Charlene Sands - Playboy's Ruthless Payback

For a moment she thought about quitting the job, but she didn’t run away from difficult situations anymore. She was no coward. She rolled up the magazine, then grabbed her notes. “I’ve got to go.”

“Just watch yourself, okay,” said Mary.

“I will.” And on her way out the door she tossed the magazine in the trash.

* * *

November snow in Minnesota was said to be only the warm-up act for what was coming in January, but as Mac pulled into his driveway, his tires spinning and begging for chains as thick flakes of snow pelted his windshield, he wondered if Christmas had already come and gone without his knowing.

He pulled into the dry haven of his garage and shut off the engine. For a moment, he just sat there. He’d left the homes of many women before, but never had he come home to one. Yes, Olivia was an employee so it should have made the situation feel less domestic, but it didn’t. He found her too pretty, too passionate, too smart to be just an employee.

When he entered the house a few minutes later, he heard the clanging sound of pots and pans being put away, and walked the short distance to the kitchen. His body instantly betrayed him as he spotted Olivia bending down, stacking pan lids on a shelf inside the island. Her dark hair was pulled back in a girlish ponytail and her pale skin looked flushed from all the activity. She wore a red sweater that hugged her breasts and waist, and jeans that pulled deliciously against her firm, round bottom. Devilish thoughts went through his head…like how good it would feel to be there when she stood up, to wrap his arms around her waist, to feel her backside press against him, to slip his hands under that soft wool sweater and feel her skin, her bones and her nipples as they hardened.

She turned then, caught him staring at her and gave him an expectant look. There was nothing new in it, she sported this look quite often, but today there was something more in her eyes, as though she seemed to be silently accusing him.

He dropped his briefcase and keys and walked into the room. She’d done wonders. The space was perfect, homey, yet surprisingly modern with its green, gray and stainless steel accents. She had actually created a family kitchen for him, based on his tastes. She was damn good at what she did, and he couldn’t wait to experience the aspect of the job were she had the most skill: the cooking.

“Well, Ms. Winston,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “You’re going to make some man a great wife.”

But the joke was lost on her. Her brows drew together in an affronted frown. “That was an incredibly sexist remark.”

“Was it?”

“Yes.”

“Why? I was giving you a compliment. The room looks amazing.”

“So, only a husband can appreciate it?” she said, holding an incredibly large frying pan in one hand. “This is my job because I love it, not because I chose something stereotypically female. Okay?”

“Sure.” He eased the fry pan out of her hand and put it on the counter. “This is not a weapon.”

She stood a foot away, looking altogether too attractive, even in her ire. “I don’t need stainless steel to do harm, Valentine.”

He nodded. “I believe you.” He reached up and brushed a stray hair off of her cheek. Her skin was so soft it made him ache to keep touching her. “Tell you what, when I go out back later and chop firewood you can say that I’d make a fine husband.”

Not even a hint of a smile. He had no idea what he might have done to make her so mad at him, but he knew he was in trouble.

“I doubt very much that you chop wood,” she said, picking up a pot from the sink. “But even if you did it would take a lot more than watching you to make me think that you’d be a good husband.”

“Why are you so angry with me?” he said finally. “I could sense it the moment I walked in. You look damn pretty, but clearly pissed off.”

“I’m not angry!” she shouted, snatching a dishtowel off the counter.

“What is it? Have a conversation with your father today?”

“Listen, buddy,” she said sourly. “I don’t need to talk to my father to get fired up about you.”

“Fired up?” he repeated, amused.

“That’s right.” She put the pot on the stove top. “I am fully capable of forming my own opinions about you.”

He stepped forward, making her step back, her hips pressing against the granite island. “And what have you come up with?”

“That you’re a man who likes women—”

He chuckled. “Damn right.”

“You didn’t let me finish.” Her voice was low, as intense as her gaze. “So much so that you can barely remember their names five minutes out of the relationship.”

“I don’t have relationships, Olivia.” He wondered if kissing her right now was a bad idea or a brilliant one. But she never gave him the chance.

“Are you proud of the way you’re seen by other people?” she said. “Someone who jumps out of one bed only to charm his way into another?”

“That’s the question of a woman who is in desperate need of a man in her bed.”

She stared at him, her cheeks red and her dark eyes filled with irritation, then she dropped her dishtowel and walked out of the kitchen. “It’s getting late.”

“I’ll walk you out,” he said, following her to the front door.

“Don’t bother.” She grabbed her coat and hat and gloves and purse and opened the door. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

Then Mac saw the snow and remembered his drive home. “Wait. It’s really coming down out there.”

“Good night, Mr. Valentine.”

“The roads are pretty bad.”

She stepped out the door and went down the path, calling back, “I’m a Minnesota native, Mr. Valentine. I’ve driven in worse than this.”

“Damn it to hell!”

Olivia glanced over her shoulder and winced when she saw that she’d backed over Mac’s mailbox. There it was, stretched out in the snow, a sad, black pole with a missing head. What a fool she was thinking that just because she had four-wheel drive and an SUV she could avoid the realities of Mother Nature. She’d just wanted to get away from that man, out of his house and the questions about how others saw him, how he had jumped from one bed to the next and all of that crap that she’d tossed at him—questions she was really asking herself.

She put her car in gear and stepped on the gas. A sad whirring sound was followed by rotating tires.

“Damn snow.”

She slammed the car back into Park. This job had gone from a leap of curiosity to just plain complicated. Never had she acted so unprofessionally, and even though Mac’s motives for hiring her were questionable at best, her job was to execute without getting personal, without allowing her fears to drive her actions. Well, from this point on she was going to make sure that happened.

She cranked up the heat, then reached for her cell phone and dialed information. But before the automated operator picked up, there was a knock on her window. Startled, she turned to see Mac, in just his jeans and shirt, and she pressed the button for the window.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’ve killed your mailbox, I’m stuck in the snow and now I’m calling a cab.”

He cursed, the word coming out in a puff of breath. “You’d do better to call a tow truck. No cab’s coming out in this. I could brave it and try to get you home, but I don’t think that’d be very smart.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” she agreed. “You should go back inside.” She rolled up the window, then reached for her cell phone and dialed the operator once more.

Mac knocked on the glass, hard this time. Again, she rolled down her window. “What?”

“You’re going to freeze.”