Up Close and Personal (5 page)

“And you took time to move your things personally?”

Proud to accomplish what I have, I hitch up my chin. “Yes, I did.”

“So, tell me, Ms. Bennett—”

I grit my teeth.

“Did you complete the tasks I assigned before you left?”

Oh, geez. I’d been so excited about the car and the prospect of getting my things, I didn’t call the messenger service to deliver the invitations or arrange for the catering staff.

I lick my lips. “I wrote out the invitations and addressed the envelopes, but I”—gulp—“didn’t get a chance to call the messenger service or . . .” My voice peters out at the end.

“So my guests don’t know about the party.”

“No, Sir.” Screw the shower. “I’ll do it right now.”

His hand darts out and stops me before I can make a break for it. “No, you will not. It’s too late to deliver them tonight.”

“But I can have the service pick them up and—”

He grunts. God even that sounds sexy. “Let me make myself understood. You’re here to work for me, not move things, lift furniture or anything else. Moseley?” he bellows.

The butler materializes out of thin air. “Yes, Sir.”

“Please
arrange
to have Ms. Moseley’s things transferred from her car to her bedroom.”

“Yes, Sir.” The butler leaves, presumably to carry out Mr. MacKay’s order.

“I can do it. It’s only—”

“No. You will not. What you will do is shower, change into clean clothes and join me for dinner at seven where I’ll refresh your memory about the job requirements. Apparently, we’ll need to go over them again.”

Darn.

Chapter 6

______________

Sterling

I CRINGE WHEN SHE SHOWS UP AT DINNER. Whatever she’s wearing rattles when she moves. “What do you have on now?”

“Blue jeans and a beaded shirt.”

Well that explains the racket. Curling my lip in distaste, I snap my napkin. “Tomorrow,
after
you’ve arranged the delivery of the invitations and scheduled the catering staff, go shopping for new clothes. Add casual wear to the list. Obviously, you’re in need of some.”

“Will do.” Silence reigns while Moseley serves the soup course. Clam chowder by the aroma. A favorite of mine. Or at least it used to be. Today, the smell makes me nauseous.

“Are you in pain?” she asks.

“If you must know, yes.”

“Isn’t there something you can take for it?” She sounds like she cares. Wish I could believe it. “I can go get it if you wish.”

“No, Ms. Bennett. You’ve done enough today.”

“I’m sorry.”

A suspicious sniff puts me on alert. Can’t afford for her to get sick. “You’re not coming down with a cold, are you?”

“No.” Her voice quivers. “I didn’t mean to add to your troubles.” She sniffs again.

Is she crying? God damn it. I will down my pain, my anger. I can’t take out my frustration on her. “You didn’t. I visited my eye doctor today. He shone a bright beam into my eyes which gave me a splitting headache.”

“Oh.” The tension drains out of her voice. “The light in the dining room is really bright. Would dimming it help?”

I smile at the image of Moseley serving our food in the dark. Unfortunately, the gesture makes my pain worse. “That won’t work. You won’t be able to see your soup.”

“Yes, I would.” She walks toward the wall where the light switch is located. A flick and the room grows dim. What little I could see vanishes. Truly in the dark now, I’m a moment away from begging her to switch the lights back on when she asks, “Is that better?”

Her words thrum through my senses, soft as silk, sensual as velvet. Why hadn’t I heard the melody in her voice before? I take a deep breath, let it out. As long as I have her words to hang on to, I’ll be fine. She’ll be my anchor in the dark. “Yes. Thank you.”

“When my mother suffered from headaches, I would massage her temples to relieve the pain. Do you think that would help?”

I don’t know that it would, but at this point I’m willing to try anything. “Maybe.”

The air shifts, and I sense her walking toward me.

“She enjoyed the scent of lavender oil. But since you’re sensitive to smells, we’ll skip that part.”

Knowing her, she probably has a bucketful of the stuff in her room. “Yes. That would be best.”

She rests her fingers on my brow and lightly rubs my skin in a circular motion. “Let me know if I’m hurting you.”

“You’re not.” I feel better just from having her hands on me. But there’s one thing that would help more—her voice. “Tell me about your mother.”

She clears her throat. Does it pain her to talk about her? “She was beautiful.” Caitlyn lets out a self-conscious laugh. “I suppose all children think that about their mothers.”

“Mine was beautiful as well.”

“Most of my life it was just her and me.”

A sharp pain stabs my eye, stealing my breath. But then her soothing massage rubs it away, and I’m able to breathe again. “What happened to your father?”

“He died when I was very young. She never remarried. No man could ever measure up to her memory of him. She loved my father that much.”

Much like my own. “Must have been difficult.”

“It was. To make ends meet, she worked two jobs. As soon as I became a teenager, I got a part-time stint at the mall to help out, but she insisted I save the money for college.”

“Mothers want the best for their children.” Mine did, until she was no more.

“Yes. Our house was small, but I never lacked for food or love. Whenever I came down with something, she’d rush me to the doctor. Unfortunately, she didn’t take as good a care of herself.”

“What do you mean?” Without meaning to, I scrunch my brow, and the cruel pain stabs again. Closing my eyes, I allow her healing touch to soothe away the ache.

“She waited too long to check out a lump in her breast. By the time she went to the doctor’s, it was too late. Stage 4 breast cancer. That was a year ago. They gave her six months to live. Unwilling to let her go, I insisted on chemo and radiation treatments which only prolonged her misery. She passed away two months ago.” Her voice fades.

I grasp her hands, squeeze them. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m feeling better now. Go back to your seat and finish your soup.” Her arms drop, and I instantly miss her caring touch. But I can’t have her playing nurse. That’s not her job.

“Okay.” Jangling all the way, she returns to her chair. Somehow the noise doesn’t bother me as much anymore.

“Moseley?” He had to have heard that sad story, but I trust him implicitly. He won’t breathe a word of it to another living soul.

“Yes, Mr. MacKay.”

“Please serve fresh soup to Ms. Bennett.” It had to have grown cold while she attended to me.

“Of course, Sir.”

During the rest of the meal, we go over the details of the dinner party. After promising to follow through with the arrangements in the morning and go shopping for clothes in the afternoon, she retires with the excuse she needs to finish unpacking her things.

Once I can no longer hear her steps, I ask the question I’ve wondered about since I met her a mere two days ago. “Moseley?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“What does Ms. Bennett look like?”

For a moment, there’s silence, but then he tells me what I want to know. “She’s about five four, slender but not thin.”

I smile. “No, she likes food too much for that. What color is her hair?”

“Hard to say. Brown with reddish glints.”

“Mahogany then.”

“Yes. It falls to the middle of her back. She likes to wear it loose.”

“And her eyes?”

“Brown.”

I’d like to know their exact shade, but I don’t dare ask. “Thank you, Moseley.”

“You’re most welcome, Mr. MacKay.” He’s been with me since before I lost most of my sight so he knows what I’m like. Demanding, impatient, a tough businessman. He must be wondering about my fascination with Caitlyn Bennett. But I don’t owe him an explanation, especially when I don’t know the answer myself.

An hour later, I’m in my office struggling to finish the stockholders’ report which must be sent to the printer tomorrow if it’s to be ready for the meeting. But the pain in my eyes has returned with a vengeance, and it’s interfering with my thought process.

Hoping the agony will go away, I rest my head on the desk. Just as I do, my door creaks. I don’t have to wonder who it is. Her scent gives her away. She’s changed into something that doesn’t rattle, but swishes instead. A nightgown probably. My groin tightens at the thought of Cait in a nightie.

“Is your head hurting again?”

“Yes.” I grit out through the agony in my head.

“Do you want—”

“No.” I can’t bear to have her near me again when I’m imagining her wearing a negligee of some kind. I’m liable to do something I regret.

“I found some unscented oil among my things. That’s what I came down to tell you. Maybe if I used it to massage your temples, it would help.”

I want her to massage something alright. Just not my brow. “Go away.”

She lets out a hard sigh. “You have no medicine for this?”

“I don’t like to take it. It makes my head all muzzy.”

“Do you mean to tell me you have something to dull the pain but you’re too—”

The agony goes to double time with the rise of her voice. “Stop yelling.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Her dulcet tone streaks down to my cock, hardening me. I groan.

“Where’s your medication?”

“Upstairs, in my room.”

Whatever she’s wearing swishes and just like that she’s gone. I rest my head back against the office chair and breathe deep. Sometimes that gives me some ease. Unfortunately, today it doesn’t work. Just as I’m gathering the strength I need to stand, she’s back.

“I brought your pills.”

“How did you find—”

“Moseley. He said you take two?”

“Better make it three.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, damn it.” The agony cuts off my breath.

“No need to yell,” she whispers. “It will just make it worse.”

I breathe through my mouth to lessen the pain. Sometimes that helps. “There’s a bottle of Dewar’s in the credenza behind you. Top shelf. Glasses too. Pour me a finger of the scotch so I can get these down.”

She doesn’t jump to it, but stands there, like a mummy. “Are you supposed to be drinking alcohol with that medication?”

“Probably not.”

“Water would be better.”

“Just get me the scotch.”

Her clothes swish, something slides open. The credenza. She returns and hands me a glass.

I slip the pills into my mouth, knock them back with the scotch. Except it isn’t. “Damn it. It’s water.”

“Yes, it is.” Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

I wave my hand at her. “You can leave now.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. You just took three pain pills which might make it difficult for you to find your way. Let me help you to your room.”

“No. Get Moseley.”

“Moseley’s gone to bed.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I woke him up to get your pills.”

Damn it. I don’t want her to see me in this state. Weak. In pain. Stumbling about in the dark. For the first time, I stand up in her presence. “I can get myself to my room.”

“With all due respect, Mr. MacKay, you can’t. The pills are bound to make you woozy. What if you fall and hurt yourself going up the stairs?”

“I can do it.” Rounding the desk, I stumble against it, knocking something over. “What was that?”

“The glass. Don’t worry. It’s only water.”

I take a step or try to anyway. What happened to my knees? They’re wobbly at best.

“Here.” She wraps an arm around my waist and props me against her side.

I snort but instantly regret it when a sharp pain stabs the inside of my head. Breathing through my mouth, I snap at her. “You’re going to hold me up? How do you figure that? You’re a tiny little thing.” The top of her head barely reaches my shoulder.

“I’m stronger than I look.”

With me leaning on her more than I should, we wobble our way down the corridor, not once bumping into a thing.

When we reach the stairway, she prompts. “Okay, take a step.” I do only to stumble back, taking her with me. Damn it. The pain pills kicked in, and my head’s swirling. Should have waited until I reached my room to toss them back.

She firms her arm around my middle. “Try again.”

I do, this time with success.

“One. Two. Three.”

“What are you doing?”

“Counting steps.”

“Why?”

“So you’ll know how many are left.”