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Seraphina's love, she thought with a quiet laugh. The kind a woman would die for.
Well, she couldn't afford to be dewy-eyed enough to hurl herself off a cliff for anyone. She had children to raise, a house to run, and a career—a surprisingly interesting career—to maintain.
So she would happily settle for whatever she and Michael had between them, and be grateful for it. More than grateful, she thought, tonight, in bed, when he put his hands on her again. Those impatient, rough-palmed hands that took whatever they wanted and made her wild with need.
The way he murmured her name, softly, deeply, when he slid into her to mate.
"What the hell are you doing?"
The pole nearly slipped out of her hands at the sharp tone. Her head jerked up, and there was her lover, scowling, standing spread-legged, hands in his pockets, with his hair loose and flowing.
Fighting against a reckless urge to leap on him and tear in, she tilted her head. "Why, I'm mixing a soufflé. What does it look like?"
"Why the hell are you doing that yourself?" He was beside her in two angry strides, pulling the pole away. "Don't you have servants to do this?"
"Actually, no. I let the pool boy go a couple of years ago when I learned that Candy was using him for her personal maintenance as well as her pool. I found it… awkward."
He wasn't going to smile, or even smirk. Coming across her like this, seeing her laboring over some ridiculous menial chore after putting in a full day burned him.
"Then hire another one."
"I'm afraid it doesn't fit into the scheme of things just now. In any case, I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself." Taking a closer look, she brushed at his hair. "You seem a little frazzled, Michael. Rough day?"
He'd been in a pisser of a mood since his contractor had estimated it would be six months before the rebuilding was completed. There had been a lot of blah-blah about permits, inspections, zoning, but the upshot was that he was going to be Laura's tenant for a great deal longer than he'd anticipated.
He didn't want to be her tenant, to hand over a rent check every month. It wasn't the money, he thought, fuming. It was the… It was awkward.
"I've had better." He nudged her aside and began to run the vacuum himself. "But we're not talking about me. You can't raise two kids, hold down two jobs, and deal with this sort of nonsense too. Why don't you just close the damn pool?''
"Because I enjoy swimming, and there are a lot of women who do a great deal more than I do and manage very well."
"They're not you." Which said it all in his mind.
"No, they don't have a beautiful home that no one would ever take from them, and they don't necessarily have a job that they're in no danger of jeopardizing if they need to flex their schedule."
Insulted, she fought with him over the pole. "I am not the pampered princess you seem to think. I'm a—" she hissed, tugged—"capable, intelligent woman who can run her life very well. I'm sick and tired of people patting me on the head and saying 'poor Laura' behind my back." She yanked, swore. "I am not poor Laura and I can clean my own goddamn pool. Give me back the stupid pole."
"No." It had calmed him considerably to see her temper flare. It wasn't much of one, as far as he could see, but there was potential in those stormy eyes, flushed cheeks, gritted teeth. "Keep messing with me, sugar, and I'll toss you in. It's a little cool for a dip this evening."
"Fine. Do it yourself. You're a man, after all, and men are so much more capable of doing mindless chores. But I didn't ask for your help, nor do I need it. Nor do I need your sterling advice or your unsolicited criticism on how I handle my life."
"That's telling me," he said equably. "My hands are starting to shake."
Her eyes narrowed into slits. "You, too, could be taking a dip."
Interesting, he thought. Did she actually have a physical temper in there? "Is that so? You want to try to take me down?"
"If I did you'd be treading water in—oh, no! Bongo, no!" Insults paled when she caught sight of the pup busily digging up the newly planted pansies. "Stop that! Stop that right now!" She dashed across the pool skirt, snatched up the pup, and frowned at his dirt- and mulch-smeared nose. "How could you? Didn't I tell you no? It's bad. You're not to dig in the flowers."
When she set him down to survey the damage, Bongo cheerfully leaped into the mess and began digging again.
"I said no. Stop it. Why don't you listen to me?"
"Because he knows you're a pushover. Bongo." At Michael's voice, the pup lifted his head and grinned sheepishly. Michael could almost hear the sentiment: "Well, gee, Mick, just having a little fun here." Michael snapped his finger, pointed, and Bongo padded out, shook himself, and sat politely.
Torn between disgust and admiration, Laura hissed between her teeth, "How do you get him to do that?"
"It's a gift."
