Under His Obsession Read online

  She disappears from my sight, mumbling angrily about men in power and how they’re all the same, and I gulp. Cupboards open and slam closed, pulling me from my trance, and I force one foot in front of the other, rounding the corner to find her filling a mug with coffee. She plasters on a smile, but there is anger in her eyes as they bore into me.

  “Coffee?” she asks, her smile saccharine sweet.

  “Uh, yeah. I can get it.”

  “I believe that’s my job.” She grabs a mug, slams it onto the counter and fills it to the brim.

  “Thanks,” I say. She tugs on the hem of her small skirt, but it doesn’t budge. She grumbles something and turns to me when a sound I can’t control rumbles in my throat.

  “Is there a problem, Will?”

  If I were a gentleman, I’d tell her she didn’t have to dress like a French maid straight out of my fantasies. Yeah, if I were a gentleman, I’d tell her that a costume is not required in my home, and that if she insists on wearing it, I might break my hard rule and tear it from her lush body. For a brief second, I lose myself in that erotic fantasy. My hands on her soft flesh, slowly sliding those stockings down, then licking a path back up her legs. Of course, in my fantasy, she’s quivering and moaning my name—not cursing it under her breath and glaring at me like she’d like to fillet me with the biggest damn knife in the drawer. Yeah, if I were a goddamn gentleman, I’d yell abort, but unfortunately, it’s not my brain calling the shots.

  “Well, is there?” she asks.

  Come on. Tell her, Will. Tell her this isn’t what you meant by a dress code.

  “Uh, no...no problem at all,” I say.

  I am so fucking dead.

  D.E.A.D.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Khloe

  I TAKE A much-needed sip of my coffee, when what I actually want to do is throw it at Will, mug and all. What the hell? After taking care of me, holding my hair back and wiping my face when I was ill, not to mention checking on me through the night, I thought he was a decent guy, was more like his grandfather—until I looked in my closet and found a dozen French maid outfits.

  I mean seriously!

  This...this ridiculous costume—two sizes too small for me—is what he insists his help wear? Maybe I should have told James my size. But who in their right mind could have foreseen this insanity? Yeah, that must be it. Will Carson is insane. What other explanation can there be? I can see the headline now. Woman dies of suffocation in a too-tight French maid outfit her rich, clearly insane employer forced her to wear.

  Okay, I might have to trim that a bit. But that’s certainly the gist of it.

  Anger courses through my blood, and I swear to God if I didn’t need the money that came with this job, I’d toss my coffee at him—although it’s possible I’d wait until the second cup, since I really need this one—and storm out the door.

  “Breakfast is ready,” he says. I take a breath and let it out slowly.

  “I lost my appetite,” I grumble through clenched teeth.

  “You should eat something.”

  My stupid stomach takes that moment to growl. “Fine.” If I catch him grinning, that’s it. I’m out of here. I spin, and his expression is thoughtful and maybe even a bit confused. I’m about to ask what his problem is, but the smell of breakfast hits me. My mouth waters at the sight of two plates with toast, bacon and eggs.

  He waves his hand toward a patio door. “We can eat here or on the deck.”

  “Deck,” I say, and scoop up my plate. “Lead the way.”

  Will gathers his plate, and I follow him. I’m pissed off, and the last thing I should be doing is admiring the man’s ass in his low-slung jeans as he heads to the patio door. He opens it, and a warm breeze washes over me. I step out into the sunshine and breathe in the briny scent as waves lap against the sandy shore below. I glance down at the infinity pool overlooking the turquoise waters. My anger instantly dissipates, and I forget all about the stupid outfit. Well, not entirely. But if the ridiculous getup is the price I have to pay for this unbelievable Caribbean view, then so be it. Cripes, I’m such an easy sellout. But the view...

  “My God, this is beautiful.” I glance around, the wind blowing my hair from my face, but there are no other villas close to us. Will’s home is at the end of a strip of land, the ocean on all sides. “And so private.”

  “That’s why I bought the cottage. I value my privacy.”

  Cottage? I think he means mansion.

  “That’s Magdalen Bay,” he says, and I take in the strip of secluded white sand below.

  “I could go skinny-dipping and no one would see me.”

  “I’d see you,” he mumbles, his voice an octave deeper.

  I turn, watch his throat work as he swallows—like he’s afraid I might really get naked.

  “I’m not going to go skinny-dipping,” I blurt out. “I don’t even know why I said that. It’s just that I’ve never seen anything like this, and I love how private it is. I value my privacy, too, Will.”

  “Well, I’m glad you like it.”

  “Wait, how long are we here?” I ask. I was in such a rush to get ready, I never had the time to ask James.

  “Granddad didn’t tell you?”

  “There’s a lot James didn’t tell me,” I mutter.

  “Three weeks,” he says as he pulls a chair out from a small round table and gestures for me to sit. “That’s not a problem for you, is it?”

  Moisture dots my forehead as the warm wind whips around my body. “You could have said six months and that wouldn’t be a problem for me.”

  “Not in a hurry to get back?”

  “No.” I lower myself into the chair and set my plate down. A bird sings in the tree near the deck, and it smooths all my ruffled feathers. “Why would I ever want to leave this place?” I take in the opulence a second time and shake my head. “Why do you?”

  Will drops down into the seat across from me. “My work is in New York.”

  “Can’t you write code from here?”

  “Yes, and that’s what I plan to do these next few weeks, but I want to be close to my family. Granddad is...” His gaze lowers, a deep sadness in his eyes.

  Without even thinking about it, I place my hand over his. “I understand that. He’s the patriarch that keeps you all together.” It was something my father once told me. He’d also told me all of James’s sons had a penchant for younger women and had left a trail of broken homes behind them. It saddened me, although Will isn’t the kind of guy who’d want anyone’s pity. I can relate. I don’t want pity, either. He nods, eyes locked on my hand as I give his a gentle squeeze.

  “It was just you and your dad growing up, right?” he asks.

  My stomach tightens, and my heart misses a beat at the mention of my dad. He died right after I graduated from journalism school, and I miss him terribly. At least his dream of seeing me walk the stage to receive my diploma was realized before he passed away. That gives me a measure of comfort.

  I slowly pull my hands back. “I was three when we lost Mom.”

  Sympathy lurks in his eyes when he says, “That’s tough, Khloe.”

  “I had my dad, though. We were very close.”

  Will makes a strangled noise, and his lips twist painfully.

  “What?”

  “Dad left us when we were young.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I mean, he didn’t die, he’s still in our lives, but...”

  I dig into my eggs and slide the fork into my mouth. “Delicious,” I murmur, and note the way Will’s attention turns to my mouth. “Sorry, go on.”

  He shrugs like his father’s leaving was nothing, but I get that it’s something. “He bailed. None of the men in our family have staying power.”

  My Dad pretty much said the same, but I don’t believe it’s a trait passed o
n from generation to generation. “You truly believe that?”

  “Yeah, sure. So does my mother. She warned my brother Alec not to get married.” He laughs, but it holds no humor. “You read the papers, don’t you?”

  For a secretive guy, I’m a little shocked at how open and honest he’s being with me. I guess he wants to ensure that I know exactly what kind of guy he is and where the two of us stand so I don’t go and get any ridiculous notions about us. With his power, money and looks, I’m sure he has women throwing themselves at him. I find none of those things appealing. Okay, maybe that’s a small lie. He’s drop-dead gorgeous, and fine, my traitorous body finds that appealing.

  “I read the paper,” I say, the eggs catching in my throat. Not only do I read them, I’ve written some of the articles. At least I didn’t twist things to ruin a man’s life.

  “Right,” is all he says.

  I pick up the toast and nibble on the corner.

  “Going down okay?” he asks, his brow quirked, and that concern does strange things to me. Blunt and demanding one minute, caring the next. He’s quite the contradiction.

  “Yes, thanks.” I wash the toast down with my coffee. “Your brother ignored your mom and did get married, right? Those were the pictures James showed me, weren’t they?”

  He laughs at that. “Granddad and his damn Polaroids.” Big fingers curl around his cup, and he looks at me over the rim. “Alec is married, yes.”

  “So how is that working out?”

  His left shoulder rolls. “Time will tell, I guess.”

  “Wow, you are so jaded.”

  He looks at me long and hard, and I get the sense he’s not sure if he should ask the question dancing in his eyes.

  “What?” I finally ask.

  “What about you, Khloe? Why aren’t you married?”

  I exhale. “Damn, I should have seen that coming.”

  He chuckles, and the rich, deep sound sends a current of heat zinging through me, teasing every erogenous spot as it settles deep between my legs. I squeeze my thighs together, but all that does is arouse me even more. Damn, this man’s charm is like a high-voltage jolt. If he harnessed it for good, he could be our next superhero. The lace on my ridiculous outfit takes that moment to itch, reminding me he’s no Prince Charming. No, he’s an insane millionaire who abuses his power and authority. Why can’t guys like him use their assets for good instead of evil?

  “I was close,” is all I say. “So what are my working hours? I’m hoping to get in some sightseeing on the weekends.”

  “Way to change the topic, Khloe.”

  “You liked that, did you?” I blow on my fisted knuckles and wipe them on my shoulder. “I am a woman of many talents.”

  “Your weekends are yours. Monday to Friday, you’re mine.”

  You’re mine.

  My pulse leaps when I catch what looks like lust in his eyes, but it disappears so quickly I’m sure I must be hallucinating. Yeah, this warm weather is simply messing with my brain...and my libido. I need to get a leash on that right away. Because I am so not Will’s type. Not that I want to be. I don’t.

  Tell that to your aching nipples.

  He clears his throat, and the corners of his mouth tighten. “Your duties are written out for you in my rule book,” he says.

  Come again?

  “You have a rule book?”

  “You don’t?

  “Well no, that’s kind of...” I want to say insane, but he doesn’t look like a man who would appreciate bluntness from a subordinate, and I can’t forget what Steph said. He goes through assistants in the blink of an eye. “Different,” I say.

  “I’m a man who lives by certain rules.” His tongue slips from his mouth and brushes over the groove in his top lip, sending a shiver through me. “It’s best for all of us this way.”

  As I study the streak of moisture on his lip, a blast of heat warms my blood, and I’m pretty damn sure it has nothing to do with our tropical location. I tamp it down and try for normal when I say, “Whatever you say, sir.”

  Will goes still for a second. What? Does he not like being called sir? Damned if it doesn’t make me want to do it more.

  He smooths his hand down his chest. “I think you should take the rest of today to rest, and make sure you’re germ-free before you touch any food. My workload is light today, so I can pick up the slack.”

  “Sure thing. Maybe I’ll go for a swim in that gorgeous pool or lounge on the beach.”

  “Whatever you like. You packed a suit?” he asks, like he’s worried he’s going to see me naked after all.

  Yeah, I get it. No one wants to find a beached beluga on their private piece of paradise. My God, my ex was a jerk. If a man can’t appreciate a woman with curves, then he can go to hell. Although I’m beginning to believe no man in Manhattan does. At least my battery-operated friend doesn’t judge when I get naked.

  “Khloe?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You disappeared there for a second.”

  “Right, I do have a bathing suit. Is wearing one in your rule book?”

  That brings a half grin to his face. “Of course.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. He goes back to his food, and I do the same, eating slowly when I really just want to scarf it down and put some much-needed distance between myself and my new boss.

  He finishes and stretches his arms over his head. I try not to stare, or admire the way his muscles flex and bulge, but I do it anyway.

  “Are you up for a tour of the place?” he asks when I set my fork down.

  “I’d love a tour, sir.” I note the tension on his face as I push away my plate and stand. We make our way into the kitchen. “How long have you owned this house?”

  “A few years now. I bought it after... Let’s just say, it’s a secluded location that no one knows about, and the locals respect my privacy.”

  “So the locals know who you are, then?”

  “Yes,” he says. I wonder how they feel about a famous millionaire living among them, especially when there are some very poor areas, not to mention the damage done from the hurricane a few years back.

  “You get along with them?”

  “We get along just fine.” He waves his hand. “This is the kitchen, obviously. You decide what meals you want to cook. I like breakfast at seven sharp, lunch at noon, and dinner at seven. You don’t have to use local culture recipes if you don’t want to, although one of my assistants left a cookbook if you’re so inclined. My likes and dislikes are in the rule book.”

  “I bet they are,” I murmur.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing. Want to show me the rest of the place?”

  We leave the kitchen and move through the mansion. He shows me the airy living room, a dining room that could comfortably seat eighteen, his large den with a massive desk and not much else, all the bathrooms, and all the bedrooms—most decorated in beach decor. I think there were six. I take in the opulence of the place, but it saddens me. There are no pictures, no homey touches, no stamp of a guy who entertains friends and family, a guy who welcomes love and laughter into his home. He’s become quite the recluse after the exposé, and damned if I don’t feel a niggling of remorse myself. I might not have written the article, but I worked for the magazine that did.

  He goes on to explain more of my duties: shopping, cleaning, laundry, running errands. Our last stop on the tour is his bedroom, and he doesn’t invite me in. Instead, we stand in the hall and his eyes cut to mine.

  “Just remember, anything you see or overhear doesn’t leave the confines of this house.”

  I glance into his room, take in his perfectly made bed. It doesn’t even look like he slept in it. That brings a pang of guilt to my stomach. He stayed up to take care of me and probably never even got a wink of sleep. Maybe he’s not such a bad
guy after all.

  My gaze roams to the comfy-looking soft blue bedding, and I engage my mouth before my brain. “What kind of noises are you worried I’m going to overhear?” His throat makes a sound, and I turn to him. “Oh, right. I get it. You...visitors...women.”

  Things would have been so much easier if I’d just been flushed out into space.

  “No one is to come into this house unless they are vetted by me.” He dips his head, and as he pins me with a glare, his mouth is right there. If I wanted to kiss him, all I’d have to do is go up on my toes. But I don’t want to. The man is the most gorgeous specimen on the face of the earth, but clearly insane. Not to mention he can’t keep it in his pants, and straight up admitted it. “Do you understand?”

  “What I think you’re trying to say is you’re allowed ‘visitors.’ But I’m not.”

  “I never said that—” He runs his hands down his chest, a gesture that is becoming familiar, and that crinkle is back in his forehead. “Do you want visitors, Khloe?” he asks.

  He’s been honest so far, so I don’t see the need not to return the favor. “For the record, my days of Netflix and chill are over,” I admit.

  His eyes narrow in on me. “Why is that?”

  “They just are, okay?” I am not about to admit that men don’t find me attractive, and that my ex wanted to change me, and that I’ve given up finding anyone because I no longer believe there is a match for me. No, it’s best I keep my deepest flaws to myself.

  He studies me too closely, too intently. He opens his mouth like he’s going to push, but the door chimes.

  “Expecting a visitor, sir?” I ask with a raised brow, even though it could end up in him canning my ass. But for some reason I just can’t help myself.

  “No,” he grumbles, but I catch a hint of caution in his tone, a rigid restraint in his body as he heads to the front door. My teasing turns to concern as I follow him. He opens the door, and a gorgeous olive-skinned woman who looks to be in her early thirties stands on his steps. She gives him a sexy, come-hither smile when their eyes meet.

  “Will,” she says in a singsong voice, heavy with a creole accent.