Unknown by Unknown Page A

continued to keep his distance. Who did she think she was anyway... a femme fatale? she grimaced into her coffee cup. The man had Monica Fallon to occupy him. Obviously he had momentarily considered a conquest on the side but was not willing to put any energy into it once he had been rejected. When this thought did not cheer her up, she frowned introspectively and began cleaning up the kitchen with the hope that physical labour would ease the confused tension building within her.
    Hearing him go upstairs, she collected the plates from the dining room and completed straightening up the luncheon dishes, after which she considered spending the next hour in her bedroom unpacking to ensure that she missed him when he left the house. Then realising that she needed to ask him what he wanted for dinner and when he wanted to eat, she scolded herself again. After all, she was his housekeeper. There was no way she could perform her duties and totally avoid the man. ‘If this was happening to anyone else, I’d say they had to be an idiot to have got themselves into this situation,’ she muttered as she opened each cabinet and drawer in the kitchen, making a mental list of what was present before moving on to the refrigerator. ‘And I'd probably laugh. Up until a week ago I considered myself a sane, rational person who only did minor dumb things. Now look at me!’
    ‘I understand that talking to inanimate objects is not a serious condition until the objects start responding,’ Brad’s voice cut the air behind her.
    Startled, Sara whirled around, a deep blush darkening her face. ‘Have you been in here long?’ she demanded.
    ‘Only a moment. I'm not in the habit of eavesdropping, even on one-person discussions,’ he replied coolly, continuing towards the door.
    He had changed into a suit and she knew he was on his way to the office. Clearing her throat, she said, T need to know when you’ll be wanting dinner.’
    ‘Seven,’ came his sharp businesslike response.
    ‘And do you have any preferences?’ she questioned. Stopping with his hand on the door, he turned to face her. ‘I’m sure whatever you prepare will be fine.’
    ‘But...’ she began to protest.
    ‘You fix whatever you wish. I’ll tell you when you have prepared something I dislike. Then we simply won’t have that meal again,’ he instructed, adding over his shoulder as he continued out the door, ‘I assure you, however, that I’m a very easy man to please.’
    Sara stiffened defensively as she watched the door swing closed. Then recalling his cool attitude towards her all morning, she chided herself for reading innuendoes into his words that weren’t there.
    After a trip to the grocery, she spent some time roaming around the house organising her work in such a way as to give herself the maximum amount of time to pursue her art. The arrangement of the house was simple. On the first floor was the kitchen, her bedroom with its private bath, an entrance hall and the dining room. On the second floor, as was traditional in these old homes, was the living room, or sitting room as it would have been referred to in times past. Then there was a combination library-billiard room and a guest bedroom plus a bath.
    The third floor contained the master bedroom with its adjoining bath, her studio and Brad’s workroom. Wandering into his bedroom, all done in greys, blues and whites, she again found herself questioning her judgment in taking this job. The man’s presence was strong, creating an acute awareness within her of her own femininity.
    Attempting to rid herself of the disturbing yet at the same time exciting sensation, Sara returned to the kitchen and started dinner, after which she reclimbed the stairs to her studio. Collapsing on the couch with her sketch pad, she paused to rub her sore leg muscles which were beginning to feel the strain of going up and down three flights of stairs on an almost continuous basis. Then attempting to ease the pain by reminding