The aroma of evergreen and sandalwood lingers in his bathroom. It’s a pleasant, masculine scent. She takes a mont to inhale deeply and savor it like she did before. His striking eyes co to mind...and his broad shoulders...and flat belly. She sprays the bathroom mirror with Windolene and rubs energetically.
Stop! Stop! Stop!
He’s her employer, and he would never be interested in her. After all, she’s just his cleaner.
Her last job in his bedroom is to empty the trash. To her disbelief she finds the basket empty. There are no used condoms. She places it back beside his nightstand, and for so inexplicable reason the empty basket makes her smile.
Gathering up the laundry and her cleaning materials, she gazes for a mont at the two monochro photographs on the wall. Both are nudes. In one a woman is kneeling, her skin pale and translucent. The soles of her feet, her behind, and the graceful curve of her back are all visible, and she holds her blond hair piled up on her head; a few stray tresses kiss her neck. The model, from this angle anyway, is beautiful. The second photograph is a close-up and shows the contour of a woman’s neck, her hair swept aside, and the arch of her spine from the first few vertebrae down to her backside. Her ebony skin is luminous, caressed by the light. She’s stunning.
Danica sighs. Judging by these photographs, he must like won, and she wonders if he is the photographer. Maybe one day he might take her photograph. She shakes her head at her fanciful thoughts and returns to the kitchen to tackle the chaos of take-away boxes, empty beer bottles, and washing-up.
Of the three kitchens Danica cleans, this is her favorite. The wall, base cupboards and worktops are made of pale blue glass that is easy to wipe down. It’s sleek and uncluttered, so different from the haphazard rural kitchen of the orphanage ho. She checks the oven, just in case the Boss has baked sothing, but she finds it’s still pristine.
Danica suspects it has never been used.
She is drying the last plate when the music begins. She stops, recognizing the lody imdiately. It’s from the manuscript she’s seen so many tis on his piano, but the lody goes further than she’s read, the notes soft and sad, falling in mournful blues and grays around her.
This she has to see.
With quiet care she places the plate on the worktop and sneaks out of the kitchen toward the living room. She peers in and sees him at the piano. Eyes closed, he’s feeling the music, every note expressed on his face. As she watches him, his brow furrowed, head tilted, lips parted, he takes her breath away.
She’s captivated. By him.
By the music. He’s talented.
The piece is sad, full of longing and grief, and the notes echo through her head in subtler tones of blue and gray now that she’s watching him. He really is the most handso man she’s ever seen. He’s even more handso than, No!
Ice-blue eyes stare at . Furious.
No. Stop thinking about that monstrous man!
She halts the mory. It’s too painful. And she concentrates on the Boss as the lancholic lody draws to its end. Before he spots her, Danica tiptoes back to the kitchen, she doesn’t want to make him cross again by being caught peeking and not working.
As she finishes washing the worktop, she replays his composition in her head. And now the only room she has left to clean is the living room, where he is.
Plucking up her courage, she grabs so polish and a cloth, ready to face him. She hovers at the entrance while he stares at his computer. He glances up and sees her, his face registering pleased surprise.
“It is okay, sir?” she asks, and waves the can of polish in the direction of the room.
“Sure. Co in. Do what you need to Danica. And my na’s Lorenzo.”
She gives him a quick smile and starts with the sofa, plumping the cushions and sweeping the odd crumb onto the floor with her hand.
*******
*LORENZO*
Well, this is distracting....
How can I possibly concentrate with her moving about in such close proximity? I pretend to read the revised cost-to-complete for the remodeling of the Mayfair company blocks, but really I’m watching her. She moves with such easy, sensuous grace; bending over the sofa, lithe, toned arms reaching out and delicate, long-fingered hands cupping the crumbs from the seat cushions and brushing them off. A frisson runs through , and my whole body is suddenly humming with a delicious tension, attuned to her presence in the room.
Could this be any more illicit? She’s so close but so unattainable. She moves to plump the black scatter cushions on the couch, and her housecoat swings forward and stretches out across her backside, betraying the pink underwear beneath.
My breathing shallows, and I have to suppress a groan.
I’m a fucking pervert.
She finishes with the sofa, and her eyes stray toward . I endeavor to look engrossed in the spreadsheet in my hand while the hairs on the back of my neck rise to attention. Taking the can of polish, she sprays so onto the cloth she’s holding and heads to the piano. With another quick, anxious glance at , she begins the slow process of buffing it to a brilliant shine. She stretches across it, the housecoat rising to above the backs of her knees.
Oh, God!
With a deliberate and even pace, she works her way around the piano, buffing and polishing, her breathing becoming faster and harder with the exertion. It’s agonizing. I close my eyes and imagine how I could elicit the sa response from her.
Shit. I cross my legs to hide my body’s natural reaction. This is getting farcical. She’s just cleaning my fucking piano.
She continues to dust the keyboard, though the keys make no sound. Her eyes shoot to again, and I quickly look at the figures on the spreadsheet, which swim on the page, making no sense.
When I dare to peer up at her, she’s bending down, her face pensive, and she seems to be appraising the manuscript that sits on the music rest. She’s looking at my composition, and her brow creases as if she’s concentrating hard.
Can she read music?
Is she reading my score?
She looks up and ets my gaze. Her eyes widen with embarrassnt, and her tongue escapes from her mouth to lick her upper lip as a rosy flush stains her cheeks.
Fuck.
Averting her eyes, she bobs down behind the piano, presumably to dust the legs or the stool.
I cannot bear it.
My phone rings, startling . It’s my secretary.
“Yes?” I say into the phone, my voice hoarse, and I’ve never been so grateful for the interruption. I have to get out of this room.
Hell, I promised myself that I wouldn’t let her chase out again.
“Mr Moretti?”
“Yes. Jacob. What is it?”
“We have a planning issue which I think is going to need your attention.”
I stalk into the hallway as Jacob drones on about soffits and load- bearing walls within the Mayfair developnt.
Reviews
All reviews (0)