'Tis the Season (5 page)

But avoidance wasn't going to erase what had happened or make things any better. She had to face the consequences of what she'd done. Hell, what
they'd
done. If only she could get the images of Charles out of her head.

She still couldn't believe it. She kept closing her eyes and feeling his lean, hard body against hers . . . smelling the salty, masculine scent of his skin mixed with expensive scotch on his breath . . . oh, his
mouth
. The way he'd kissed her, his wicked, talented tongue, the feel of his warm breath as he'd panted and groaned with pleasure, and whispered her name when they . . .
oh, God.
Her belly did another wobbly flip.

She had to stop thinking about it. When she let herself remember how good he'd felt, how unbelievably raw and passionate it had been, she felt fresh stirrings of want and need unfurl low in her belly.

That's how it was when you had sex for the first time in too many years, she supposed. No matter how gorgeous and sexy the man was or wasn't, you weren't going to be able to stop thinking about it anytime soon.

She finished half of the book, not leaving until the store closed at ten and she had no choice. Her anxiety started to kick in again as she drove home—
home . . .
It wasn't her home. It was Charles Harrison's home, and she was merely hired help.

He paid her extremely well, better than most nannies, because he'd gone through three before he hired her and was desperate to keep someone. To him, a high salary and full benefits were incentives, and for most people, it absolutely would have been. She made $1,500 a week in salary and had free room and board. He had bought a BMW minivan solely for her to use for the kids and herself, covered her fully with medical insurance, gave her every Sunday off and Saturdays too if she asked, took her with him and the kids on his fancy vacations three times a year . . . She had a great life. And all she had to do in return was make his life much, much easier for him.

He paid her to be a mom. God knew she'd come to feel like his children's mom; she lived with them, took care of them, and knew them inside and out. But she wasn't their mother. She was just an employee. As comfortable as Lisette had become, as much as she genuinely loved those kids, none of it mattered. She was dispensable. And after last night, she had a feeling she would find out just how dispensable she was. As kind as he was, things would be awkward. Charles would likely feel he had no choice but to ask her to leave, and she'd have to find a new family to care for. If she even could. How would she possibly be able to explain why she had left the best job she'd ever had? What would she do?

As she pulled into the long driveway, her heart hammered, and she sniffed back threatening tears. Turning off the engine, she sat in the minivan for a few minutes. Deep breath in . . . deep breath out. Calling on every tactic her mother had ever taught her, she willed herself to calm down. She had to be calm when she went inside.

Opening the front door as quietly as possible, she listened. No sound. It was past ten-thirty; the children were asleep, and hopefully Charles was too. She hung her jacket in the front hall closet, slipped her keys into the crystal bowl, and tiptoed to the staircase.

“Lisette.”

She froze at the sound of his deep voice behind her, then turned. Charles leaned against the high arch between the foyer and the living room, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking at her with a cool, unreadable expression. He was good at that. He never let what he felt show on his face. It was one of the many things that made him such a successful businessman. She envied that skill, now more than ever.

“I've been waiting for you,” he said quietly.

“Why?” she asked, knowing how stupid the question was.

“We need to talk,” he said. “About last night.” He pushed off the arch and took a few steps toward her. His blue eyes pinned her from behind his black-rimmed glasses. As he got closer, she also noticed his eyes were bloodshot, the only evidence of his wildness the night before. Clean-shaven, dressed in jeans and a thin black sweater—even his casual look was devastatingly handsome. He looked like he'd stepped off the cover of a magazine. Did he have to look so damn good when she was trying to ignore how she felt about him and was possibly about to lose everything?

Her mouth went dry. She cleared her throat and licked her lips, noticing how his eyes went to her mouth when she did. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she said, “Are you going to fire me now? If you are, please just get it over with.”

Chapter Five

“What?” Charles stared at Lisette, his face contorting with confusion and surprise. “No, I'm not going to fire you. Hell, all day I was hoping you weren't going to quit.”

Her mouth fell open, and he caught the flash of shock in her eyes. “Seriously?”

“Yes! I don't want you to leave. God knows I'm not thinking of firing you. All day I just hoped you . . . that you were all right.” He took another tentative step toward her, closing the gap. He wondered if she could tell how remorseful and repentant he felt. He hoped so. “But before anything else, I need to apologize.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, steeled himself, and made himself look directly at her. “My behavior last night was inexcusable. It all happened so fast . . . Lisette, I'm so sorry.”

To his surprise, she shook her head. “Don't do that. No apology necessary. There were
two
of us involved.” She swallowed hard, but met his gaze. “I got carried away too. It was . . . intense. We got swept away in the moment. We're both human.”

He peered closer at her, and her erotic whisper from last night resounded in his head:
“Please don't stop.”
A shiver went through him as he remembered the primal need in her voice. Now, he studied her face. He saw fear there, a touch of resignation, but she stood straight and strong. Not shying away from what they'd done. He respected her even more for that, but no way would he let her shoulder the blame. “Yes, but I initiated it. I mean, you didn't . . . I just . . .” Not used to fumbling for words, he muttered a curse and raked his hands through his hair. Blowing out an exasperated breath, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Fuck, this is awkward, huh?”

A surprised laugh burst from her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, her dark eyes flying wide.

He laughed softly at her reaction, the initial tension broken. Both of them seemed to relax a bit. “Why don't we go to the den and talk? Instead of here in the hallway.”

She paused, then nodded. “Yes. Good idea. Do you want tea or something?”

“Lisette . . .” He shoved his hands into his pockets again. “You're off the clock. You don't have to get me anything or do anything. Just sit and talk with me.” He watched her face, saw the surprise there. “I think in order to have this awkward conversation, we need to just be a man and a woman, not an employer and his employee. We need to be on equal ground.”

Her dark eyes held his for a long beat before she murmured, “Thank you for that. For respecting me enough to suggest that.”

“I've always respected you,” he said quickly. “Last night doesn't change that. The only one I've lost respect for on this one is me. I'm disgusted with myself.”

The look in her eyes changed, and he realized how that might have sounded.

“Wait,
you
don't disgust me. You understand?” he insisted, making sure he was clear. “I'm disgusted with
myself
, with my behavior, with my lack of decency and control. I honestly don't know what came over me last night. I wasn't myself. Damn, I've made such a mess of things.” He sighed, shook his head, and admitted, “I don't want you to be uncomfortable here now. I want to make this right, if I can. Most of all, I don't want you to quit. I really, really don't want you to leave, okay?”

“Wow.” Her long lashes fluttered as she gaped at him. “It's a relief to hear you say that. Because I really don't want to leave. I . . . I love this job.”

“Good.” He nodded a little too hard, but he didn't care. “That's good. You're so great with the kids—they've truly connected with you. I don't think they could bear it if you left. And I'd never forgive myself if you left because of one mistake, a mistake that was mostly my fault.”

Her cheeks flushed, and he wasn't sure why. Then she simply said, in her usual soft, melodious voice, “Let's go talk in the den.”

They walked together down the hall. He paused to let her enter the room first, watching her as she went in. The comfortable, open den was for when he wanted to entertain company in a more casual space than his extravagant living room. There were no toys there. The only electronic device was a flat-screen on one wall, taking up almost half of it. The curtains were drawn, hiding the floor-to-ceiling wide window that looked out on the back part of the property. In the corner was a wide, cushioned loveseat; Charles knew she often liked to read there at night. He'd been waiting there for two hours for Lisette to return home, reading himself while he listened for the front door and telltale tinkle of keys.

She stood in the middle of the den, looking at him uncertainly.

“Please, sit down.” He gestured toward the long, curved couch. She sank down onto one end of it, almost curling away from him into the arm. He sat on the other end, giving her plenty of space, but turned to face her directly. He wouldn't shy away from her or any part of this conversation. It was too important.

He couldn't help but let his eyes roam over her. She looked tired, uneasy . . . and so damn pretty. Her thick, dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail; she had no makeup on, and was dressed simply in a long navy cowl-neck sweater and gray yoga pants. And she was lovely. He'd always found her attractive, but now something new was happening when he looked at her; something sinful and dangerous stirred deep in his core. When he watched her nervously lick her full lips, his blood began to heat and pulse through his limbs, rushing throughout his body. Those sweet, warm lips had driven him crazy last night . . .

Jesus, he had to stop thinking of her that way. He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “I don't know where to begin,” he admitted.

She nodded in agreement, fidgeting with a thread on the end of her sweater. “Neither do I.”

A long, awkward beat passed before he blurted out, “I basically threw myself at you. Or, more correctly, on top of you. I'm so embarrassed . . .”

Her eyes flickered down, glued to her fingertips as they played with the loose thread and made it longer.

“Will you forgive me?” he asked, his voice low and tight. “Can we get past this?”

* * *

When Charles said that, Lisette couldn't help but look up at him in shock. His features were taut with remorse. “There's nothing to forgive,” she said.

“I took you on my
couch
,” he choked out.

“We took each other,” she retorted. “I didn't exactly lie there like a corpse.”

He jolted at her words. “No, you didn't. That's . . . certainly true,” he murmured, eyes blazing. “There are some blurry holes in my memory of last night, but not about that.”

She felt her face heat and swallowed hard.

“I didn't mean that like . . . what I meant was . . .” Charles swore under his breath. “I'm not trying to demean you, or downplay what happened. But, well . . . it was pretty hot. It felt mutual. So I'm just trying to make sure you didn't feel . . . coerced. Or, God forbid, that I hurt you in any way. Those things are the most important here, Lisette.”

“Hurt me? No, of course not. And no, you didn't force me,” she said. “I never felt that way, not for a second.”

“Good.” He nodded and exhaled, visibly relieved. “Good, I'm so glad.”

“You asked me if you should stop,” she reminded him. “And I . . .” Her cheeks flamed. “I told you
not
to stop. It was mutual. Consensual. Okay?”

He stared at her, and she wished she knew what he was thinking. He looked so troubled.

“Charles,” she ventured. “Last night, when I found you? You seemed very . . . unhappy. You wanted to talk, remember?”

“Yes,” he admitted in a whisper, his gaze sliding away.

Something in his posture made her want to reach out and hug him. But she cleared her throat and went on. “So you were in a bad state of mind, I walked in, and then . . . we
both
got carried away. That's all.” She tried to sound reasonable and calm, though her racing heart made it hard to speak. “It just . . . happened.”

He nodded again, seeming to absorb her words. Then, suddenly, his face changed, and his eyes pinned her. “But I realized afterward . . . I didn't use any protection.” His hands scrubbed over his face, then clenched into fists. “Totally fucking irresponsible. I'm so, so sorry.”

Oh, God. He didn't know. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest as she reached out to grasp his knee. “It's all right.”

“No, it isn't!” he cried. “What if you're pregnant, on top of everything else?”

“Charles. It's fine. Listen to me.” She gripped his hands hard, willing him to look right at her. “You didn't get me pregnant. I can't get pregnant; I can't have children.”

He froze, staring back. She watched the wild horror in his eyes turn to confusion, and then . . . dammit, to the all-too-familiar pity. “I had no idea,” he said gruffly. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. I never mentioned it.” She let go of his hands and drew back, balling her hands in the edges of her sweater. “It's not in my file, because it doesn't have to be.”

“Of course it doesn't,” he murmured, still staring.

Unable to bear the weight of his sympathetic gaze, she kept talking. “I'll never have children of my own. And I have no family anyway. So, being a live-in nanny, getting to help raise children for a few years and be part of someone else's family in a way . . . that's what I wanted.”

He hadn't stopped staring at her, but now was doing so as if seeing her with new eyes. “I have to tell you . . . I always wondered why someone who graduated Boston College with honors and a degree in foreign languages ended up being a nanny,” he admitted quietly. “I don't mean that to sound demeaning in any way. What you do is very important, and I appreciate what you do. It's just . . . Something didn't add up. But I didn't have any right or reason to ask, so—”

“Well, now you know,” she said, rubbing her hands together. They were prickling like crazy, one of her least favorite anxiety symptoms.

He continued to study her in that deep, searching way before finally saying, “I get the feeling there's a lot about you I don't know. Haven't known. Things that maybe I should.”

Her stomach flipped nauseously. “What? Why?”

“Because I'm interested,” he said, low and quiet.

Oh, no. No, no, no.
“I'm just your nanny,” she blurted out, trying to breathe. “I'm not some intriguing woman of mystery. I have no earthshaking secrets that would affect you in any way. I take very good care of your children. That's all you need to know; that's all that matters.”

“Of course it is. Please don't get upset.” He reached out to touch her hand and frowned. “God, your skin is ice-cold. Are you really okay?”

“No, I'm not okay,” she said sharply, her voice finally breaking. “I had sex with my boss; I barely slept last night or ate today; I'm afraid I'm going to lose my job and where I live, that it's going to blow up my career completely, and now you're prying into my life, asking personal questions that only make me more uncomfortable. I'm not even
close
to okay.”

“Dammit, I'm so sorry . . .” Charles shifted in his seat, his face a mask of distress and his hands twisting frantically. “I'm making this worse. I don't mean to. This whole situation has my brain a little fried, I can't lie.”

“That makes two of us,” she said. Her stomach churned, her chest felt tight, and the numbness was creeping up from her hands into her arms. This wasn't going well at all. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes.

“No, no, please don't cry,” he said. He went to reach for her, as if to comfort her, then apparently thought better of it and pulled back. “Lisette, last night I was feeling sorry for myself. I was totally wallowing. You found me, you were kind, and . . . with a little liquid courage, I got reckless. You're a very beautiful woman. The world may think I'm made of stone, but I'm not.” He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, restless and frustrated. “I can't apologize enough. All I can do is hope we can get past this. I value you tremendously, more than I can express, and I'm sorry I didn't treat you that way last night. I don't want you to be upset, or fearful, or think you'll lose anything here. You won't, I promise.”

He was saying lovely things, but she knew he didn't get what the real problem was: she couldn't stop being afraid of losing her job and her residence just because he said so. He was in the position of power, and she was at his mercy. No amount of kindness or lust or good intention could make that any less true. As much as he was coming at this as “just a man and a woman, not an employer and his employee,” it just wasn't so. She was lucky he was such a decent person and was trying to make things better, but the balance of power was so skewed, nothing could set this right. No matter what, from now on, if she wanted to stay on, she'd have to walk on eggshells. And even if they never talked about it again, last night would always loom between them. God, she'd been so stupid.

Her heart squeezed, seizing with a real ache. She closed her eyes to try to stem the tears, but they slipped out and down her face. Before she could lift her numb hands to swipe them away, she felt his thumb sweep along her cheeks, wiping her tears. She flinched at his unexpected touch and bowed her head.

Her thoughts shamed her: what she wanted at that moment, more than anything, was to sink into his arms and let him hold her, comfort her. But she couldn't possibly do that. There was no one to go to for comfort. She was alone in this, like she was in everything. And she'd hadn't felt quite this alone in a long time.