Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
He is so attractive!
Too attractive.
And he’s half naked! But why is he so mad? Did she wake him?
No! He will send her away from the piano.
Panicked, she drops her gaze to the floor as she flounders for something to say and clutches the handle of the broom to keep her upright.
* * *
Who the hell is this timid creature standing in my hallway? I’m completely bemused. Have I seen her before? An image from a forgotten dream develops like a Polaroid in my memory, an angel in blue hovering at my bedside. But that was days ago. Could it have been her? And now she’s here, rooted to the hallway floor, her impish face pale, her eyes downcast. Her knuckles grow whiter as she clasps the broom handle tighter and tighter, as if it’s anchoring her to the Earth. The headscarf conceals her hair, and an oversize, old-fashioned nylon housecoat swamps her small frame. She looks totally out of place.
“Who are you?” I ask again, but in a softer tone, not wanting to alarm her. Wide eyes, the color of a fine espresso and framed by the longest lashes I’ve ever seen, look up at me, then back at the floor.
Shit!
One peek from her dark, fathomless eyes and I’m…unsettled. She’s at least a head shorter than me, perhaps five feet five to my six feet two. Her features are delicate: high cheekbones, an upturned nose, clear fair skin, and pale lips. She looks like she needs a few days in the sun and a good hearty meal.
It’s obvious that she’s cleaning. But why her? Why here? Has she replaced my old daily? “Where’s Krystyna?” I ask, growing a little frustrated at her silence. Perhaps she’s Krystyna’s daughter—or granddaughter.
She continues to stare at the floor, her brow furrowed. Her even white teeth chew at her upper lip as she refuses to meet my gaze.
Look at me, I will her. I want to reach forward and tilt her chin up, but as if she reads my mind, she raises her head. Her eyes meet mine, and her tongue darts out, and nervously she licks her upper lip. My whole body tightens in a hot, heavy rush as desire hits me like a demolition ball.
Fuck a duck!
I narrow my eyes as annoyance swiftly follows my desire. What the hell is wrong with me? Why does a woman I’ve never met have such an effect on me? It’s irritating. Beneath fine arched brows, her eyes grow wider, and she takes a step back, fumbling with the broom so that it falls from her hands and clatters onto the floor. She bends with easy, economic grace to pick it up, and when she’s standing once more, she fixates on the handle, a slow flush staining her cheeks as she mumbles something unintelligible.
Bloody hell! Am I intimidating the poor girl?
I don’t mean to.
I’m annoyed at myself. Not her.
Or maybe it’s another reason. “Perhaps you don’t understand me,” I say, more to myself, and I run a hand through my hair as I bring my body to heel. Krystyna’s mastery of English extended to the words “yes” and “here,” which often meant lots of gesticulating on my part when I needed her to undertake tasks that went beyond her usual cleaning routine. This girl is probably Polish, too.
“I am cleaner, Mister,” she whispers, her eyes still downcast and her eyelashes fanned out above her luminous cheeks.
“Where’s Krystyna?”
“She has returned to Poland.”
“When?”
“Since last week.”
This is news. Why the hell did I not know this? I liked Krystyna. She’d cleaned for me for three years and knew all my dirty little secrets. And I never got to say good-bye.
Maybe it’s temporary. “Is she coming back?” I ask. The lines in the girl’s forehead deepen, but she says nothing, though her eyes flick to my feet. For some unknown reason, this makes me feel self-conscious. Placing both hands on my hips, I step backward as my bewilderment grows. “How long have you been here?”
She responds in a breathless, barely audible voice. “In England?”
“Look at me, please,” I ask. Why is she so reluctant to look up?
Her slim fingers tighten around the broom again, as if she might brandish it as a weapon, then she swallows and raises her head, regarding me with large, liquid brown eyes. Eyes I could drown in. My mouth dries as my body comes to attention again.
Fuck!
“I have been in England since three weeks.” Her voice is clearer and stronger, with an accent I don’t recognize, and as she speaks, she pushes her small chin toward me in defiance. Her lips are now rosy, her bottom lip plumper than her top, and she licks the upper one again.
Hell!
I’m aroused once more. I take another step away from her. “Three weeks?” I mumble, baffled by my reaction to her.