Her Man Friday (14 page)

Interesting, indeed. Suddenly, Leo wasn't quite so put off by the idea of hanging around Ashling for a few more days. There was just no telling what might develop among such a cast of characters.

Enthroned as he was at the head of the table, Schuyler Kimball could survey his court with all the cool detachment of a ruthless, omnipotent czar. And at the moment, he was wondering, as any self-respecting despot would be, how prudent it would be to exile his family—nay, his entire household—to the island of Elba. Then again, ultimately, Napoleon had escaped from Elba, hadn't he?

Ah, well. Another perfectly good plan dashed before getting fully under way.

At the very least, Schuyler was wondering why he had bothered to come home. He'd been having as much fun in Bermuda as he would likely be having anywhere else. Plus, the beaches were so breathtakingly lovely there, and the servants so wonderfully obsequious. What had possessed him to think he might be needed here? That he might be comfortable here? That he might be welcome here?

Even Lily, darling Lily, had annoyed him tonight, bringing home her stray without asking Schuyler's permission first. Whoever, whatever, this man was who had come between them—both literally and figuratively, considering the seating arrangement Lily had designated at the table—he didn't work for Kimball Technologies. Not that Schuyler was familiar with every last man, woman, and drone who worked for him—
au contraire
. But Leonard Freiberger was no lowly bookkeeper; that much was obvious.

Nor was there anything of the team player about him, something that rather hampered the whole odious concept of Team Kimball a corporate policy conceived by his board of directors—or rather
bored
of directors, as he liked to think of them. Still, as long as the bored of directors were happy, as long as they were under the misguided notion that they were the ones running the business, Schuyler could find his own fun, and never the twain should meet.

For some reason, then, his gaze was pulled toward Chloe, who simply sat staring sullenly at her tiramisu and looking exactly like her mother. Well, except for her eyes, which she had clearly inherited from Schuyler. He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly, wishing he'd been more careful in his youth. Ah, well. There was nothing for it now but to make sure the girl was cared for, and God knows he'd done his best in that respect. Mrs. Puddleduck, for all her regimentation, seemed to be doing an adequate job with the girl. With any luck at all, Chloe would avoid the pitfalls her mother had been helpless to miss.

Having noted that everyone had just started eating their dessert, Schuyler stood and asked, "Everyone finished? Good. I, for one, am ready to call it a day." He extended his hand toward the piece of cheesecake seated to his left, for which he had paid a bundle, and which he intended to enjoy for his own dessert. "Veronica?"

"Valerie," she corrected him mildly as she stood. "If you want to call me by a name other than my own, it's going to cost you another fifty dollars."

"Fine," he said. "Put it on my tab."

He was so intent on the night that stretched before him—Veronique had assured him, after all, that she could perform perfectly page 72 of
How to Leave a Man Groaning with Satisfaction Every Time
—that he almost didn't notice the commotion outside the dining room as he approached the door. He was reaching for the doorknob only to have the door burst open on him before he could move out of the way.

Before he realized what was happening, a woman had barreled through that door and right into him, knocking him backward with enough force to send him sprawling onto the floor on his fanny. And the only reason Schuyler decided to forgive her for such an egregious transgression was that she came falling forward, too, landing in a sprawl right on top of him.

He noticed right away that she was even more lushly built than Vanessa was. But where the call girl's attributes were doubtless the result of surgical enhancement—they were just too damned perky, in Schuyler's opinion, to be anything other than cosmetically enhanced—this woman's gifts were obviously there because Mother Nature had decreed it. Just to be certain, however—and because he knew he could excuse his behavior as a result of his surprise and the fall—he quickly copped a feel to reassure himself. Oh, yes. They were definitely real.

Well, my, my, my.

He was about to go in for another touchdown—or, perhaps more accurately, another feelup—but the woman anticipated him and deftly struck his hand out of the way. Hastily, she scrambled off of him and stood, tugging her sweater—a shapeless, colorless bit of drab—down over her equally unremarkable skirt. Schuyler, too, stood up, automatically brushing off his tuxedo and running a quick hand through his hair, tending to himself before turning his attention to the woman.

When he finally did look at her, he had to bite back a mutter of disappointment. Because as erotic and exotic as her erogenous zones below the neck clearly were, everything above was obviously—and thoroughly—contained.

The woman's hair was probably a rich red auburn, he thought, but it was hard to tell, seeing as how it was pulled back into a tight…
tight
… bun-thing on the back of her head. Big, tortoiseshell-framed glasses obscured what were probably amazing, luminous brown eyes when not hidden. Her mouth was pinched, something that prevented him from telling much about her other features. But somehow, he suspected that when she let her guard down, when she opened herself up, this woman would doubtless be…

He sighed fitfully. Oh, who was he kidding? The woman appeared to have no sense of style, humor, or beauty whatsoever. And just because he was a connoisseur of fine feminine flesh didn't mean he could make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. Whatever the hell that meant.

All in all, he decided pretty quickly that he didn't like the woman and had no use for her in his life. And, just as quickly, he decided he also wanted her to go away so that he could experience the hired—albeit plastic—bounty of Victoria instead. He opened his mouth to tell the woman exactly that, but before he could say a word, she grabbed him by the bow tie and tugged him forward. Hard.

"Mr. Kimball?" she inquired in a tone that was the absolute picture of politeness, her voice soft and lovely, and tinted with just a hint of the Georgia peach debutante thing—a feature that rather compromised her aggressive manhandling of his upper person.

Still, no need to be hasty, he thought. He was familiar enough with the works of the Williams—Faulkner and Tennessee—to know that these southern belles could be formidable foes. So, every bit as courteously, he replied, "And who, may I ask, wants to know?"

She jerked her hand upward, an action that nearly cut off his breath, then continued in that Miss Antebellum. Manners voice, "I'm Mrs. Beecham. Mrs. Caroline Beecham. I'm the headmistress of the Van Meter Academy. That's Chloe's school, in case you've forgotten. And Mr. Kimball, you and I need to have a little chat."

With a gentleness that surprised him—considering the fact that he was currently being attacked by a madwoman—Schuyler lightly circled the madwoman's wrist with sure, but careful, fingers. "That's going to be rather difficult, don't you think, Mrs. Beecham, with you trying to crush my windpipe and all. Do you mind?"

Instead of releasing him, she nodded. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do mind. I'm afraid I won't be letting go until you promise me fifteen minutes of your time. Frankly, Mr. Kimball, it's been terribly difficult to get past your sentinel, and I'm at my wit's end. At this point, I am by no means averse to… unconventional tactics."

He was more likely to call them homicidal tendencies himself. He narrowed his eyes at her. "Sentinel? What sentinel?" Although, now that he thought about it, he rather liked the idea of having a sentinel. A sentinel might come in handy for situations like, oh, say… this one, for example. He'd have Lily look into hiring him one tomorrow morning.

"Uh, I think by 'sentinel,' Mrs. Beecham would be referring to me."

As if conjured by his thoughts, Lily appeared at Schuyler's side, seeming to be not at all surprised by the fact that there was a woman attempting to squeeze the breath right out of him. But then, that was Lily. Darling Lily. Always grace under fire. Especially when she wasn't the one who was under fire.

"Mrs. Beecham has been trying to meet with you for some time now," Lily said. "And I'm afraid I may have—inadvertently, of course—given her the impression that you weren't interested in talking to her."

"As well you should," Schuyler said. "Because I'm
not
interested in talking to her."

It bothered him more than he cared to admit that, instead of responding to his statement, Lily turned her attention to the Valkyrie who was still trying to make a Venetian blind out of him.

"Mrs. Beecham," she said in that no-nonsense voice of authority. "I apologize if I did, in fact, give you the wrong impression over the telephone the other day. Mr. Kimball has been out of the country for some time now, attending to business. That's why he hasn't responded to your requests to see him. Not because of… uh… that other thing I mentioned." More confidently, she concluded, "I'm sorry if I didn't make that clear to you initially."

Mrs. Beecham eyed Lily cautiously, but she loosened her grip some on Schuyler's tie. Mind you, she didn't remove her fingers completely, but at least he was able to inhale a deep, calming breath. When he did, Schuyler was treated to the scent of the tightly bundled Mrs. Caroline Beecham. And he found it very interesting indeed to discover that she smelled of hot summer nights, bluesy saxophones, and the crackle of something spicy and bad for you hissing on the grill.

Well, well, well.

"That's not what you told me the other day, Miss Rigby," she said, her attention flickering from Schuyler to Lily and then back again.

And as he studied her more intently, Schuyler realized that, even through the lenses of her glasses—or, perhaps, because of them—she really did have quite amazing, luminous brown eyes. They were the color of fine bittersweet chocolate, ringed by a wealth of ridiculously long, dark lashes. They were also, he noted further, smudged beneath by faint purple crescents. And he wondered what it was that left her tossing and turning, unable to sleep in her bed at night.

"Yes," Lily continued with obvious reluctance, "Well. You, um… You did call several times, didn't you?"

With clear discomfort, she glanced down at the back of one hand. Uh-oh, Schuyler thought. She only did that when she was trying to hide important—or embarrassing—information. This ought to be good.

"And that last time you called," she continued with a blitheness he could see was completely feigned, "you, ah… you were rather worked up, after all. And you did catch me on something of a bad day, you see. And—"

Mrs. Beecham interrupted, "You told me Mr. Kimball would rather skip naked in the surf with an oversize version of Bermuda Fun Barbie than be bothered with whatever problems Chloe was having at school."

Lily perused one cuticle in particular and sucked in her cheeks tight, as if she were trying to keep in whatever words were threatening to escape. Schuyler wanted to laugh, but didn't know whether it should be with derision or genuine humor. Certainly what she'd told Mrs. Beecham was true. But, hey, what man wouldn't want to skip naked through the surf with Bermuda Fun Barbie—or, as Schuyler had actually been, with Tourist Guide Barbie. Still, there was no reason to go broadcasting it to every Tom, Dick, and Mrs. Caroline Beecham, was there?

Ultimately, he opted to simply let Lily dig herself out of this one. Mrs. Beecham was something of an interesting enigma, after all, one who, under other circumstances—like maybe if she
hadn't
tried to strangle him by way of an introduction—Schuyler might have liked to get to know better. Deep down, he supposed he didn't mind if she knew he liked frolicking naked in the surf. There might come a time in the future when such knowledge on her part would come in handy.

"Yes. Well." Lily cleared her throat and gazed benignly at the backs of
both
hands now—
as well she should
, Schuyler thought indignantly. "Although it's true that I may have said something to that effect—"

"Actually, Miss Rigby, those were your exact words," Mrs. Beecham interjected. "I'm quite good at remembering things like that, and you distinctly said 'Bermuda Fun Bar—' "

"Yes. Well." This time Lily was the one to interrupt. "Those may indeed have been my exact words, but I, um… I was obviously mistaken. Mr. Kimball was actually attending to some business overseas, and not, uh… frolicking naked with anyone."

Schuyler nodded. "That's exactly correct, Mrs. Beecham," he lied. "And I wasn't even attending to business with Corporate Fun Barbie, the way I would have liked to have been."

Mrs. Beecham's expression changed swiftly at the announcement, going from murderous—albeit courteous—intent, to stark, raving, embarrassment in no time flat. Immediately, she released his tie and took a step backward, then dropped her head into her hands. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I am so sorry."

As quickly as she had succumbed to the need to hide, however, she lifted her head, squared her shoulders, and once again assumed the pose of a fighting Valkyrie. "I've been under some pressure myself lately, Mr. Kimball. Not that such a thing excuses my behavior tonight, but… I do apologize." Before he could accept or decline that apology, she hurried on, "And it is imperative that I speak with you as soon as possible. Why not tonight, since I'm already here?" She nodded toward someone behind Schuyler. "Chloe could join us, seeing as how she's here, too, and this concerns her."

He eyed Mrs. Beecham with warning, deftly rearranging his bow tie until it was, once again, perfect. "No," he said with a conviction that in no way invited contradiction. "Not tonight. I've just finished dinner with my—" He hesitated, then forced himself to say it outright, concentrating very hard so that he didn't trip over the word. "My family. And right now…"

He gave his tie one final rug for good measure, then spared as lascivious a look as he could manage for Valentina. The call girl still stood by his side, watching the by-play with as much interest as one might show for a pictorial about anthrax.