[The Sons of Lily Moreau 01] - Remodeling the Bachelor Read online

  His mother couldn’t seem to function without a relationship in her life,especially when it was in its birthing stages. She loved being in love. He hadnever seen the need for that, the need for garnering the pain involved in endingsomething. He’d never wanted to be in that position, so he wasn’t. It was assimple as that.

  Feelings couldn’t be hurt if they weren’t invested—on either side. After awhile, it seemed natural to have female company only on the most cursory level.

  To enjoy an encounter without promising anything beyond tonight and then movingon.

  He didn’t know any other way. The beep he heard on the other end of the line roused him, bringing him backfrom his momentary revelry.“Um, this is Philippe Zabelle.”He rattled off histelephone number.“I got your name from a friend of a friend. I need some

  remodeling work done on two of my bathrooms. I thought you might come by myplace at around seven tomorrow night if that’s convenient for you.”He recitedhis address slowly.“If I don’t get a call from you, I’ll be expecting youtomorrow at seven. See you then.”

  Philippe hung up. He absolutely hated talking to machines, even ones with sexyvoices. As he went up the stairs to his bedroom, he thought about how peoplewere far too isolated and dependent on machines to do their work for them.

  And then he smiled to himself. It was a rather ironic thought, given the natureof what he did for a living. His smile widened. The world was a strange place.

  Chapter 2

  The next morning, Philippe hit the ground running. Usually reliable, his inner alarm clock had decided to go on strike. Instead ofsixthirty, the time he normally woke up during the work week, Philippe rolledover and stared in disbelief at the digital clock beside the bed.

  Burning in bright, bold red shone the numbers7:46 a.m. The second his brain registered the discrepancy between the time he intended toget up and the actual hour, Philippe tumbled out of bed. He then proceeded torace through his shower and decide not to bother shaving. He was down in thekitchen at exactly one minute beforeeight o’clock .

  He would have made himself toast and scrambled eggs if he’d had bread. Or eggs. Instead breakfast consisted of the last of his coffee and a couple ofclose-to-stale pieces of Swiss cheese, the latter being part of what he’d servedlast night along with beer, junk food and conversation.

  Leaning a hip against the counter as he finished the last of the unexceptionalcheese, he shook his head. It was time to surrender and give in to theinevitable: he needed a housekeeper. Someone who stopped by maybe once a week,did the grocery shopping and gave the house a fast once-over. That was all thatwas really necessary. As the oldest and the one who often was left in charge,Philippe had learned to run a fairly tight, not to mention neat, ship. The onlything in utter disarray was the desk in his home office.

  Actually, if he was being honest with himself, most of the office looked thatway, what with books left open to pertinent sections and a ton of paperscattered in all four corners of the room, covering most of the available flatsurfaces. He supposed, in a way, it was a statement about the way his lifeoperated. His private affairs were neatly organized while his work looked as ifhe’d recently been entertaining a grade four hurricane on the premises.

  Finished eating, Philippe wiped his fingers on the back of his jeans and madehis way over to the telephone. Ten minutes later, he’d placed an ad in the localpaper as well as on the newspaper’s Internet site for an experienced housekeeperto do light housekeeping once a week.

  He frowned as he hung up. Hiring someone to invade his space, even briefly, wasn’t a choice he was happyabout, but he had to face it. It was a necessary evil. Business was very goodand the demand on his time was high. Aside from the weekly poker games, of latehe seemed to be spending all of his time working. That left no time for theminor essentials—like the procurement of foodstuff. He needed someone to do thatfor him.

  He could have advertised for an assistant, Philippe thought as he made his wayto the back of the house and the organized chaos that was his home office, butthat would have meant a big invasion. He knew himself better than that. No, ahousekeeper was the better way to go, he decided.

  Planting the opened can of flat soda he’d discovered sitting in the back of hisallbut-barren refrigerator on the first space he unearthed by his computer,Philippe flipped on the radio that resided on the bookcase beside his desk.

  Classical music filled the air as he sat down and got to work. Within seconds,he was enmeshed in programming language and completely oblivious to such thingsas time and space and earthly surroundings.

  During the course of the day, when his brain begged for a break and his stomachupbraided him for abuse, Philippe made his way to the kitchen to forage forfood. Lunch had consisted of pretzels, made slightly soggy by being left outovernight. Dinner had been more of the same with a handful of assorted nutsdowned as a chaser. But the food hardly mattered.

  It was his work that was important and it was progressing well. He’d gottenfurther along on the new software than he’d expected and that always gave him asense of satisfaction, as did the fact that he handled everything by himself. Hecreated the programs, designed the artwork and developed the tutorial andself-help features, something that was taking on more and more importance witheach software package he created.

  With a heartfelt sigh, Philippe closed down his computer. Rising to his feet, hewent to the kitchen to get himself the last bottle of beer to celebrate a veryproductive, if exhausting, day.

  He had just opened the refrigerator door to see if perhaps he’d missed somethingedible in his prior forages when he heard the doorbell. Releasing therefrigerator door again, he glanced at his watch.Seven o’clock . Both hisbrothers and his friends knew that he generally knocked off around seven. One ofthem had obviously decided to visit.

  Good, he could use a little company right about now. Maybe he and whoever was athis door could go out for a bite to eat.

  His stomach rumbled again.

  Several bites, Philippe amended, striding toward the door.

  “Hi,”he said cheerfully as he swung open the door. It took him less than half a second to realize he’d just uttered the greeting toa complete stranger. A very attractive complete stranger wearing a blue pulloversweater and a pair of light-colored faded jeans that adhered in such a way as todrive the stock of jeans everywhere sky-high. The blonde was holding the hand ofa little girl who, for all intents and purposes, was an exact miniature of her.

  Like the woman whose hand she was holding, the little girl was slight and petiteand very, very blond. He guessed that she had to be about five or so, althoughhe was on shaky ground when it came to anything to do with kids.

  Philippe looked back to the woman with the heart-shaped face. He had to clearhis throat before he asked,“Can I help you?” Eyes the color of cornflowers in bloom washed over him slowly, as if she wastaking his measure. It was then that he remembered he was barefoot and wearingthe first T-shirt he’d laid his eyes on this morning, the one that had shrunk inthe wash. And that when he worked, he had a habit of running his hands throughhis hair, making it pretty unruly by the end of the day. That, along with hisday-old stubble and worn clothes probably made him look one step removed from ahomeless person.

  Philippe glanced at the little girl. Rather than look frightened, she wasgrinning up at him. But the woman holding her hand appeared somewhat skepticalas she continued to regard him. She and the child remained firmly planted on thefront step.

  He was about to repeat his question when she suddenly answered it—and added tohis initial confusion.“I came about the job.” “The job?”he echoed, momentarily lost. And then it hit him. The woman with theperfect mouth and translucent complexion was referring to the housekeepingposition he’d called the paper about this morning. Boy, that was fast.

  “Oh, the job,”he repeated with feeling, glad that was finally cleared up.

  Beautiful women did not just appear on his doorstep for no reason, not unlessthey were looking for Ge
orges.“Right. Sure. C’mon in,”he invited, gesturinginto the house.

  Philippe stepped back in order to allow both the woman and the little girl withher to come inside. The woman still seemed just the slightest bit hesitant. Then, winding her lefthand more tightly around her purse, she entered. Her right hand was firmlyattached to the little girl. Philippe found himself vaguely curious as to whatthe woman had in her purse that seemed to give her courage. Mace? A gun? Hedecided maybe it was better that he didn’t know.

  “My name’s Kelli, what’s yours?”The question came not from the woman but fromthe child, uttered in a strong voice that seemed completely out of harmony withher small body.

  He wondered if Kelli would grow into her voice.“Philippe,”he told her.

  The girl nodded, as if she approved of the name. It amused him that she didn’tfind his name odd or funny because of the French pronunciation. She had oldeyes, he noted. The personification of curiosity, Kelli scanned her surroundings. Had she notbeen tethered to the woman’s hand, he had the impression that Kelli would havetaken off to go exploring.

  Her eyes were as blue as her mother’s.“Is this your house?”the girl asked.

  He felt the corners of his mouth curving. There was something infectious aboutKelli’s inquisitive manner.“Yes.”

  She raised her eyes up the stairs to the second floor.“It looks big.” Philippe wondered if all this was spontaneous, or if the woman had coached herdaughter to ask certain questions for her. Children’s innocent inquiries werehard to ignore.

  Deciding to assume that Kelli was her mother’s shill, he addressed his answer tothe woman instead of the child. “It’s not, really,”he assured the blonde.“It looks a great deal bigger on theoutside, but mine is just the middle house.”He spread his hands wide toencompass the area.“This is actually three houses made to look like one.”

  The information created a tiny furrow on the woman’s forehead, right between hereyes. She looked as if his words had annoyed her.“I’m familiar with the type,”

  the woman replied softly.

  “Good.” The lone word hung in midair between them like a damp curtain. He’d never had a housekeeper before. As a matter of fact, he’d never interviewedanyone for any sort of position before and hadn’t the slightest idea how to goabout it now without sounding like a complete novice. Or worse, a

  completeidiot. The image didn’t please him.

  Clearing his throat again, Philippe pushed on.“Then you know there won’t bemuch work involved.”

  The woman smiled as if she was sharing some secret joke with herself. She had anice smile. Otherwise, he might have taken offense. “No disrespect, Mr. Zabelle,”she said as she appeared to slowly take stock ofhis living room and what she could see beyond it,“but I’ll be the judge ofthat.”She turned to face him.“Once you tell me exactly what it is you have inmind.”

  He had no idea why that would cause him to almost swallow his tongue. Maybe itwas the way she looked at him or, more likely, the way she’d uttered thatphrase. She certainly didn’t remind him of any housekeeper he’d ever come acrosswhile living at his mother’s house.

  “Have you done this before?”he asked. In his experience, housekeepers wereusually older women, more likely than not somewhat maternal looking. This onewas neither and if there was one thing he wanted, it was someone experienced.

  But he was a fair man and willing to be convinced. She looked at him as if he’d just insulted her.“Yes,”she replied with morethan a little feeling.“I have references. I can show them to you once we finishtalking about the basics here.”

  He nodded at the information, although when he’d find the time to check herreferences was beyond him. Maybe he could get Alain or Remy to do it for him.

  Both had more free time than he did.

  She was obviously waiting for him to define the requirements. He gave it hisbest shot.“Well, I won’t be asking you to do anything you haven’t done before.”

  That didn’t come out quite right, he realized the minute he’d said it.

  The blonde reinforced his impression. Blinking, she asked,“Excuse me?” He must have said something wrong but hadn’t the slightest idea what. There wasno clue forthcoming from the woman’s daughter either. Kelli seemed amused by thewhole exchange. Maybe she wasn’t a little girl after all, just a very shortadult. Her face was certainly expressive enough to qualify.

  Philippe tried again.“I mean, it’ll be the usual. Some light dusting.”Heshrugged, thinking.“Shopping once a week.”

  The woman’s mouth dropped open. And still managed to look damn sensual. Itbelatedly occurred to him that he still didn’t even know her name.“I don’t—” “Do windows?”he completed her sentence.“That’s okay, I have a service thatcomes by twice a year to wash my windows.”There was no way he could reach theupper portion of some of them even if he did have the time, which he didn’t.“Ijust need someone to clean up—nothing major,”he assured her quickly,“becausemost of the time, I’m holed up in my office.”He jerked a thumb toward the rearof the house.“And I’d rather you didn’t come in there.”

  The woman shook her head, as if put off.“Mr. Zabelle, I think there’s been somemistake.”

  He didn’t want there to be some mistake. He wanted her to take the job. Hecouldn’t see himself going through this process over and over again.

  Philippe took a stab at the reason for her comment.“You’re full-time, right?”

  “When I work, yes.”

  Philippe paused, thinking.“I really don’t need anyone fulltime.”

  “I think what you need is an interpreter.”Her response confused him, but beforehe could tell her as much, she was saying,“When I start a job, Mr. Zabelle, Ifinish it.” Well, that was a good trait, he thought, but he still wasn’t going to hire herfulltime.“That’s very admirable, but like I said, I’m only going to needsomeone once a week.”

  Rather than accept that, he saw her put her hands on her waist.“And why isthat?”

  Maybe this was a mistake after all. He could have gone to the store and back inthe amount of time he’d spent verbally dancing around with this woman.“Because

  there won’t be enough to keep you occupied,”he told her tersely.“I’m prettyneat.”

  She shook her head as if to clear it.“What does your being neat have to do withit?”

  “I realize you probably charge the same whether you’re working for a slob or

  someone who’s relatively neat—”

  She cut him off before he could finish.“I charge according to what the clientrequests, Mr. Zabelle, not based on whether they’re sloppy or neat.” That sounded a hell of a lot more personal than just cleaning his house. Their eyes met and Philippe watched her for a long moment. The more he did, theless she looked like a housekeeper. Just what section had his ad landed in? Andif it was what he was thinking, what was she doing bringing her daughter alongon this so-called job interview?

  His eyes narrowed slightly.“Did you get my number from the personals?”

  He watched as her mouth formed as close to a perfect O as he had ever seen. Hesaw her hand tightened around Kelli’s.

  “Mommy, you’re squishing my fingers,”the little girl protested. “Sorry,”she murmured, never taking her eyes off his face. She was looking athim as if she thought that perhaps she should be backing away. Quickly.“I gotyour number from my machine, Mr. Zabelle,”she told him, her voice both angryand distant now.

  Okay, he was officially lost.“Your machine?”That made no sense to him.“Icalled the newspaper this morning.”

  She cocked her head, as if that could help her make sense of all this somehow.

  “About?”

  “The ad,”he said, annoyed. Had she lost the thread of the conversation already?What kind of an attention span did she have?

  “What ad?”she demanded. She sounded like someone on the verge of losing hertemper.

  Taking a breath, Philippe enunciated each word slowly, carefully, the way hewould if he
were talking to someone who was mentally challenged.

  “The…one…you’re…here…about.”

  Her voice went up several levels.“I’m not here about any ad.”

  Suddenly, something unlocked in a distant part of his brain. Her voice was veryfamiliar. He’d heard it before. Recently.

  Philippe held up his hand, stopping her.“Hold it. Back up.”He peered at herface intently, trying to jog his memory. Nothing.“Who are you, lady?”

  A loud huff of air preceded the reply. When she spoke, it was through grittedteeth.“I’m J. D. Wyatt. You called me about remodeling your bathrooms.”

  And then it hit him. Like a ton of bricks. He knew where he’d heard that voicebefore—on the phone, last night.“You’re J. D. Wyatt?”

  J.D. drew herself up. He had the impression she’d been through this kind ofthing before—and had no patience with it.“Yes.”

  He wanted to be perfectly clear in his understanding of the situation.“You’renot here about the housekeeping job?”

  “The housekeep—”Oh God, now it made sense. The weekly shopping, the cleaning.

  He’d made a natural mistake—and one that irked her.“No, I’m not here about thehousekeeping job. I’m a contractor.”

  He thought back to what Vincent had said when he’d given him the card.“Ithought I was calling a handyman.”

  J.D. shrugged. She’d lived in a man’s world all of her life and spent most ofher time struggling to gain acceptance.“A handy-person,”she corrected. The discomfort he’d been feeling grew. It was bad enough not being handy andfeeling inferior to another man. Aesthetically speaking, all men might have beencreated equal, but not when it came to wielding a hacksaw. Feeling inferior to awoman with a tool belt? Well, that was a whole different matter. He wasn’t surehe could handle it.

  It felt like he’d been deceived.“What does the J.D. stand for?”

  She eyed him for a long moment, as if debating whether or not to tell him. Andthen she did.“Janice Diane.”