What a Woman Wants (A Manley Maids Novel) (2 page)

T
HE
doors to Hell—aka her familial estate—were wide and welcoming.

Well, there was a first time for everything.

Livvy Carolla jerked her duffel out of the back of the Baja and slung it over her shoulder, flouncing the bottom of her peasant skirt around her, which sent the peacock that was meandering around the well-manicured lawn of her grandmother’s estate scurrying to safety.

Who had peacocks roaming their lawn in suburban Philadelphia as if they were maharajahs or something?

Her paternal blueblood relatives, that’s who.

Home sweet freakin’ home. Wouldn’t
Daddy dear
pitch a hissy if he knew she was here?

There was some satisfaction in entering the old man’s lair. Especially now that it was hers.

Who would’ve believed it? That her reputation-protecting, society-conscious, paternal grandmother would outlive her reprobate of a son and leave it all—
all
—to the granddaughter she’d barely acknowledged.

Mr. Scanlon, the estate’s attorney, had assured her that all she had to do was fulfill the stipulations in the will over the next two weeks, and the house and the accompanying funds would be hers to command.

Ah, the irony. Her grandmother, from what her mother had told her in a rare lucid—make that
sober
—moment before Livvy had been taken away, had threatened to disown her own twenty-year-old son who’d dared impregnate a barely-high-school-graduate from the wrong side of town with zero money to her name and less than zero prospects other than trapping the local rich boy in the oldest way possible.

So Merriweather Martinson had swooped in and finagled a way (translation: bought Mom off) into gaining custody of Livvy, who, at the tender age of five, had wanted nothing more than a loving family with food on the table, since Mom wasn’t capable of the latter and Dad had been . . . well,
absent
was a kind description. Then there was the car accident that had taken him from her life for good.

So Livvy had found herself shipped off to boarding schools without so much as an acknowledgment of their blood ties or a kind word from her new guardian. Hell, the woman had never even cracked a smile, and Livvy’s letters begging for some kind of a connection, a visit, a trip home,
something
, went unanswered.

Except for that one time when she was seven. That was it. The old lady had allowed her one visit, and then Livvy had never wanted to return.

Yet here she was. All by virtue of that very same grandmother who’d wanted nothing to do with her. Too bad Mom wasn’t alive to see it, but then, the twenty-four-year-old single parent hadn’t done much in the way of keeping in touch after selling her child, er, signing over custody, so perhaps
Mom
wouldn’t really care that Livvy was back at the scene of the crime.

Ah, but it was water under the proverbial bridge. She’d survived, managed to keep herself employed, and lived her life on her terms. If not for a stipulation in Merriweather’s will, she wouldn’t even be here.

But here she was, so best to get on with it.

Taking one last bite of her apple, she gazed up at the monstrosity. That was how she’d always thought of this place. The Martinsons, her father’s family, were ancient English nobles who’d immigrated back in the eighteen hundreds, apparently bringing half their English manor with them, complete with mullioned Tudor windows and carved oak doors the size of elephants. Stone lions guarded the drive, and the gargoyles on the roofline blended into the backdrop of gathering clouds. Ominous. Foreboding. She’d been overwhelmed on so many levels during that one visit, and her feelings hadn’t changed. The place was ostentatious. Overdone. Obscene.

And now it was hers.

Livvy tossed the apple core into the flower bed—good compost—and grabbed Orwell’s travel cage from the back seat, being careful the cover didn’t allow any glimpse of the scenery. The African Grey went nuts when he was caged outside, so what the loudmouth didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her ears.

She hiked up the white marble steps to the front door, her boots leaving scuffmarks. Oh well. Something for the butler to do.

“Hello?” She pushed open the door to an empty hallway. Strange, twenty years ago the butler—Rupert? Jeeves?—had guarded the door like a mother bear. Clearly, things had slipped since her grandmother’s death.

Grandmother
. The word felt odd. Livvy closed the doors, realizing she’d never really thought of the old woman as her grandmother. But, technically, as the bearer of the worm who’d knocked up her mother then took off at the first sign of pregnancy, that was who Merriweather Knightsbridge Martinson was.

“Anyone home?” Livvy peered around the massive foyer, vividly remembering the burgundy and cream striped walls crammed with gilt-framed, musty paintings of portly ancestors trussed up like Easter eggs. It’d probably been centuries since anything had changed here. These people were so hung up on their heritage that she could feel the heavy mantle of Martinson ancestry forming a chokehold around her throat.

Not that she’d have anything to do with it. They hadn’t wanted her as a child; she sure as hell didn’t want them as an adult.

“Hello? Rupert? Jeeves?”
What was his name?
She stepped farther into the silent entranceway.

“No Rupert or Jeeves here.”

She jumped as a guy walked out of the doorway on the left. Tall, dark, and yummy, with the body of an Olympic athlete and the face of one of their gods, he had wavy black hair that swept the top of his collar and set off a pair of eyes so blue they might have been fake—except there was nothing fake about this guy. From the set of shoulders that appeared to have been created solely for the purpose of wrapping strong arms around a woman, to washboard abs that had her mouth watering, to legs with muscles that strained the seams of his pants, this guy was all man.

“What can I do for you?”

There was probably a lot he could do for her. And to her, and with her . . .

“Who are you?” She tugged the front of her blouse closed over her camisole, but it was kind of hard to do one-handed.

“Who are
you
?” he shot back, hefting a . . .
vacuum
? in his hands.

“I asked you first.” What was he doing with a vacuum?

“You . . .
what
?”

“Uh, I mean . . .” She tossed her curls and raised her chin, trying to make herself appear taller. Not that she was ashamed of her height—or lack thereof—but it helped when she was feeling out of her element. And she definitely was, because being in this place, with a hot guy holding a vacuum cleaner, was so foreign she wouldn’t be surprised if she had fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole. “I, um, asked you a question.”

“And?” He set the canister down, then leaned on the wand attachment.

“And I’d like an answer.”

“And I’d like to be hanging out on a tropical beach, but we don’t always get what we want now, do we?”

“You know, you’re pretty cheeky for the pool boy.”

“In case it’s escaped your notice,
this
,” he rattled the wand, “is not a skimming net. It’s a vacuum cleaner.”

“So that makes you, what? The maid?”

He glanced away. Score one for her.

“Look, who are you and what do you want? I don’t have time to stand here all day.” His jaw was doing some furious ticking.

“Why? Got some shelves to dust?”

Red crept up his neck from where his mint green polo shirt opened in a V, revealing some nice curly black chest hair just to the left of the insignia . . .

Manley Maids.

Oh, man. He
was
the maid. This was just perfect!

“Look, miss. Is there something you need?”

Uh . . . yeah.
She bit her lip trying to swallow a smile. Her grandmother obviously had had one hell of a sense of humor. Maybe it wasn’t such a good thing she’d never gotten to know the old battle-axe. “Okay. Sorry. It’s just that I’m Livvy Carolla and I was looking for the guy who runs this mausoleum.”

“
You’re
Livvy Carolla?
Olivia
Carolla?”

She hated that name. Olive, Oliver Twist, Olivia Fig Newton-John . . . The nicknames hadn’t been fun. Boarding school “chums” were simply better-dressed playground bullies.

“I prefer Livvy. And, yes, that’s me. Why?”

Pool Boy—
Maid Man
—groaned.

“Hey, really, it’s not cause for a meltdown. The name’s Livvy and I need to see Jeeves. Rupert. Whatever.”

“It figures,” muttered Pool Boy, er, Maid Man.

She wished he
was
the pool boy—much better uniform. “I’d like to get settled, so if you could point me in his direction, I’d much appreciate it.”

She set Orwell’s cage on the floor to readjust the strap of her duffel. A few feathers and seed husks puffed out from beneath the cover to scatter on the floor.

“Hey, I just cleaned that,” Pool Boy said.

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not.” An eyebrow went north. “And it was a pain to do, so if you wouldn’t mind cleaning that up, I’d appreciate that.”

He looked so indignant. “Okay,
Mr. Belvedere
, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll clean up the mess if you tell Rupert I’m here.”

“Sorry, lady, right now it’s just me, and, well, me.”

“You.”

“Me.”

She raised her eyebrows. She’d been working on raising just one, but so far that trick had eluded her. “So, you’re running the place then?”

“Princess, running this place is nothing compared to what I do in real life.”

“Oh? So this is some fantasy you’re acting out? Not quite
the maid’s outfit that typically goes along with that sort of thing, but whatever floats your boat. Just don’t call me
Princess
.”

“Sorry.” Pool Boy scratched his chin. “Okay, so here’s the deal. The will pensioned off every single employee. Right down to the ten-year-old newspaper delivery boy. No one’s here but me. And now you. And as I understand it, you’re now in possession of this, what’d you call it? Mausoleum?”

She nodded, her amusement tempered. Everyone was gone? Was this some challenge the old battle-axe was issuing from the grave? Something to make Livvy prove she was worthy of the Martinson name?

Or to prove she
wasn’t
?

Well, she wasn’t about to jump to that woman’s tune, especially not in death. In fact, Livvy was glad everyone was gone. That way she wouldn’t have to fire them when she sold the place, which she would do as soon as she found out what stupid stipulations her grandmother had come up with to force her to live here for two weeks.

Okay, so maybe she was still jumping a little bit to the woman’s tune. But not for much longer. Soon she’d be home free with millions to do with as she wanted. And she wanted to do so much good with them. Unlike her
illustrious
so-called family.

“So.” Livvy hiked the duffel onto her shoulder and knelt to scoop the feathers into her hand. “This changes things. I was hoping the butler could show me the ropes, but I guess that’s not happening.” She repositioned the duffel as she stood.

“The only ropes I’ve seen are tying back some curtains in the living room, though I think there’s a real bellpull in the chapel tower,” said Hot Guy With A Vacuum.

“Yeah. It rings obnoxiously early, too.” Oh how she remembered waking to it one Sunday morning. She still couldn’t believe there was an actual chapel on the other side of the property. That seemed more than a little overboard even for
her
family.

Pool Boy smiled. “Actually, it’s been quiet since I got here. No one to ring it.”

She shared the smile. “A plus to the situation. Very good. Well, in that case, why don’t I get my stuff upstairs”—she hefted the duffel and cage—“then I’ll come back down and we can chat.”

“Sure. Fine. I’ll be in the . . .” He flicked his hand toward the far corner. “Whatever that room is, finishing up.”

“Okay. See you then.”

“Fine.” He turned around.

“Uh, hey?”

“Yeah?” He looked back over his shoulder. Man, the way those pants hugged his butt . . .

“Your name? I didn’t catch it.”

“That’s ’cause I didn’t toss it.”

“Funny. So what is it?”

“Um . . . Sean.”

“Well, Um Sean, I’ll see you in a bit.”

S
EAN
felt her eyes on him all the way through the door.

Her gorgeous amber eyes. On a five-foot-nothing body of screaming sex appeal with more curves than a racetrack, lips ripe for kissing, a face that’d put Helen of Troy to shame, and all the attitude to back it up.

How was he supposed to kick her out of this place when his first instinct was to drag her over to the closest piece of furniture, rip those gypsy clothes off that delectable body, and devour her for hours on end? Grab those auburn curls that tumbled down her back like an invitation and wrap them around his fist, arching her neck so he could—

Sonofabitch. The private eye he’d hired to investigate the will’s stipulations hadn’t mentioned that the granddaughter was a babe.

He also hadn’t mentioned that she’d be moving in, or that they’d be the sole inhabitants of Casa Martinson. He’d thought living in was a good idea when Mac had gone over the job’s specs, but now . . .