Brenda Hammond - At Your Service, Jack

“Yes.” She stared back at him, beginning to get annoyed. Even if she usually managed to remain cool and dignified, this combination of circumstances was rather daunting. Her years of secretarial work had gone smoothly, predictably. But her salary had hardly been enough to keep a racehorse fed, let alone pay for the sky-high Visa bill her ex-fiancé, Simon, had saddled her with. His sister Tabitha, her friend who owned the buttling agency, had convinced Freddi to take this job, saying it would solve all her financial problems and set her on track again. Because of her upbringing, Freddi knew exactly what a butler should do. She could easily wing it, and Mr. Jack Carlisle would be none the wiser.

Freddi took a small step closer to him. “As you didn’t hear the first time, I’ll repeat. I’m Elliott, your butler, you…If you intend to send me away, then the least you can do is give me some money to pay the driver. I don’t think he’ll accept my Visa.” Not that it would do any good if he did, she thought.

Maybe the man didn’t understand English too well, because instead of responding, he just stood there, arms folded, biceps bulging, staring at her out of hazel eyes. She clutched at the strap of her bag. This was going from bad to worse. She’d just about called Mr. Jack Carlisle an idiot. Not the best way to impress her new employer. The dreaded jet lag must have exaggerated that impetuous streak she’d been working so hard to eliminate, making her forget that she really needed this job.

So much for the warm welcome she’d been expecting. While snow accumulated on her shoulders, her courage dwindled. Yet another undisclosed, pernicious side effect of air travel. Clearly Mr. Carlisle was far too obtuse, far too crass for her to live with for the next three months. Bad enough to have to perform the role of butler at all. She’d only given in to Tabby’s urgings because she was desperate for a way out of her difficulties. But to perform such a role for Jack Carlisle would be impossible.

Freddi turned on her heel, thinking she’d better cut her losses and leave. She took two and a half tottering steps before Mr. Obnoxious called out.

“Wait!”

At that moment her serpent boots decided she should take a shortcut. Her heels slid out from under her and she found herself dumped on her rear end, gliding downward. Visions of lying in a pathetic heap at the bottom of the stairs were suddenly preempted. Jack leaned out and grabbed her arm, saving her from a slippery fate. The man had quick reflexes, she’d grant him that, even if he was slow on the uptake. Through the thick wool of her Jaeger coat she could feel the strength of his grip.

He hauled her upright with one large, firm hand, and continued to hold her, his gaze steady. “Just a minute. I’m starting to get the picture here. You said you’re Freddi who?”

“Freddi Elliott, your new butler—presuming you are Mr. Jack Carlisle—”

Jack didn’t say anything.

“But I’ve decided to quit before I begin,” she muttered, doing her best to sound aloof, an effect which she could achieve rather well.

“Let me get this straight,” he began.

A mild bout of dizziness hit her and she swayed, closing her eyes. His grip tightened.

“You’re Elliott, my butler, right? The agency sent you.”

Eyes open again, she looked up at him. “Both statements are one hundred percent correct.”

“But you’re not supposed to be a woman!”

She raised her eyebrows and closed her lids in a gesture that used to drive her younger brother crazy. Then, putting on her best expression of disdain, she looked down at the fingers curled around her upper arm. They sent strange sensations dancing across her skin.

“You’d better not be discriminating against my gender,” she warned, latching on to one last hope. “That’s illegal.” Her words were beginning to slur and she felt light-headed. The combination of extreme fatigue and jet lag was taking its toll.

He pulled her toward the door. “You’d better come inside. We can’t sort this out here.”

In spite of the freezing weather, Jack Carlisle wore a sleeveless T-shirt and his feet were bare. When he at last allowed her into the narrow, three-story house, Freddi understood why. Compared with the icy confines of her family’s baronial mansion, which cost far more to heat than her father could afford, Jack’s home was kept tropically warm.

Freddi followed him from the small, slate-floored entrance hall up three steps and into a large open space, one section of which held a long, dark oak table. He skirted the open stairwell with its spiral staircase, passed the dining section and flopped down onto a large, low easy chair. In front of this sat a matching ottoman. Jack put his bare feet up and crossed them at the ankles, regarding her with an enigmatic expression.

Her new employer had not suggested she remove her hat or coat, and now he neglected to invite her to sit down. Mr. Carlisle was definitely in urgent need of tuition in the normal politesse of everyday life. He didn’t even seem to care that it was rude to stare. At any other time, as part of her expanded job description, she would have tactfully pointed out these lapses.

Feeling self-conscious in the focus of Jack’s gaze, she dropped onto one corner of the six-foot-long black leather couch and sank gratefully into its soft and comfortable embrace. She would ignore him. But when she lowered her eyes, she found herself staring at his feet. Silence fell, broken only by the occasional hiss and crackle of the logs burning cozily in the open fireplace. To her relief, Jack got up and walked over to the curved corner bar.

Soon the warmth, the gradual relaxation of her tense mood and equally tense muscles began to make her sleepy. Maybe, if she hadn’t been so exhausted it would never have happened. Whatever, she could feel her eyelids growing heavier and heavier until she no longer had the will to prevent them from closing.

Meanwhile, Jack stood leaning on the corner bar. He drummed his fingers on the glass top. From the row of glasses arrayed on the shelf above, he selected a heavy-based tumbler. He unscrewed the top off a bottle of whiskey, poured himself a decent shot, then grabbed a couple of ice blocks from the small bar fridge. Lifting the glass in a toast to himself, he took a sip. The distinctive, woodsy taste filled his mouth, and slid in a fiery stream down his throat. What a situation. This was not at all what he’d been expecting.

His cousin, Tabitha James, had started the ball rolling. On the phone, he’d told her about needing more capital.

“What for?” she asked.

“There’s this new method of bonding metals that I’ve discovered. I have to develop further applications for it.”

“What happened to your other investors?”

“Everyone’s skittish because of the downturn in the economy.”

“Have you approached Uncle Avery?”

“Sure.” Jack sighed. “But the old fart says he’s got reservations. He’s holding off on final approval.”

Apparently Simon, Tabitha’s brother, had voiced his own biased opinion of Jack’s lack of proper manners, uncultivated ways and inability to settle down. He’d reminded Uncle Avery of that fiasco when Jack was twenty-three, freshly graduated from college. The time he accidentally hit the prime minister on the back of the head with an escargot.

Simon had their uncle’s ear. Not only was he on the spot, but recently he’d been appointed international marketing manager for the family corporation, which manufactured hard-rock mining machinery and equipment. Uncle Avery would visit soon to check up for himself, and in the meantime had advised Jack to find a suitable woman of good breeding. The right spouse was a tremendous advantage in life. So it was vital to Jack’s future that he play along with old Avery, get someone to help smarten him up, coach him in etiquette and bring an element of class and organization into his life. Otherwise, he could kiss any chance of money goodbye.