The Scandal (Billionaire's Beach Book 4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,71
don’t need her, either.”
That stabbed in the back. Last night, in an amused and appreciative tone he’d said, Who knew I needed a butler?
Moments following that, they’d been having sex again.
Squeezing shut her eyes, Sara could only castigate herself for her foolishness. He must have heard her admission last night.
Or was he just generally tired of her company? Perhaps he judged her work performance poor.
Humiliation crawled over her skin and fear opened a hole in her belly. She was going to lose her job. That would leave her in another bad spot—without financial reserves, without any lengthy butler experience to put on her resume, without prospects for finding another position.
Maybe Emmaline’s Mr. Curry needed two wives, she wondered, hysteria rising.
Calm yourself, Sara, she ordered herself as a bubble of panic stole her breath. Calm down and think.
Surely, no matter what he’d heard her say last night, Joaquin wouldn’t turn her out without a reference. And she knew, damn it, knew that she’d done a good job, a fantastic job, getting the house into shape. There were before and after photos on her phone.
Not to mention her talent in the kitchen. Cooking wasn’t always the purview of the butler, but it was her ace-in-the-hole skill.
With all of that going for her, of course she’d find someplace else to work. Martin and Renata Nichols might even have some ideas.
Though it still meant leaving Joaquin.
She didn’t want to leave Joaquin.
Looking down, she saw she was throttling the teapots-and-toast pajama top. She dropped the fabric, then snatched it up again to blot the fat tears rolling down her cheeks. How had this happened? Hadn’t she been too cynical to fall so hopelessly in love? Hadn’t she been too smart to fall in love with the entirely wrong person?
The click of heels sounded over the murmur of the men’s voices.
“Good afternoon,” Renata said, her voice carrying to Sara.
“Afternoon, Renata,” her son replied. Then a weary note entered his voice. “What’s that you’re holding? I thought you promised to stop buying the tabloids. It only puts money in those assholes’ pockets.”
“Joaquin—”
“And I don’t care if Felipe was spotted on Mt. Everest with both Elvis and Sir Edmund Hillary. He’s gone, Mom.” Beneath the matter-of-fact tone was a thread of anguish. “As much as I hate to say it, he’s gone.”
“I know,” Renata replied, a break in her voice. “Though I sometimes can make myself pretend for an hour or two that he isn’t. But…but I didn’t find a story about Felipe today.”
There was a papery rattle.
“Look at this,” Renata continued. “Right here is one about that young singer who Essie loves so much, Imogen.”
Had the paps found a useable shot after all? Sara wondered, feeling sympathy for the other woman.
“Yes,” Joaquin said. “So?”
“On this side is an article about someone else.” Renata paused. “The headline reads ‘Missing Husband-Stealing Girl Butler Found in Malibu.’ Look at all those exclamation marks.”
Sara went cold, hot, cold. Her fingers gripped the counter so her legs wouldn’t fold and take her down to the floor. A high whine sounded in her ears.
Yet still she heard the older woman’s question. “Isn’t this a photo of Sara?”
She didn’t stay to hear his answer. Instead she steeled her muscles and swiftly made her way out of the laundry room on silent feet. In her bedroom she shoved some clothes into a bag and then used her phone to send a text.
Since it was her free day, no one at Nueva Vida would look for her until morning.
Maybe tonight Joaquin would—but no. Not now that he knew everything about her. At least the tabloid’s version of “everything,” anyway. And even if he doubted the veracity of their half-lies it wouldn’t change the truth that she was the butler he didn’t need nor want.
Chapter 13
Joaquin stared at the iced tea he’d spilled on the countertop. Nothing had gone right since receiving that cryptic text from the butler last night. The one that said she needed a couple of days off.
This morning, the coffeemaker stopped working. Then he’d knocked a cereal bowl off a shelf and managed to step his bare sole on a ceramic shard as he swept up the mess. After lunch, a rogue gust of wind had snatched up one of placemats off the deck’s dining table. He’d nearly broken his ankle leaping to the sand to rescue it.
Sara had made his home so beautiful he wanted it to be just as she’d left it when she returned.