The Maid's Daughter

“Yep. She’s a sweetheart.”

Gillian’s spirits plunged to a new low. The gorgeous, sexy Wolff men had their pick of models, heiresses and celebrities. It wasn’t simply a matter of money. It was a lifestyle.

“I don’t think it would be appropriate for the two of us to spend the night alone,” she said, regretting the prim stuffiness in her words as soon as they left her mouth.

Devlyn snorted, and tried to pretend it was a cough. “I promise to be on my best behavior,” he said, irony in every syllable. “But if it makes you feel more comfortable, we’ll stay at the big house.”

“Thank you.”

By the time they pulled up in front of the massive structure that looked like Cinderella’s castle on steroids, Gillian had trouble getting out of the car. Devlyn took her arms and gently pulled her to her feet. “Poor Gillian,” he said.

The soft croon in his deep voice made her tremble. She was unable to protest when he scooped her up and carried her into the house. Striding through darkened hallways, he set a course for a back staircase that led to the second floor. Thankfully, they met no one on the way.

Devlyn paused before a half-open doorway. “This is my room. There’s an adjoining suite with a door you can lock. But if you need assistance during the night, you can text me or call me and I’ll get you anything you need.”

How about you, Devlyn Wolff? In the buff. Sliding on top of me and …

Her breath caught in her throat. She was suffering the effects of a long dry spell in the sex department. That’s why she wanted to nibble his throat despite the fact that she felt as if she’d been run over by the proverbial truck. Proximity and deprivation. Simple explanations for the electric connection she felt to a man who was in no way an appropriate object of her fantasies.

Well, yes … for fantasy … in the abstract. But not at all healthy or practical to imagine him … and her … together … Oh, Lord. Her thighs clenched and her nipples tightened. She prayed he didn’t notice.

His bed was neatly made. But a pair of jeans hung haphazardly over the back of an armchair, and a paperback crime novel lay upside down on the mahogany nightstand.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she croaked.

Without acknowledging her comment, he took her, still in his arms, through the doorway into a room that was almost as large as his but was decorated in more feminine tones. Ever so gently, he set her on her feet. “Bathroom’s through there. I’ll see if I can round you up some clean clothes, and I’ll call Jacob to see what medicine you can take.”

Before she could catch her breath, he was gone.

She hobbled into the luxurious bathroom and stared in the mirror. If she’d had any illusions about her comparison to the female companionship usually enjoyed by Wolff men, they were shattered decisively by her reflection. Even on a good day, she didn’t stand out in a crowd. Right now, she looked ghastly.

Stripping out of her rain-damp clothes, she adjusted the water and stepped into the shower. The hot pelting spray hurt in a good way, the steamy warmth penetrating her bones. Already, bruises were showing up on her too-pale skin. She’d taught a summer-school session instead of going to the beach with her girlfriends, and look where that had gotten her.

Knowing she didn’t have the strength or the will to blow-dry her hair, and since she’d shampooed it the night before, she was careful to keep it from getting wet. As she stepped out of the shower and was drying off, a knock on the door startled her so much that she dropped her towel. “Don’t come in,” she cried, scrambling to cover her indecent bits.

A chuckle was her only answer. The door eased open a scant foot. One long-fingered, tanned hand reached in holding soft, clean clothes. The items landed on the counter with a muted plop, and the hand withdrew.

Gillian scurried forward and locked the knob with what sounded like a gunshot-loud click. She was pretty sure she heard Devlyn laugh again. The bounty he had provided included a set of lounging pj’s … the kind you see in the Neiman Marcus catalog, the kind only rich women owned and wore.

The fabric was incredibly soft and warm, though not thick … some sort of cashmere blend. The cinnamon shade flattered her hair and added a snippet of color to her washed-out complexion.

She put on naughty silk panties that most likely belonged to Devlyn’s sister, Annalise, then slipped into the top and pants. Devlyn hadn’t added a bra. Gillian’s own underwear tended toward cotton practicality. The new undies made her aware of the place between her thighs that throbbed as insistently as her injuries. And her breasts rubbed sensuously against the velvetlike fabric.

When she exited the bathroom, barefooted, she stopped short. Devlyn stood by the fireplace where a fire crackled with blissful heat. He had dragged a small table near the hearth, and it was set with an array of dishes. Her stomach growled audibly.

He held out a hand. “Come eat. And Jacob said you can double the usual dose of over-the-counter pain meds. If he were here, he could give you something stronger.”

Shyness engulfed her. She had to force herself to approach him. “That will be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

He held out her chair, his arm brushing her shoulder as she sat down. “I can’t seem to help it,” he said wryly.

The carpet beneath her feet was soft as a cloud. She curled her toes into it and took a deep breath. “I know you didn’t cause my accident,” she said, looking up at him through downcast lashes. “I was just in a bad mood. I’m sorry.”

He sat down as well, and poured each of them a cup of tea. The juxtaposition of his big, manly hands against the wafer-thin china teapot was incongruous and alarming. How could she keep him at arm’s length if he didn’t remain in the box she had labeled “spoiled rich philanderer.”

She didn’t want to like Devlyn Wolff. Not at all.

He took her lack of enthusiasm the wrong way. “It’s herbal tea,” he said. “No caffeine. But I can get you coffee if you’d rather have it.”

Picking up the lovely ivory cup scattered with blue forget-me-nots, she shook her head. “I prefer the tea. Thank you.”

He had fixed a tray of sandwiches as well—tiny, slightly ragged squares of white bread with the crusts removed. Peanut butter and honey.

Her whole body tensed. “Why did you make these?” she asked, her insides in a knot.

Devlyn shrugged, his expression moody. “As a penance, I guess. I remember watching you eat them in the kitchen when your mother was on her lunch break. I was jealous, you know. My mother never cooked anything.”

Gillian didn’t know what to say to that. No one cooked peanut butter. But she understood what he was telling her.

He waved a hand. “You need to eat something so the medicine won’t upset your stomach.”

Too late. The accident, this intimate tête-à-tête, Devlyn’s unexpected domesticity … all of it had her in turmoil.

Mute and uncomfortable, she picked up a piece of sandwich, chewed and swallowed. The familiar tastes from her childhood opened a floodgate of memories. His hostility. Her feelings of inferiority. The emotions were as sharp and crisp as yesterday.

Yet he spoke of penance.

“You have nothing for which to apologize,” she said slowly, eyeing him over the rim of her teacup. “You were hurting. We were both children.” She didn’t insult him by pretending not to understand what he was talking about. Their youthful confrontation in the cave all those years ago had clearly bothered him as well as her.

Devlyn wolfed down five mini-sandwiches to her two, and drained three cups of tea. For some reason, she was infinitely fascinated by the play of muscles in his throat as he swallowed. Everything about him was intensely virile, dangerously sexual.

When a woman became aroused by watching a man eat peanut butter and honey, she was in trouble. Big trouble.

He sat back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the arms. “I was hateful and cruel,” he said quietly. His voice dropped an octave. “You were trying to express sympathy in the only way you knew how. I acted like a jerk.”

She could almost see his frustration. “You were a kid. It was a long time ago. Forget about it.”

“Have you?”

The sharp question caught her off guard. “I … uh … no,” she muttered. “I never forgot.”

After an awkward pause, he handed her some tablets. “These are nonprescription, but Jacob says they’ll be the best thing for muscles aches. Take them now so you’ll be comfortable in bed.”

Their fingers brushed as the medicine changed hands. The word bed hovered in the air between them. She clenched her fist. “Thank you.”

Without taking his eyes off hers, he covered her hand. “Now,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t wait. And quit being so damned polite.”

She jerked away and swallowed the pills, almost choking because of the knowledge that he had touched her. It meant nothing … She was the one freaking out, not Devlyn. He was merely being a gentleman.

Avoiding his cobralike gaze, she scooped up a shortbread cookie. It melted on her tongue like ambrosia of the gods. “I’d forgotten how good these are,” she moaned.

Devlyn reacted visibly to the involuntary sound she made. Feeling her cheeks heat in embarrassment, she bent her head and took another sip of tea. Was it just her, or was Devlyn reacting as strongly as she was to the odd sense of intimacy that shrouded the room in hushed layers?

Three

Devlyn couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent this much time in a woman’s bedroom without both of them getting naked. When Gillian made a surprisingly sexual response to cookies … goddamned sugar cookies, his sex hardened from zero to sixty in five seconds.

And she wasn’t even pretty in the traditional sense.

He adjusted himself unobtrusively and ate another sandwich. Maybe if he kept his mouth full he could quit thinking about licking his way down that swanlike white-skinned neck. Good lord …

“So tell me, Gillian. What do you do for a living … when you’re not smashing cars into trees?”

She stared at him with affront.

“Too soon?” He grinned at her, surprisingly entertained by the unexpected turn his evening had taken. The quick phone call to his investor had not been pleasant, but Devlyn was determined. The outlook might be grim, but he’d fought his way out of worse situations.

Gillian wiped her mouth daintily with a snowy cloth napkin, leaving a faint trace of pink color on the fabric. Seeing the stain from her lips, he imagined other oral scenarios. Perhaps because her lips were the only truly curvy thing about her. They belonged more to a porn star than to a quiet, wary-eyed, little mouse.

She curled her legs beneath her, drawing attention to slim thighs and a narrow waist. He wondered if he could span that waist with his two hands.

Gillian seemed blissfully oblivious to his baser instincts. “Do you joke about everything?” she asked, disapproval evident in her wide-set eyes.

He shrugged. “I’d rather laugh than cry.”

And there it was again. That pesky, awful memory. Hell. He hadn’t meant to bring it up again … or had he?

She cocked her head. “Why did I make you so angry that day?” she asked. “I’ve always wondered. Was it only because I saw you in tears?”

Any humor he’d tried to generate evaporated. He leaped to his feet and stoked the fire, throwing on another couple of logs for good measure. Leaning an arm on the mantel, he poked at the embers, wishing he didn’t feel the same prodding at a place that would never heal.

“Sure,” he said curtly. “That was it.”

“You’re lying.”

He jerked around so quickly that he knocked over one of the andirons. Replacing it clumsily, he sat down hard in his chair, staring at her with bemused eyes. “I don’t know what to make of you, Gillian Carlyle. So let’s go back to my first question. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a teacher. Third grade.” Pride glowed on her face and in her voice until something stole it away, some weary acceptance of an unpalatable truth. “Or I was,” she said, her tone subdued. “The county I worked for outside of Charlottesville cut forty positions last week. I was four years into a five-year tenure track.”

“That sucks.”

“Tell me about it.”

Their eyes met, and they both burst into laughter. Devlyn realized in that instant that he had been wrong earlier. Gillian Carlyle wasn’t plain. She was a beauty. But it was the hidden loveliness of the sea on a cloudy, windswept day. Only when the sun came out were the emeralds and sapphires and aquamarines revealed.

His brain whirred with sudden possibilities. “Is that why you’re back home in Burton?”

“Partially. I begged my mother to move to Charlottesville with me when I got the job, but she never would. She loves the house where I grew up, and oddly enough, she loves Wolff Castle. She’s very proud to be part of the staff here, and she doesn’t want to leave.”

“So why did you try to persuade her?”

“My dad was a carpenter. He died a few years ago when scaffolding at a worksite collapsed. Mama was distraught, and I wanted her where I could keep an eye on her. In case you hadn’t noticed, there are no teaching jobs around here. Not many jobs of any kind for someone with my training.”

“But she wouldn’t move.”

“No. And now she’s glad she didn’t. But that still leaves me in a tough spot, because I want to look after her, but I can’t even take care of myself at the moment.”

“Something will come up.” He had an idea or two, but now was not the time. “Would you like another cookie?”

Her lips quirked. “I’m not stupid, Devlyn. I answered your questions. Don’t you owe me the same courtesy?”

That amazing, adorably boyish smile flashed briefly. “I’m a stubborn SOB. Don’t try to analyze me. What you see is what you get.”

Her eyes widened as she caught the deliberately flirtatious innuendo. As he watched, her cheeks turned pink. And about the same time, a little frown line appeared between her brows. “I don’t think you’re a very nice man,” she said slowly.

“Nice guys finish last. Don’t you know?” He stood and messed with the fire again, irritated as hell that she put him on edge. She was a nobody. An unemployed elementary schoolteacher. A starchy, prissy, sexually repressed female.

Perhaps if he told himself often enough, he would believe it.

Gillian yawned suddenly, and he felt a lick of remorse. She’d been through a hell of a lot. It was long past time for her to be in bed. But not in his.

He stood up and held out his hand. “C’mon, little lady. You’re drooping.”

She stood and began stacking their dirty dishes.

“Leave them,” he said, a hand on her arm. “The staff will get it in the morning.”

Gillian froze, and immediately, he heard how his words must have sounded to her. Heat stained his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said gruffly. “That was insensitive.”

Gillian shrugged, causing the fabric of her top to mold to her bare, small, perfect breasts. He swallowed hard, caught unawares by a sudden driving urge to unbutton that top and look his fill.

She smiled wryly. “Don’t be stupid. Your family provides a lot of great jobs for working-class people. That’s not a bad thing.”

But she didn’t say it was good, either. He sensed her ambivalence and her fatigue. “Go to bed, Gillian. You’re beat. We can talk in the morning, but if you need me during the night, don’t play the martyr. I’m right next door.”

Gillian tossed and turned for an hour, unable to sleep in a strange house. The medicine had taken the edge off her various pains, but her body still ached. At last, she climbed out of bed and went to the French doors, drawing the thick draperies aside and peering out into the dark.

A tiny crescent moon cast a dim light that filtered down like fairy dust among the trees that surrounded the house. When Wolff Castle was built, Devlyn’s father and his uncle had been insistent that as little of the woods as possible be cut down. Consequently, the forest cloaked the enormous house like a security blanket, maintaining the privacy for which the Wolffs were famed.

The late-night scene was serene. Gillian’s emotions were anything but. She felt trapped, claustrophobic. Even if she had the energy and the will to do so, she couldn’t leave. Her car was crumpled at the bottom of the mountain.

Her mother’s voice had been hard to read when Gillian called her to explain what had happened. Doreen Carlyle was well acquainted with all the members of the Wolff family, including Devlyn. And Devlyn’s reputation with the opposite sex was no secret.

Women loved him. And he loved women. But never for more than a season, at best. Though he seemed like an open book, dark currents ran beneath his easy charm and his outrageous sex appeal.

Gillian curled her fist in a fold of cloth and shivered as her bare toes chilled on the flagstones that edged the doorway. Dare she go outside? Would anyone know?

Without another thought, she pulled her thick sweater over the fancy pajamas and shoved her feet into her boots. Even without a mirror, she knew she looked ludicrous. But she had to escape, had to prove to herself that she wasn’t a prisoner. A small, spiral, wrought-iron staircase at the end of her balcony offered easy access to the level below.

The air was colder than she had anticipated. Rain had finally moved on, and indigo skies overhead were clear, allowing the temperature to plummet. Fall would soon give way to winter, especially at this elevation. She followed a pathway at random, not at all worried about being alone in the dark.

She was a country girl, born and raised in these mountains. Travelers came from across the globe to see the mystical and beautiful Blue Ridge, but for Gillian they were more like an old, comfortable friend.

As she meandered, she thought about the last time she had visited Wolff Mountain. She’d been a sophomore in high school, and in her economics class, they’d been doing projects about starting a business. Doreen Carlyle had asked Victor Wolff, Devlyn’s uncle, if her daughter could interview him.

Gillian remembered how nervous she had been that day, but Victor Wolff, despite his gruff demeanor, had put her at ease. By the end of the conversation, they had been old buddies. He had a keen intellect and a knack for making money.

As she was leaving the house, preparing to negotiate the long, winding driveway in her fifteen-year-old Volkswagen Beetle, Gillian had come face-to-face with Devlyn Wolff. She remembered how her throat closed up, how hot color flooded her face. Neither of them spoke a word.

Devlyn seemed on the cusp of saying something urgent, but before he could tell her again that she didn’t belong, she fled. And until tonight, that was the last time she had ever seen him in the flesh.

The press, however, was another story. Devlyn’s exploits both in and out of the boardroom were legendary. He’d bought baseball teams, had at one time even dabbled with driving his own race car. The two Wolff patriarchs had put a quick stop to that, but even so, Devlyn deserved his reputation as a billionaire playboy … an out-of-date term, perhaps, but one that fit.

His wilder party days had tempered as he approached thirty, perhaps because he was being groomed to take over the reins of the family business.

Victor and Vincent Wolff started their families late in life, both of them at least fifteen years older than the beautiful wives they eventually lost.

Now, they were at a point where they wanted to enjoy retirement. So Devlyn was in control of everything. Nothing short of brilliant, he worked as hard as he partied.

Gillian was not immune to his appeal. But he was way out of her league. She preferred bookish, intellectual men, guys who were more like house-trained pets than wild, night-roaming creatures.

Devlyn was incredibly dangerous and yet so very attractive.

She hugged her arms around her body and decided she had had enough. Her limbs trembled with fatigue, and it was time for another dose of painkiller. Things always seemed so much worse at this hour … her bleak employment future, the lack of male companionship in her nunlike life … the hole in her emotions left by her father’s passing.

Blinking back tears of self-pity that she refused to let fall, she turned and immediately tripped over a root, stumbling to her knees on the cold and muddy ground.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Devlyn’s outraged voice startled her as much as the fall. In an instant, his hands were under her arms, lifting her effortlessly to her feet. Seeing the state she was in, he cursed beneath his breath and shrugged out of the thick, fleece-lined jacket he wore. He wrapped it around her and scooped her into his arms.

“You can’t spend all your time carrying me around,” she muttered. But it was a token protest at best. His warmth surrounded her even as his strength filled her with an odd contentment.

It was a false sense of security. She knew that. But for this one moment, this single, unlikely and unsettling reunion, she decided to pretend that she had a right to be here in Devlyn Wolff’s embrace.

She had left the double, glass-paned doors to her room unlatched. After negotiating the narrow stairs, Devlyn deposited her on her feet long enough to remove her muddy boots and his shoes, before urging her inside, locking the doors and drawing the drapes.

Gillian had left a single lamp burning. The confusion in Devlyn’s eyes mirrored her own. “I’m sorry I disturbed you,” she said, the words stiff. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Same here.” Still he stared at her. “Sit down on the bed, Gillian.”

He stepped past her, and moments later she heard water running in the bathroom. When he returned, he had a damp washcloth in his hands. “I said sit down.”

She sat.

Why was she enabling his bossiness? She was a mature woman with a life that clicked along quite well. She didn’t need a man to take care of her.

He took her fingers in his and gently wiped away the mud where she had landed, hands down. His touch was gentle but firm, removing the bits of leaves and grass that clung to her skin.

Next he removed his coat, the one he had wrapped around her. His eyes went to the muddy knees of her pajamas, and her stomach clenched. Surely he wouldn’t—

“Lift your hips.”

Like an automaton, she obeyed, watching the tableau unfold as he bared her legs and dragged the pants down to her ankles and away. “Get under the covers,” he said.

Her face flaming with color, she obeyed, painfully conscious that he didn’t even bother to avert his gaze. When she was covered from the waist down, she removed the sweater, managing to tangle her hair in the process. Devlyn disappeared into the bathroom a second time and came back holding a brush still wrapped in cellophane.

He sat down beside her, opening the package. “Turn away from me,” he commanded.

She felt one hand settle on her shoulder. With the other, he dragged the brush through her hair. Her eyes closed and a whimper of delight escaped her lips. Her head lolled on her shoulders as the simple pleasure unfolded. Occasionally, as he encountered a knot, she felt his fingers sift through her straight, thick tresses.

Gooseflesh erupted all over her body, and her breasts grew heavy with arousal. Did he try this on all his women? God, the man was a genius. He never seemed to tire. The gentle pull of the bristles against her scalp went on and on. Sleepiness gradually replaced sexual excitement.

Dimly, she heard him speak soft words as he eased her onto her back. She felt hard, warm arms encircle her.

After that … nothing.

Four

Devlyn awoke abruptly, his internal alarm clock set for 6:00 a.m. For a moment, he was completely disoriented. And then everything came flooding back. Gillian Carlyle.

Though it was an anomaly to begin the day fully dressed in a woman’s bed, the details were clear. He’d been driven by a combination of guilt and lust, determined to take care of the prickly woman who was a thorn in the side of his past.