nirvana.
"Amazing. Absolutely amazing."
Again she pressed her lips together to keep from saying anything more out loud. She might be amazed and she might be impressed, but she had to keep her thoughts to herself. After all, she was merely the hired help for the evening. It didn't matter that the fieldstone still held a portion of the day's heat. Or that the colors of the rock made the house look as if it had stood on the site for hundreds of years. Nor was it any of her business that the absolute perfection of the scene gave Cara the willies—as if she were surveying a movie set and everything she saw was an illusion.
The sound of a throat being cleared caused her to jump and she turned.
He did have Quasimodo working for him.
No. Not Quasimodo, she quickly amended. The man who stood in front of her was far too tall, too rigid, too stiff and formal to be the bell-ringing hero of the twins' favorite cartoon. His dark suit,
crisp starched tie and gleaming black shoes bespoke a man who paid attention to details.
"Good evening, Miss Wells."
The British accent immediately revealed that he wasn't the same man who'd asked to see her identification.
"I'm from the Mom Squad."
"Yes. We know."
Cara wasn't sure if the gentleman—a butler?— was using a royal we or if he included Ross in his statement.
She flushed when the butler looked at her car, and his gaze flicked to the undercarriage as if he sensed the oil that even now threatened to mar the pristine surface of the drive.
"That will be all, Stibbs. I can handle things from here. You'd best get to your opera before the curtain rises."
The voice came from the shadowy interior of the foyer. From her vantage point in the sun, Cara's eyes couldn't adjust enough to give her a good glimpse of the man. She had the vague impression of height, the flash of a white shirt, but little more.
The butler nodded. "Very good, Mr. Gifford. I do have a fondness for La Boheme and I would hate to miss the overture."
With that, Stibbs disappeared into the shadows
of the house, casting one last suspicious glance at Cara's car.
Cara saw Ross's arm move as he glanced at his watch. "You've got good timing."
Cara fought the urge to curtsy like some housemaid being complimented by the lord of the manor.
At that moment Ross stepped forward, and the sun slid over his body. The light caressed dark hair still wet from a shower, craggy angular features and a lean athletic body.
Wow.
Cara wasn't usually a person who was bowled over by mere looks, but she had to admit that Ross Gifford was pleasing to the eye—even a jaundiced eye like her own. His hair was short, dark and swept back from his forehead. His features were sharp and elegant—the sort of face that graced the covers of men's magazines and fitness reports. And his eyes...
They were dark brown, piercing and infinitely bleak.
All too soon Cara was reminded that Ross Gifford was a widower with a pair of twins on his hands. His children were about the same age as hers from what she could remember Polly telling her when she'd dropped the twins off.
"I've got twins," Ross stated bluntly.
Cara noted that his hand remained on the door-jamb as if he fully expected her to turn and run.
44 Yes, I know that."
Even if she'd wanted to change her mind, she couldn't have moved. His eyes held her pinned to the spot like a rabbit caught in the beam of a car's headlights. She didn't need the elegance of her surroundings to convey to her that this was a powerful man. Everything about him radiated strength and control.
"They're three."
She resisted the urge to smile. "I have twins myself, so I'm sure I'm up to the challenge."
He stared at her, and she grew infinitely self-conscious of her attire. She should have taken the time to—
To what? She had come to spend the evening tending a pair of twins. She hadn't come here to impress Ross Gifford with anything other than her mothering skills.
"Can you give me an overview of your
"Amazing. Absolutely amazing."
Again she pressed her lips together to keep from saying anything more out loud. She might be amazed and she might be impressed, but she had to keep her thoughts to herself. After all, she was merely the hired help for the evening. It didn't matter that the fieldstone still held a portion of the day's heat. Or that the colors of the rock made the house look as if it had stood on the site for hundreds of years. Nor was it any of her business that the absolute perfection of the scene gave Cara the willies—as if she were surveying a movie set and everything she saw was an illusion.
The sound of a throat being cleared caused her to jump and she turned.
He did have Quasimodo working for him.
No. Not Quasimodo, she quickly amended. The man who stood in front of her was far too tall, too rigid, too stiff and formal to be the bell-ringing hero of the twins' favorite cartoon. His dark suit,
crisp starched tie and gleaming black shoes bespoke a man who paid attention to details.
"Good evening, Miss Wells."
The British accent immediately revealed that he wasn't the same man who'd asked to see her identification.
"I'm from the Mom Squad."
"Yes. We know."
Cara wasn't sure if the gentleman—a butler?— was using a royal we or if he included Ross in his statement.
She flushed when the butler looked at her car, and his gaze flicked to the undercarriage as if he sensed the oil that even now threatened to mar the pristine surface of the drive.
"That will be all, Stibbs. I can handle things from here. You'd best get to your opera before the curtain rises."
The voice came from the shadowy interior of the foyer. From her vantage point in the sun, Cara's eyes couldn't adjust enough to give her a good glimpse of the man. She had the vague impression of height, the flash of a white shirt, but little more.
The butler nodded. "Very good, Mr. Gifford. I do have a fondness for La Boheme and I would hate to miss the overture."
With that, Stibbs disappeared into the shadows
of the house, casting one last suspicious glance at Cara's car.
Cara saw Ross's arm move as he glanced at his watch. "You've got good timing."
Cara fought the urge to curtsy like some housemaid being complimented by the lord of the manor.
At that moment Ross stepped forward, and the sun slid over his body. The light caressed dark hair still wet from a shower, craggy angular features and a lean athletic body.
Wow.
Cara wasn't usually a person who was bowled over by mere looks, but she had to admit that Ross Gifford was pleasing to the eye—even a jaundiced eye like her own. His hair was short, dark and swept back from his forehead. His features were sharp and elegant—the sort of face that graced the covers of men's magazines and fitness reports. And his eyes...
They were dark brown, piercing and infinitely bleak.
All too soon Cara was reminded that Ross Gifford was a widower with a pair of twins on his hands. His children were about the same age as hers from what she could remember Polly telling her when she'd dropped the twins off.
"I've got twins," Ross stated bluntly.
Cara noted that his hand remained on the door-jamb as if he fully expected her to turn and run.
44 Yes, I know that."
Even if she'd wanted to change her mind, she couldn't have moved. His eyes held her pinned to the spot like a rabbit caught in the beam of a car's headlights. She didn't need the elegance of her surroundings to convey to her that this was a powerful man. Everything about him radiated strength and control.
"They're three."
She resisted the urge to smile. "I have twins myself, so I'm sure I'm up to the challenge."
He stared at her, and she grew infinitely self-conscious of her attire. She should have taken the time to—
To what? She had come to spend the evening tending a pair of twins. She hadn't come here to impress Ross Gifford with anything other than her mothering skills.
"Can you give me an overview of your
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