The Scandal (Billionaire's Beach Book 4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,7
reaching to the second-story roofline comprised the structure’s entire west wall, with glass doors that opened onto a deck enveloped by sloping grounds that led to beach that led to ocean. Staring straight ahead, Joaquin took in the boundless Pacific, with the yellow-orange orb of the sun sliding toward the horizon.
Well.
It’s fucking stupendous, he thought as he descended the steps. But still too big.
Following his nose, he passed through a living area with lots of cushioned seating and a huge coffee table, a dining room—with seating space for four times the number of friends he could count as his own—to find the butler in a kitchen that should probably be described as “gourmet” tending a sizzling batch of bacon in a pan. Still dressed the same, except now sans hat, she seemed unaware of his approach.
He slid onto a stool at the island that created a boundary between the cooking space and another small seating area that included shelves of books, a blue pottery bowl of sand dollars, and another of multi-colored sea glass.
Whose books? Who had combed the beach for those treasures?
Before he could ask, Sara suddenly whirled, one hand clutching her throat, the other raising a spatula like a weapon.
“Easy,” Joaquin said, holding out his palms. “Just the homeowner.”
Her cheeks appeared flushed, maybe from the radiant warmth of the burner or the reflected glow of the sunset or because his sudden arrival had unnerved her.
“I’m sorry.” The spatula lowered. “I’m not used to anyone else being in the house.”
He wasn’t used to the way the beautiful butler affected him. Already heat was racing through his veins, and his dick started to harden. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been laid but clearly it had been too long. Tonight it was going to have to be fist-and-shower sex, he decided, because he couldn’t walk around with constant wood in his pants.
How long would he have to hold on before doing just that? Glancing at the digital clock display on the stacked set of ovens, he noted it was near half-past seven. Then he looked back at the butler.
“Don’t you ever go home?” he asked, sexual frustration roughening his tone.
A darker flush bloomed on her cheeks, making her eyes stand out like jewels. “I…I…”
Joaquin wanted to punch himself in the face. What a jerk. He cupped the back of his neck, rubbed. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”
“I live here,” she said, then bit her puffy bottom lip.
He stared. “Here? Here here?”
Sara nodded, then gestured to the side, to another hall off the sitting area. “There are quarters—sitting area, bedroom, and en suite for live-in staff.”
For God’s sake. He didn’t only have a butler, he had a housemate. A blue-eyed beauty of a housemate…who was at his service.
She’d actually said that.
His mood must be written all over his face because she set down the spatula with a clatter and spun the burner dial to Off. “I’ll get out of your way.”
Like right, he was going to run her off from her meal. “Finish making your dinner.”
“There’s a simple kitchenette in my private part of the house, and I’ve already eaten. I was only in here to make you a snack for when you woke up.”
“Snack” spoke to his stomach just as her blue eyes spoke to his sex.
“Your assistant,” she continued, “told me you’ve been craving BLT&As.”
He nearly fell off his stool. What the hell? Patrick was sharing Joaquin’s need for some tits-and-ass action? Then sense penetrated his calorie- and shag-starved brain, and he delivered a mental slap to his forehead. “Bacon, lettuce, tomato, and avocado sandwich.”
Sara nodded. “Coming up in five minutes, along with a beer, if you’d care for it?”
“Heaven,” he said, because his stomach was now growling like a lion.
Fifteen minutes later, he’d soothed the beast with two sandwiches made on toasted bread. Sara puttered around the kitchen cleaning up as he ate. With one of his appetites assuaged, he felt a little more under control, and he figured he’d better get a clearer picture of her role.
“So you live here.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, nodded.
“Is there a Mr. Sara the Butler?”
Her hand, wiping a countertop, stalled. “No.” Then her cleaning continued.
“You could sit,” he offered, feeling more mellow by the moment as he took another long swallow from the pilsner glass she’d slid in front of him. She’d filled it three times. “Open yourself a beer. Or pour some wine.”
From here he could see a well-stocked beverage refrigerator, its glass door revealing a bevy