a moment more, but a hint of humor was finally creeping into his eyes.
“Well then, let me put my request in these terms.”
He threw his head back and began speaking in a very phony British accent.
“Yardley, my good woman, I have a job for you to do. I'm going to require your presence for another half hour or so. Can't be helped. Most neces sary.”
He began to propel her toward the couch and she found it impossible to protest.
“I insist that you sit down right here”—he gave her a gentle nudge that encouraged her to drop to the cushion —”stare into this fire, and listen to everything I say.” He coughed modestly as he sat beside her. “Agreeing, always; cheering me on with a mild 'hear-hear' when the spirit moves you. And just being generally agreeable.”
His smile was irresistible and she found herself smiling back into his brown eyes no matter how much her con science was warning her.
“Hmm,” she murmured helplessly as she settled back. She had to keep her guard up. But she was so tired. And just for a moment she let the comfort of the couch seep into her, loosening her bones and relaxing her muscles. But she wouldn't relax her defenses. “Maybe I should have hired on as your psychotherapist instead,” she said.
Not taking offense, he smiled. “Wine?” he offered, and she looked up to see that he’d already poured two glasses full of sparkling golden liquid. The small fire he’d set in the fireplace added perfectly to the ambiance, and the night had just enough of a chill to warrant it.
She rejected the wine, but it didn’t faze him.
“We don’t need it,” he agreed, though he put the glasses down on the coffee table, close at hand and proceeded to sit just a short lurch away on the couch.
She fidgeted. Then, before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “Somehow this looks like a scene set with an ulterior motive in mind.” She gestured toward the wine, the fire, the low lights.
It didn't embarrass Rick in the slightest. “Seduction isn't an ulterior motive,” he argued good-naturedly. “Seduction is a pattern for survival.”
She stiffened. “Your survival, maybe. Hardly mine.”
He narrowed his eyes, leaning back into the corner of the couch with ease. “Does the thought of seduction threaten you?” he asked softly, and suddenly it did, very much.
“No,” she answered, but even on the simple little word, her voice quavered, and his smile showed that he'd noticed.
“Don't worry. I won't... push you into anything you don't want,” he told her, but the interest lying just beneath his calm civility belied his words.
“Will you promise not to make me think I want something I shouldn't?” she asked.
His laugh was a low rumble of pleasure. “No. That's going too far.”
“Then I'll be on my guard.” Brave words. Her heart was thumping in her chest like a drum, and here she was, pretending to be ready for anything.
“Fair enough.” He gazed at her for a long moment, taking in her demure outfit, so at odds with the mischievous sparkle in her eyes. He liked what he saw.
What a fool he was to have let her stay on as a butler! He should have set her up in town and visited her a few times before sending her back home with a nice little check to tide her over. That was the way he usually played the game. No strings. No one getting hurt.
Yes, keeping her here was a mistake. He was getting to know her too well. Getting to like her. That was very dangerous. But still, h e settled back. “ Come on then and tell me all about you. Who are you, Terry Yardley?”
“As in, ‘This is Your Life’?”
“Sort of. Begin at the beginning.”
She sighed. This wouldn’t take long. “My father is a butler, and a very fine one. My mother died when I was six. My father and I have been very close ever since then.”
“Ah.” He nodded. He understood that sometimes happened—the closeness. Not to him, of course. But to some.
“In some ways, I grew
“Well then, let me put my request in these terms.”
He threw his head back and began speaking in a very phony British accent.
“Yardley, my good woman, I have a job for you to do. I'm going to require your presence for another half hour or so. Can't be helped. Most neces sary.”
He began to propel her toward the couch and she found it impossible to protest.
“I insist that you sit down right here”—he gave her a gentle nudge that encouraged her to drop to the cushion —”stare into this fire, and listen to everything I say.” He coughed modestly as he sat beside her. “Agreeing, always; cheering me on with a mild 'hear-hear' when the spirit moves you. And just being generally agreeable.”
His smile was irresistible and she found herself smiling back into his brown eyes no matter how much her con science was warning her.
“Hmm,” she murmured helplessly as she settled back. She had to keep her guard up. But she was so tired. And just for a moment she let the comfort of the couch seep into her, loosening her bones and relaxing her muscles. But she wouldn't relax her defenses. “Maybe I should have hired on as your psychotherapist instead,” she said.
Not taking offense, he smiled. “Wine?” he offered, and she looked up to see that he’d already poured two glasses full of sparkling golden liquid. The small fire he’d set in the fireplace added perfectly to the ambiance, and the night had just enough of a chill to warrant it.
She rejected the wine, but it didn’t faze him.
“We don’t need it,” he agreed, though he put the glasses down on the coffee table, close at hand and proceeded to sit just a short lurch away on the couch.
She fidgeted. Then, before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “Somehow this looks like a scene set with an ulterior motive in mind.” She gestured toward the wine, the fire, the low lights.
It didn't embarrass Rick in the slightest. “Seduction isn't an ulterior motive,” he argued good-naturedly. “Seduction is a pattern for survival.”
She stiffened. “Your survival, maybe. Hardly mine.”
He narrowed his eyes, leaning back into the corner of the couch with ease. “Does the thought of seduction threaten you?” he asked softly, and suddenly it did, very much.
“No,” she answered, but even on the simple little word, her voice quavered, and his smile showed that he'd noticed.
“Don't worry. I won't... push you into anything you don't want,” he told her, but the interest lying just beneath his calm civility belied his words.
“Will you promise not to make me think I want something I shouldn't?” she asked.
His laugh was a low rumble of pleasure. “No. That's going too far.”
“Then I'll be on my guard.” Brave words. Her heart was thumping in her chest like a drum, and here she was, pretending to be ready for anything.
“Fair enough.” He gazed at her for a long moment, taking in her demure outfit, so at odds with the mischievous sparkle in her eyes. He liked what he saw.
What a fool he was to have let her stay on as a butler! He should have set her up in town and visited her a few times before sending her back home with a nice little check to tide her over. That was the way he usually played the game. No strings. No one getting hurt.
Yes, keeping her here was a mistake. He was getting to know her too well. Getting to like her. That was very dangerous. But still, h e settled back. “ Come on then and tell me all about you. Who are you, Terry Yardley?”
“As in, ‘This is Your Life’?”
“Sort of. Begin at the beginning.”
She sighed. This wouldn’t take long. “My father is a butler, and a very fine one. My mother died when I was six. My father and I have been very close ever since then.”
“Ah.” He nodded. He understood that sometimes happened—the closeness. Not to him, of course. But to some.
“In some ways, I grew
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