Page 8

Chapter 6

“What the hell is…,” Paulo started, only to slip on the slick surface and go down. His arms pinwheeled as he fought to keep his balance, and he landed flat on his ass.

When he finished falling, his glare swept the room. Very quietly, but with a tone that carried menace, he asked, “Why is the floor covered in soapy water?”

From the corner, Madelaine emerged, bubbles dripping down her arms, clutching the scrub brush like a weapon she wasn’t sure how to use.

When Paulo’s dark eyes landed on her, Madelaine knew she had to explain. Fast! “I’m sorry!” she gasped, rushing over to him. “I was trying to…well, clean the floor.”

Paulo blinked at her, then at the bubbles clinging to her skin. He felt like he’d stepped into another dimension. “You’re…cleaning the floor?”

“Yes,” she admitted with a sigh, dropping the brush into a bucket he hadn’t even noticed. Her wide blue eyes locked on him, earnest, shining, and he forgot what words meant for a moment.

“Why the hell are you cleaning?”

“I…want to learn?” she said carefully, as if bracing for his laughter.

He stared at her, completely at a loss. Paulo Ruffino had stared down killers, dirty cops, politicians with blood on their hands. But this baffled him. His brain snagged on her words. “Learn? Learn what?”

“A skill,” she said simply, almost defiantly.

Something in her tone made him bristle. “What the hell do you need to clean? You’re not a servant.” His tone came out harsher than intended, laced with indignation on her behalf.

She straightened, bubbles sliding down her arms, her chin lifting in stubborn resolve. “Because I need to do something. I can’t run forever. I need to learn how to be useful. To learn a skill.”

Paulo froze. She wasn’t joking. There was hope in her eyes, determination in her stance. For her, this wasn’t about mopping a floor. It was about clawing for independence, for relevance.

Standing up, he swiped at the back of his slacks, grimacing at the wet spots on his butt and the back of his thighs. And his shoulders.

Shaking his head, he moved, gingerly, toward her. “You don’t need to clean the floors, Madelaine,” he growled, unaware that his hands had curled into fists at his sides. “I have staff for that. Very efficient staff.”

“Yes, but…!” she began, eyes wide, trying to explain.

He cut the air with a sharp gesture, silencing her. “Madelaine, you are a guest in this house. My job is to protect you. Your job is to…” He stopped, jaw clenching against images far too indecent for this conversation shoving their way into his head. Positions. Heat. Her flushed face.

He swore under his breath and forced the errant thoughts away. She was a means to an end. Not his lover. Not his anything.

“Rosa!” he barked.

The housekeeper appeared in the doorway, froze, then gaped at the hallway floor frothing with soap bubbles.

“I’m sorry!” Madelaine whispered, clutching her soapy, shriveled fingers against her chest like a shield.

His housekeeper lifted her eyes from the soapy mess. “Would you mind cleaning this up?” Paulo asked, his voice clipped. Rosa’s lips twitched as though she were fighting a smile, but she nodded and moved toward the mess.

Paulo turned back to Madelaine, glaring as if he could intimidate the determination right out of her. “Eat some chocolates or something. But no more cleaning.” He jabbed a finger toward the sudsy chaos for emphasis.

Her shoulders sagged, her chin dropping. And for a moment, Paulo wanted to pull her into his arms, bury her face in his chest, and tell her she was too damned adorable to be standing in soap bubbles with trembling lips.

Instead, he pivoted and strode, carefully, out of the hallway.

Back in his office, he dropped into his chair and rubbed a hand over his face. Picked up a contract. Dropped it again and looked at his computer screen, trying to analyze the spreadsheet that had just arrived. Anything. He needed something to distract him from the sight of Madelaine’s trembling lips and those blue eyes that had looked hurt, but hopeful too.

She was adorable. And too damn sexy. It seemed impossible that she could be both at once.

It wasn’t fair. A woman shouldn’t be both. Cute and sexy should never exist in the same person. Not in his house. That wasn’t part of his plan. And absolutely not in his bed.

“Damn it,” he muttered, slamming a file on his desk. But all he saw was soap bubbles. And her.