Kate Hoffmann - Sean

"No, you're right. There's no reason for us to discuss personal matters. I have to remember, you're just doing a job."

"That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

Laurel nodded, then snatched her fingers from his and rose. "I'm going to take a shower-or maybe you'd like to use the bathroom first?"

"No, go ahead," Sean said. He glanced around the room. "What are the sleeping arrangements here?"

Laurel's gaze darted to the four-poster. For a moment he thought she might invite him to share the bed with her. Though the prospect was intriguing, he knew better than to tempt fate. He quickly pointed to a small reading alcove near the other side of the room. "I can take the sofa over there."

"No, you can have the bed," she said, grabbing a folded throw from a nearby chair. "That sofa is too small for-"

He took the throw from her hands, then picked up a pillow, as well. "I sleep on my sofa at home all the time. It won't be a problem. If it's uncomfortable, I can always stretch out on the floor."

She grabbed the robe lying across the end of the bed and clutched it to her chest. "All right then, I'm just going to take my shower."

The door to the bathroom closed and Sean let out a tightly held breath. He'd thought this job would be easy, but the tension that had sprung up between them made every minute alone together sheer torture. He almost wanted to return to the library and an audience with Uncle Sinclair.

Sean moved to the door of the bathroom and listened to the sound of running water. A vision of Laurel flashed in his head and he let it linger, imagining her as she undressed and stepped into the shower… as she let the water sluice over her naked body… smoothed her soap-slicked hands over her-

Sean cursed then strode away from the door. This was crazy! Nothing, not even twenty thousand dollars, was worth this kind of punishment. How could she expect him to live with her as her husband and not think about the pleasures that a husband usually shared with his wife?

He ran his fingers through his hair, then turned for the door. He wasn't about to hang around until she came out of the bathroom, her skin still damp from her shower, her robe clinging to her body. He'd find something else to occupy his time until she crawled into bed and turned off the lights.

The hallway was silent as he walked down the sweeping staircase. His footsteps made little noise against the thick Oriental runner. When he reached the door to the kitchen, he shoved it open, then stopped, surprised to see Alistair still up.

The diminutive man looked over his shoulder and smiled at Sean as he walked toward the sink. "I thought you'd gone to bed," he said.

"Strange house," Sean said. "I'm not going to sleep. It will take me a few nights to settle in."

"Perhaps I can prepare something for you. A snack?"

"Do you have any beer?"

Alistair nodded and retrieved two bottles from the huge commercial refrigerator. He popped the caps off with an opener. "Would you like a glass?"

Sean grabbed one of the bottles and took a long swallow, then shook his head. "Nope. I'm fine." He held up the bottle. "Guinness."

Alistair carefully poured his beer into a half-pint glass. "I enjoy a bit of the black stuff every now and then."

"My da has an Irish pub in Southie and-" Sean swallowed the rest of his sentence, realizing too late that he'd blown his cover. "I mean, I've been to a pub in-"

"No need," Alistair said. "I'm aware of your charade."

Sean cursed inwardly, but tried to maintain a calm facade. "Charade? I don't know what you mean."

"You might tell me your name," Alistair said.

"It's Edward. Edward Garland Wilson." The butler raised an eyebrow and Sean knew he was made. "It is." The butler shook his head. "All right. It's Sean Quinn. How did you know?"

"You were nothing like Laurel described. I knew how much pressure her uncle put on her to marry and how desperate she was to get her trust fund. What happened to Edward?"

"He didn't make it to the wedding," he said.

"I wasn't sure that he existed at all. And how did you come to be mixed up in this little drama of Miss Laurel's?"

"She needed a husband. She made me an offer I couldn't refuse."

Alistair nodded. "Ah. The Godfather . One of my favorite American films. I suppose you could say that Miss Laurel has decided to go to the mattresses?" He chuckled softly. "I'm not surprised. That is precisely like Miss Laurel."

"I guess she's used to getting her way," Sean murmured.

"Oh, no," Alistair said. "Miss Laurel is quite unspoiled. But she does have a tendency to set her sights on something and then rush headlong into it without thinking about the consequences first. She's headstrong, yes, and single-minded. But not at all selfish." He glanced at Sean over the rim of his glass, then licked the foam off his upper lip. "I can't say that I blame Miss Laurel. Sinclair Rand toys with her as a cat toys with a mouse. She didn't have an easy childhood and Sinclair hasn't made her adulthood much better. It's been a battle of wills between them for years."

"How so?" Sean asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Laurel's mother died when she was ten and her father nine years later. It was very difficult for her, even more so when Sinclair became the authority figure in her life."

"I lost my mother when I was three," Sean said. "That can mess a kid up for a long time."

"Then you understand."

They drank their beer silently, the two of them lost in their thoughts for a few minutes. Alistair seemed to know Laurel better than anyone, even her uncle, and Sean was grateful for any insight into his "wife." "What happened to Laurel's parents?"

"Laurel's father, Stewart Rand, was wealthy and older when he married Miss Louise. She was a dancer and an actress. He and his brother, Sinclair, had made the family fortune and Mr. Stewart was determined to enjoy it in his later years. Sinclair didn't approve of Louise Carpenter. There was twenty-five years difference in age between them and he considered her an unsuitable choice, from a working-class family."

"And she died?"

"Miss Louise died of cancer three days after their twelfth wedding anniversary. Laurel and her mother were so close, they did everything together. Her mother had her in ballet lessons and theater class. They studied painting and sculpting. When most little girls were playing with dolls, Miss Louise took Laurel to museums and operas and symphony concerts. I once thought Laurel was destined for a career on the stage. But after Miss Louise died, that all stopped. Mr. Stewart lost all interest in the child and she was left to fend for herself. Mr. Stewart passed on nine years later. He had a heart attack shortly after Laurel left for college. Perhaps he thought he'd finished raising Laurel and he could finally join his wife."

"And then Sinclair was in charge," Sean commented.

"He looked upon her as if she were a nuisance, an embarrassment, a reminder that his brother had succumbed to his baser instincts. Once Laurel was out of the house, she began to blossom, she began dancing again and painting, she appeared in several plays. But Sinclair insisted that she get a proper degree in something practical. He decided she needed a teaching degree, and if she refused to take the classes, then he'd refuse to pay for her education. Every time she took a step away from him, he'd drag her back."

"I didn't know Laurel was a teacher."

Alistair nodded. "Up until last June, she taught music at a grade school in Dorchester. She loves teaching, loves the children. I thought she'd finally found her place in the world, but then she decided to marry and quit her job. That was quite a surprise."

It took a moment for Sean to absorb the news. He'd just assumed that Laurel lived off her family's money, that she was nothing more than a spoiled rich girl determined to have her way. "Why is it so important for her to get her inheritance?"