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“You’re the one who keeps reminding me that you’re paying me to do a job. That job is simple. When we’re with your family, I’ll play the part, but here on the boat, I think we should keep our distance.” Her eyes were fixed over his shoulder, and her delivery would have been perfect, if it weren’t for the fact that her voice was wobbling with emotion.
“A job,” he murmured, taking a step closer, then another, until their bodies were close. Her flesh was covered with fine goosebumps, despite the warmth of the night, and her nipples were tight against the fabric of her bikini. “Tell me why you are a cleaner, and not an actress?”
Her cheeks flushed with colour. Fascinating. Was she embarrassed of her occupation?
“Why?”
“Call it curiosity,” he said. “I’ll even pay you for the information. Shall we say another five thousand pounds?”
He’d thought her pale before, but she was as white as a sheet ass he digested his words.
“You’re unbelievable.” It was a hollow whisper. She turned away, even her hair somehow defiant as it hung down her back. She walked away from him, but slowly, as though her spirit were broken, as though she was utterly defeated. He watched her go without realizing he was holding his breath, until he released it on a single exhalation of relief.
She hadn’t gone downstairs, to the solitude of her bedroom. She’d taken a seat at the table Santiago had been using earlier, her legs crossed neatly, her hands clenched on the tabletop, her eyes staring straight ahead.
Something squeezed in his chest at the sight of her, so obviously miserable and emotional, but not running from that.
Or was it just that she wanted the money so badly that she’d face up to whatever he asked of her?
Another reason he had to control the parameters for whatever they were. He’d never trust her. Not in a million years. He would never give her more than money – why risk it?
He pulled a folded towel from one of the drawers and handed it to her as he passed, moving into the kitchen and assembling a platter of all the antipasti the yacht was always stocked with. Olives, jambon, cheese, dips, breadsticks, and he grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses as he came onto the deck.
“Well?” He placed the platter down, looking at her.
“Fine,” she sipped her wine, then sipped it again, shutting her eyes as the alcohol found its way to her belly. “Let’s have dinner.”
“And you will answer some questions I have.”
“Only if you answer mine.”
His laugh was a whip. “I am paying you for your answers. What are you going to give me?”
Her eyes met his with visible effort. “I’m not for sale.”
His lifted brow was mocking, and Addie shifted in her seat, lifting her fingers to reach for an olive before clasping her hands back in her lap. “What do you want to know?”
“Why cleaning?”
“I like the hours.”
He considered that, taking the seat opposite. “You work at night?”
“Yeah.”
“There are lots of jobs that involve these hours, many of them less…”
“Menial?” She supplied, her eyes challenging his. “Embarrassing?”
“Arduous,” he corrected, sipping his wine without looking away from her.
“I don’t mind hard work,” she said, shrugging her slim shoulders. And they were slim. That same fragility he’d sensed in her on the day she’d come to him, asking for help, he felt now. Saw now, as she sat opposite him, her body curled in on itself, her face wearing wounds he couldn’t fathom.
He didn’t care about her problems. She was simply an equation he wanted to understand; that was all.
“I like order,” she said after a moment, so quietly he almost didn’t catch the words. “I know it might seem hard for you to understand, but I get a lot of satisfaction out of taking clutter and making it neat again.”
“Again, there are many jobs…”
