Julianne Maclean - Sleeping With The Playboy

She could imagine those hands doing a lot of things—unbuttoning buttons, unzipping zippers, sliding beneath a waistband….

Something inside her tingled pleasurably as her mind meandered around that idea, but when she caught herself veering off the path of professionalism again, she shut her eyes and shook her head. She spent the next few minutes forcing herself to think about the penthouse, instead of the man who inhabited it.

Jocelyn made her way out into the main hall and walked slowly in her bare feet, checking out the paintings on the walls. Most of them were contemporary landscapes, with plenty of seascapes as well. Closer to the front door, there were more framed black-and-white photographs of old abandoned, dilapidated farm houses.

She peeked into Dr. Knight’s exercise room and flicked on the light. He had a treadmill, a life cycle and a weight bench, and again, everything was shiny and clean. There wasn’t a hint of clutter anywhere. She wondered how anyone could be so perfect all the time.

Where did he keep his junk? Did he even have any?

She crossed the room to check the window latches, even though she had already checked them a couple of hours ago, then realized with some uneasiness that she was overcompensating for something: a personal rather than professional interest in poking around. She had questions about the man down the hall, sleeping soundly in his bed for what must be the first time in days.

An image of Dr. Knight stretched out on that huge bed, his muscular arms and legs sprawled out, his sun-bronzed body tangled in that thick, down duvet, burned suddenly in her brain. Her vision had him sleeping in jockeys, but perhaps he slept in boxers. Or maybe nothing at all.

Damn, she was doing it again. She willed herself to stop, and tried to remember her rule about not permitting herself to entertain any personal curiosities about her clients.

Not to mention the fact that Dr. Knight seemed like Tom in every way, and she had no business feeling curious about anyone who resembled her ex—people who derived their joy from living in lavish penthouses, wearing expensive tuxes and being spotted at the opera.

Then again, a few little things had made her wonder if there was more to Dr. Knight than what appeared on the surface. The beer thing had thrown her.

She came to the telephone near the front door, and noticed the high-tech answering machine beside it. Since he’d told her she could go through his underwear drawer if she wanted to, she decided to listen to his messages. One never knew where clues about stalkers could emerge.

She pressed play and reached for the volume control so she could keep the messages from waking her client. The machine clicked as it kicked in.

“Hi, Donovan, it’s Eleanor. I had a great time last week. Just wondering how you’re doing. Give me a call.” Beep.

“Donovan, where were you the other night? I missed you, baby. Oh, it’s Christine.” Beep.

“Hi, gorgeous. Where’ve you been? Call me when you get a chance. I have tickets to Die Tageszeiten on Saturday night, and no one to go with.” Beep.

There was one message from Mark, then four more like the first—more women sounding desperate and needy, wondering why Donovan hadn’t returned their calls.

Pitying those poor women, Jocelyn shook her head and slid back into security specialist mode. She returned to her computer to note the names of the women, and decided to ask Dr. Knight about them in the morning.

At 4:45 a.m., the baby monitor that Jocelyn had positioned by the front door woke her instantly. She heard the sound of a key in the lock. She sat up and grabbed her gun.

Slipping out of bed without making a sound, she glided out of the room and made her way down the hall. A woman was sneaking in, quietly closing the door while she made an effort to be quiet. Before she had a chance to turn around, Jocelyn was behind her with the gun pointed at her head. “Hold it!”

The woman screamed and jumped.

“Put your hands on your head!” Jocelyn ordered.

Dr. Knight’s bedroom door flew open and he came hurling out. Jocelyn kept her eyes on the intruder. “Get back in your room, Dr. Knight.”

“No, no, it’s okay!” he said. “This is my housekeeper!”

Only then did Jocelyn feel her own heart racing and the searing sensation of adrenaline coursing through her veins. She lowered her weapon. “I thought you said she came in the morning! It’s 4:45 a.m.”

“She likes to start early.”

Jocelyn’s shoulders went slack. “You could’ve told me! What was I supposed to think when someone sneaks into your penthouse at this hour?”

Dr. Knight moved toward the woman at the door. “I do apologize, Mrs. Meinhard. I’m so sorry. This is Jocelyn Mackenzie. She’s a security specialist. I hired her last night. Jocelyn, this is Brunhilde Meinhard.”

Shakily, the older woman turned around. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun on top of her head. Her glasses were large with clear, plastic rims—the old-fashioned kind from the eighties.

Jocelyn, feeling guilty for frightening the poor woman, held out her hand and gave her an apologetic smile. “Hi.”

With trembling fingers and a limp, fishlike grip, Mrs. Meinhard shook Jocelyn’s hand.

Suddenly uncomfortable in her skintight tank top and pajama bottoms, Jocelyn nodded politely and pointed toward her bedroom. “Well, now that I’m up, I’ll go get dressed.”

Neither Dr. Knight nor Mrs. Meinhard said a word. Jocelyn turned away from them.

In her bare feet, she padded down the hall, and to her chagrin, all she could think about was one thing: Her client wore pajama bottoms to bed. And Lord, what a chest.

She was in deep trouble.

An hour later, showered and dressed, Jocelyn walked out of her room with her gun holstered under her arm, her blazer buttoned over it. She went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, and met Mrs. Meinhard who had already taken care of that and was now polishing the brass knobs on the white cabinetry.

“Good morning, again,” Jocelyn said.

Mrs. Meinhard regarded her coolly. “Morning.”

Jocelyn poured herself a cup of coffee and watched the housekeeper scrub the hardware. “Look, I’m sorry for what happened earlier. I didn’t mean to frighten you, but Dr. Knight hired me to do a job, and that’s what I was doing.”

Saying nothing, the woman continued to scrub.

“I guess you weren’t here when the attack happened,” Jocelyn continued, taking a sip of coffee, “but is there anything you noticed that was out of place when you came in the next morning? Anything out of the ordinary that you might not have told the police?”

The woman straightened and folded her cloth. She spoke with a thick, German accent. “I tell police everything.”

“I don’t doubt that, ma’am, I’m just asking if there might be something you didn’t think of before.”

“No. There is nothing. You work for police?”

Jocelyn carefully studied the woman’s face. “No, I’m a private Executive Protection Professional. E.P.P. for short.”

Mrs. Meinhard nodded, but Jocelyn suspected she wasn’t completely sure what that meant.

Jocelyn fired out some more questions. “Can you tell me anything about the people who visit Dr. Knight? What about friends or family? Do any of them have keys?”

She shook her head. “Dr. Knight has no family—at least, none that come here.”

“No brothers or sisters?”

“I don’t know.”

Jocelyn cleared her throat. How could a housekeeper, who worked in someone’s home everyday for four years, not know if her employer had brothers or sisters? Then again, besides one framed picture of a young couple and a baby, there were no photographs of people anywhere, only landscapes and seascapes and old farm houses. Maybe Dr. Knight was at work most of the time when Mrs. Meinhard was here, and she was gone home when he entertained.