The Maid's Daughter

Two

A quarter of a century had passed since Gillian had tried, in her own clumsy way, to extend sympathy to a hurting boy. But the passage of time had in no way dulled the memory of how she felt that day when the little rich kid kicked metaphorical sand in her face.

What made it worse was that she knew, even then, that he was right. Gillian’s mother scrubbed toilets for a living. The Wolffs were richer than God. It was the first time Gillian had fully understood a difficult truth about the haves and the have-nots.

“It took you long enough,” she said. The snarky retort was unfair, but she wasn’t in a mood to be conciliatory. Though she no longer carried a chip on her shoulder, it had taken time and maturity to help her see that the Carlyles were every bit as happy as the wealthy Wolff clan in their fortress on the mountain. Maybe more so.

As a child, she had been tormented. She begged her mother not to make Gillian go to work with her. But Doreen Carlyle had few options. Child care was not only expensive, but in a little wide-place-in-the-road like Burton, it was nonexistent.

Gillian was forced to see Devlyn occasionally, though each of them tried to ignore the other. Things were better when school started. Doreen put her young daughter on a bus before sunup for the long ride to the nearest consolidated school. And by the time Gillian returned home, her mother was finished with her shift at Wolff Castle, as the locals called it.

Gillian jerked herself out of the past, glad of the darkness that hid her turbulent emotions. She straightened in her seat. “It’s really okay to take me to my mother’s house. I promise I’ll call someone if I start to feel worse.”

It was the presence of a Wolff in the car, not her accident, that was responsible for the rapid pace of her heartbeat. Devlyn was a big man, broad through the shoulders and tall. The scent of his aftershave made her think of thick fir-tree forests and lumberjacks in flannel shirts, though the comparison was ludicrous.

Devlyn was an astute businessman, a shark in the turbulent world of financial greed. Despite the fact that her wits had been partially addled after the accident, she’d still been aware of his sartorial perfection, though he was perhaps a tad rumpled and sported a five-o’clock shadow.

He was the de facto ruler of the kingdom and, in that moment, Gillian hated him. When had he ever had to work for anything? When had he ever had to worry about money? Other than his mother’s death years ago, admittedly a terrible loss, when had he ever known true hardship?

That wasn’t fair perhaps. The Wolffs generously supported many worthy charities. Perhaps that chip on her shoulder still lingered as a splinter in her heart. And maybe she was manufacturing grievances in order to avoid admitting how much she was attracted to him.

Even as a teenager, on the few occasions she actually saw him, he had been breathtakingly handsome. Blunt, masculine features. Thick black hair with the sheen of a raven’s wing. A white smile that flashed often. And a tough, honed body that exuded strength and confidence.

Little had changed except that now he was a man and not a boy. He had filled out, lost the slightly clumsy awkwardness of puberty. His gait was strong and sure, his movements sleek as the panthers that once roamed these hills.

He shot her a glance as he once again turned onto the road that led up to the entrance to Wolff Mountain. “I’m not arguing about this, Gillian. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you right off. But you have to admit that you’ve changed.”

Did his gaze linger on her chest? Or was that her imagination? Surely not. She might be all tingly with perfectly natural feminine longing for a man who exuded an earthy sex appeal, but to think he had any interest in her was ridiculous.

Her instinct was to shoot back with a smart-ass comment about kidnapping, but she bit her tongue. Devlyn’s mother and aunt had been snatched off a busy Charlottesville street, held for ransom and later killed. Kidnapping was not something to be joked about.

She shifted restlessly. Already her battered body bloomed with myriad aches and throbs. The paramedics had recommended an anti-inflammatory, but though she had some ibuprofen in her purse, she had nothing with which to wash them down. Suddenly, the idea of staying alone overnight held little appeal.

At the guardhouse Devlyn sketched a wave and waited for the huge mechanized metal gate to retract. Soon they were heading up the winding drive that served to isolate the Wolff clan from intruders.

She sighed deeply. “I’m not sure this is a good idea. I don’t want to intrude on your family.”

“They won’t even know you’re around … unless you want company.”

“Why don’t you have your own place here?”

He must have picked up on the faint, unintended criticism in her tone. “As you’ve already mentioned, I live in Atlanta,” he said stiffly. “When I visit, I usually stay up in the big house with my dad and uncle.” He paused. “If it would make you more comfortable, we can stay at Jacob’s place. He and his wife won’t care.”

“He’s the one married to the movie star, right? Ariel Dane?”

“Yep. She’s a sweetheart.”

Gillian’s spirits plunged to a new low. The gorgeous, sexy Wolff men had their pick of models, heiresses and celebrities. It wasn’t simply a matter of money. It was a lifestyle.

“I don’t think it would be appropriate for the two of us to spend the night alone,” she said, regretting the prim stuffiness in her words as soon as they left her mouth.

Devlyn snorted, and tried to pretend it was a cough. “I promise to be on my best behavior,” he said, irony in every syllable. “But if it makes you feel more comfortable, we’ll stay at the big house.”

“Thank you.”

By the time they pulled up in front of the massive structure that looked like Cinderella’s castle on steroids, Gillian had trouble getting out of the car. Devlyn took her arms and gently pulled her to her feet. “Poor Gillian,” he said.

The soft croon in his deep voice made her tremble. She was unable to protest when he scooped her up and carried her into the house. Striding through darkened hallways, he set a course for a back staircase that led to the second floor. Thankfully, they met no one on the way.

Devlyn paused before a half-open doorway. “This is my room. There’s an adjoining suite with a door you can lock. But if you need assistance during the night, you can text me or call me and I’ll get you anything you need.”

How about you, Devlyn Wolff? In the buff. Sliding on top of me and …

Her breath caught in her throat. She was suffering the effects of a long dry spell in the sex department. That’s why she wanted to nibble his throat despite the fact that she felt as if she’d been run over by the proverbial truck. Proximity and deprivation. Simple explanations for the electric connection she felt to a man who was in no way an appropriate object of her fantasies.

Well, yes … for fantasy … in the abstract. But not at all healthy or practical to imagine him … and her … together … Oh, Lord. Her thighs clenched and her nipples tightened. She prayed he didn’t notice.

His bed was neatly made. But a pair of jeans hung haphazardly over the back of an armchair, and a paperback crime novel lay upside down on the mahogany nightstand.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she croaked.

Without acknowledging her comment, he took her, still in his arms, through the doorway into a room that was almost as large as his but was decorated in more feminine tones. Ever so gently, he set her on her feet. “Bathroom’s through there. I’ll see if I can round you up some clean clothes, and I’ll call Jacob to see what medicine you can take.”

Before she could catch her breath, he was gone.

She hobbled into the luxurious bathroom and stared in the mirror. If she’d had any illusions about her comparison to the female companionship usually enjoyed by Wolff men, they were shattered decisively by her reflection. Even on a good day, she didn’t stand out in a crowd. Right now, she looked ghastly.

Stripping out of her rain-damp clothes, she adjusted the water and stepped into the shower. The hot pelting spray hurt in a good way, the steamy warmth penetrating her bones. Already, bruises were showing up on her too-pale skin. She’d taught a summer-school session instead of going to the beach with her girlfriends, and look where that had gotten her.

Knowing she didn’t have the strength or the will to blow-dry her hair, and since she’d shampooed it the night before, she was careful to keep it from getting wet. As she stepped out of the shower and was drying off, a knock on the door startled her so much that she dropped her towel. “Don’t come in,” she cried, scrambling to cover her indecent bits.

A chuckle was her only answer. The door eased open a scant foot. One long-fingered, tanned hand reached in holding soft, clean clothes. The items landed on the counter with a muted plop, and the hand withdrew.

Gillian scurried forward and locked the knob with what sounded like a gunshot-loud click. She was pretty sure she heard Devlyn laugh again. The bounty he had provided included a set of lounging pj’s … the kind you see in the Neiman Marcus catalog, the kind only rich women owned and wore.

The fabric was incredibly soft and warm, though not thick … some sort of cashmere blend. The cinnamon shade flattered her hair and added a snippet of color to her washed-out complexion.

She put on naughty silk panties that most likely belonged to Devlyn’s sister, Annalise, then slipped into the top and pants. Devlyn hadn’t added a bra. Gillian’s own underwear tended toward cotton practicality. The new undies made her aware of the place between her thighs that throbbed as insistently as her injuries. And her breasts rubbed sensuously against the velvetlike fabric.

When she exited the bathroom, barefooted, she stopped short. Devlyn stood by the fireplace where a fire crackled with blissful heat. He had dragged a small table near the hearth, and it was set with an array of dishes. Her stomach growled audibly.

He held out a hand. “Come eat. And Jacob said you can double the usual dose of over-the-counter pain meds. If he were here, he could give you something stronger.”

Shyness engulfed her. She had to force herself to approach him. “That will be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

He held out her chair, his arm brushing her shoulder as she sat down. “I can’t seem to help it,” he said wryly.

The carpet beneath her feet was soft as a cloud. She curled her toes into it and took a deep breath. “I know you didn’t cause my accident,” she said, looking up at him through downcast lashes. “I was just in a bad mood. I’m sorry.”