and had it not been for the low-slung, cherry red, vintage roadster parked in front with its hood up, Lucy could have believed the building was still intended for housing carriages. Nowadays, it was clearly used as a many-car garage—and, of course, servants’ quarters. The doors spanning the lower level seemed to be original, claiming old-fashioned paned windows and filigreed handles to pull them open manually. Windows lined the entire length of the second floor, as well, where, presumably, her apartment and ol’ Max’s lay.

All in all, the carriage house was charming. Like the big house, it was beautifully landscaped, bursting around the entire perimeter with fat fuchsia-colored petunias and cascades of purple clematis. Sweeping maples that were probably a hundred years old canopied the entire roof from each side of the building.

Really, a fugitive from justice could do a lot worse for a hideout.

“The apartment’s quite charming,” Rosemary continued as they approached the carriage house. “You should be very comfortable. So what is it you’ll be studying at university this semester?” she asked, switching gears effortlessly. “I think Mrs. Cove mentioned you’re working on your master’s degree in—”

“John Donne,” Lucy piped up without thinking. “I’m studying, uh, John Donne.”

“Oh, the metaphysical poets?” Rosemary said, clearly delighted. “They’re a favorite of mine. We’ll have much to talk about.”

Oh, fabulous
, Lucy thought morosely. “Oh, fabulous,” she said cheerfully.

“So what do you think about his poem—”

A sudden
clank-clank-clank
from beneath the roadster cut short Rosemary’s question—much to Lucy’s relief—and the two women turned their heads in that direction.

“Max!” Rosemary called out over the din, bringing it to a halt. “Come out and meet Lucy! She’s to be taking Mrs. Lindstrom’s place for a few months!”

Only then did Lucy notice a pair of denim-clad legs and booted feet extending from beneath the chassis of the car on the side facing her and Rosemary. But instead of seeing a wizened little old German man push himself out from under the vehicle to say something about the discombobulator intravector svitch goink kablooey, the
clank-clank-clank
erupted again, as if the nanny had never spoken.

Poor old guy. He must be hard of hearing, too. Or maybe he just didn’t speak English very well.

Rosemary set Lucy’s suitcase down on the drive, then smiled and tilted her head toward the car. “He’s playing hard to get. Let’s go give him a nudge.”

Lucy really didn’t want to bother him, but Rosemary obviously had no qualms about it, because she was already making her way over to the little sports car. She halted next to the booted feet, then bent over at the waist to peer beneath the car. “Come on, Max. Don’t be shy.”

“I’m busy, Rosemary,” came a deep, gruff voice in reply. It didn’t sound particularly old or wizened or German.

Rosemary straightened and tapped one of the booted feet with the toe of her sandal. “Come on,” she repeated in the coaxing kind of tone one might use for an obstinate toddler. “You’re going to have to come out sooner or later. And I want to take Lucy up to the big house to show her ’round. Come meet her now, so she doesn’t frighten you later when you see her.”

Oh, so he was shy, too, Lucy thought. She made a mental note to be very polite and speak softly and not make any sudden movements when he was around.

In response to Rosemary’s cajoling came an uncomfortable expulsion of air from beneath the car. Sounded like the old guy had a bit of a respiratory problem, too. This was followed by a heartfelt groan that made Lucy think he might have arthritis, as well. She hoped the job of car guy wasn’t too much for him. Then, very slowly, the rest of his legs—surprisingly long for a little, wizened old man—began to appear from beneath the car as he pushed himself out from under it.

Lucy strode closer to the vehicle, drawn to the emerging body. The denim-clad legs were attached to firm thighs and trim hips, and those combined with a torso that was likewise covered in denim. No, wait, she realized as Max pushed himself farther out from beneath the car—the torso wasn’t exactly covered, because the denim work shirt hung open over a naked abdomen that looked way too sculpted to belong to a man of extended years. It was roped with muscle and covered with a rich scattering of dark hair that spanned his upper torso before arrowing down over a flat belly to disappear into the waistband of his jeans.

Lucy’s mouth went dry as she took in the body that revealed itself. Not old. Not wizened. Not plagued with respiratory problems. Not arthritic.
Next thing you know, he’ll be saying he’s not German, either
.

Two hands appeared next, gripping the bottom of the driver’s side door to aid the body in its journey. The fingers of those hands were long, blunt and capable-looking, smudged with grease. The denim shirt, too, was streaked with grime, as were the brawny arms, the powerful chest, the bold chin, the intrepid jaw and the—

Whoa, baby.

The face. The incredibly handsome face. The face, when it finally appeared, took Lucy by surprise. Not because it, too, was streaked with grease. And not because it belonged to a man far younger than she had guessed. But because it was, without question, the most arresting face she had ever seen. Max’s mouth was full and sculpted and very nearly pouty, as if he were in a constant state of bad temper...or a constant state of readiness to devour a woman alive. His jaws were dark and uncivil with several days’ growth of beard, but that didn’t hide the deep hollows beneath salient cheekbones. And his eyes...

Oh, his eyes.

His eyes were the smokiest, most turbulent shade of gray she’d ever seen in her life, fringed by sooty lashes, yet still looking menacing beneath a shock of espresso-colored hair. The moment Lucy’s gaze connected with his, a crackle of something hot and reckless bolted through her, and every scrap of decent thought fled her brain. She was, for the first time in her life, speechless. Though not entirely thoughtless. In fact the thoughts dashing through her head were actually quite graphic. Unfortunately, none of them was in any way appropriate for her to be entertaining in mixed company.

Good thing she was speechless.

Rosemary, however, suffered no such condition. “Lucy French,” she said with a smile, “meet Max Hogan. Max, Lucy. Looks like you two are going to be roommates for a bit. I hope you can get along.”

As Max Hogan shoved himself from beneath Justin Cove’s 1958 BMW 507 roadster and filled his gaze with the woman who stood over him, he did his best—honest, he did—not to look up her skirt. Her very short, very snug, very tempting little skirt. The short, snug skirt that—Whoa, momma—showcased some luscious gams. They were the kind of legs he could envision, too well, all naked and sweaty, wrapped around his equally naked and sweaty waist, as he gripped her hips in both hands, and lifted her off the bed to—

Dammit.

He wasn’t supposed to be thinking those things, he reminded himself. It wasn’t allowed. He bit back a growl of frustration along with a few ripe expletives when he realized that, once again, his efforts to be noble had failed. But then, he wasn’t a noble guy, was he? Not by a long shot. And hell, how could he be expected not to look up the woman’s skirt, when looking up her skirt was the closest thing he’d had to a sexual encounter in five years?

An attractive young woman on the estate, he thought dismally. Just what he needed. He forced his gaze upward, pulling his attention from her luscious gams. Unfortunately, doing that left him gazing at her even more luscious hips, the ones he’d just envisioned filling his hands. So he propelled his gaze higher still, which—
Ah, hell
—left him looking at her breasts. And those, he decided, were her best feature yet, full and round, the scooped neck of her snug little shirt only hinting at their perfection. Those, too, he could easily envision naked and sweaty—not to mention filling his hands—as he lifted them toward his mouth so that he could—

Dammit.

He forced his gaze yet higher, until it fell on the woman’s face, which was even better than the rest of her. That was when he realized exactly how much trouble he was in. The last thing Max needed to have around him was a pretty woman with silky brown hair that just begged for a man’s fingers to thread through it, and eyes bluer than the summer sky. A woman who, judging by her expression, knew exactly what Max had been thinking about ever since he pushed himself out from under the car.

Then he realized something else that pretty much sealed his doom: judging by her expression, she might not take exception to the kind of naked, sweaty behavior he’d been thinking about. In fact, judging by her expression, she might be entertaining a few naked, sweaty thoughts of her own.

This really was the last thing he needed. A pretty woman wandering around the estate who made him feel things he had no business feeling. Max had promised himself—he had sworn an oath—five years ago that he would never, ever, allow himself to feel things like that again. Feelings like that could lead to happiness. And happiness was the last thing he deserved.

He told himself he shouldn’t be surprised by the intensity and immediacy of his reaction to her. Any man who’d gone without sex for as long as he had, especially when he’d been used to a steady diet before going cold turkey, would react the same way. But he’d thought living the way he had chosen to live since... Well, living the way he had chosen to live for the last five years—a quiet, secluded life, far away from the fast lanes of Europe, where he’d lived too fast for too long—would keep him safe from encounters like this one.

Hell, it was bad enough that he had to see Rosemary every day and be reminded of what he was missing. Not that he’d ever consider hitting on Rosemary, even under normal circumstances, even in his previous life. She was too nice a girl, even if she was pretty. Hitting on Rosemary would be like hitting on a nun, so sweet and chaste and innocent and Catholic was she. This new one, however... She went beyond pretty. And in that tempting little skirt, and that tempting little shirt, garments that made it all too easy to envision her naked and sweaty and—

Dammit.

Well, she just didn’t seem sweet or chaste or innocent, that was all. He supposed there was a possibility she could be Catholic. Not that that was a problem, since Max Hogan had always been an equal opportunity womanizer. He had, however, always steered clear of one type of woman: Nice Girls. Of course, nowadays, he steered clear of All Girls. There was a reason for that, but it was one he never dwelled on because it made his heart hurt—among other body parts. Nevertheless, he was determined to resist this woman, the same way he’d resisted all others. Why torture himself that way?