Her Man Friday(25)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

Enthroned as he was at the head of the table, Schuyler Kimball could survey his court with all the cool detachment of a ruthless, omnipotent czar. And at the moment, he was wondering, as any self-respecting despot would be, how prudent it would be to exile his family—nay, his entire household—to the island of Elba. Then again, ultimately, Napoleon had escaped from Elba, hadn’t he?

Ah, well. Another perfectly good plan dashed before getting fully under way.

At the very least, Schuyler was wondering why he had bothered to come home. He’d been having as much fun in Bermuda as he would likely be having anywhere else. Plus, the beaches were so breathtakingly lovely there, and the servants so wonderfully obsequious. What had possessed him to think he might be needed here? That he might be comfortable here? That he might be welcome here?

Even Lily, darling Lily, had annoyed him tonight, bringing home her stray without asking Schuyler’s permission first. Whoever, whatever, this man was who had come between them—both literally and figuratively, considering the seating arrangement Lily had designated at the table—he didn’t work for Kimball Technologies. Not that Schuyler was familiar with every last man, woman, and drone who worked for him—au contraire. But Leonard Freiberger was no lowly bookkeeper; that much was obvious.

Nor was there anything of the team player about him, something that rather hampered the whole odious concept of Team Kimball a corporate policy conceived by his board of directors—or rather bored of directors, as he liked to think of them. Still, as long as the bored of directors were happy, as long as they were under the misguided notion that they were the ones running the business, Schuyler could find his own fun, and never the twain should meet.

For some reason, then, his gaze was pulled toward Chloe, who simply sat staring sullenly at her tiramisu and looking exactly like her mother. Well, except for her eyes, which she had clearly inherited from Schuyler. He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly, wishing he’d been more careful in his youth. Ah, well. There was nothing for it now but to make sure the girl was cared for, and God knows he’d done his best in that respect. Mrs. Puddleduck, for all her regimentation, seemed to be doing an adequate job with the girl. With any luck at all, Chloe would avoid the pitfalls her mother had been helpless to miss.

Having noted that everyone had just started eating their dessert, Schuyler stood and asked, "Everyone finished? Good. I, for one, am ready to call it a day." He extended his hand toward the piece of cheesecake seated to his left, for which he had paid a bundle, and which he intended to enjoy for his own dessert. "Veronica?"

"Valerie," she corrected him mildly as she stood. "If you want to call me by a name other than my own, it’s going to cost you another fifty dollars."

"Fine," he said. "Put it on my tab."

He was so intent on the night that stretched before him—Veronique had assured him, after all, that she could perform perfectly page 72 of How to Leave a Man Groaning with Satisfaction Every Time—that he almost didn’t notice the commotion outside the dining room as he approached the door. He was reaching for the doorknob only to have the door burst open on him before he could move out of the way.

Before he realized what was happening, a woman had barreled through that door and right into him, knocking him backward with enough force to send him sprawling onto the floor on his fanny. And the only reason Schuyler decided to forgive her for such an egregious transgression was that she came falling forward, too, landing in a sprawl right on top of him.

He noticed right away that she was even more lushly built than Vanessa was. But where the call girl’s attributes were doubtless the result of surgical enhancement—they were just too damned perky, in Schuyler’s opinion, to be anything other than cosmetically enhanced—this woman’s gifts were obviously there because Mother Nature had decreed it. Just to be certain, however—and because he knew he could excuse his behavior as a result of his surprise and the fall—he quickly copped a feel to reassure himself. Oh, yes. They were definitely real.

Well, my, my, my.

He was about to go in for another touchdown—or, perhaps more accurately, another feelup—but the woman anticipated him and deftly struck his hand out of the way. Hastily, she scrambled off of him and stood, tugging her sweater—a shapeless, colorless bit of drab—down over her equally unremarkable skirt. Schuyler, too, stood up, automatically brushing off his tuxedo and running a quick hand through his hair, tending to himself before turning his attention to the woman.

When he finally did look at her, he had to bite back a mutter of disappointment. Because as erotic and exotic as her erogenous zones below the neck clearly were, everything above was obviously—and thoroughly—contained.

The woman’s hair was probably a rich red auburn, he thought, but it was hard to tell, seeing as how it was pulled back into a tight… tight… bun-thing on the back of her head. Big, tortoiseshell-framed glasses obscured what were probably amazing, luminous brown eyes when not hidden. Her mouth was pinched, something that prevented him from telling much about her other features. But somehow, he suspected that when she let her guard down, when she opened herself up, this woman would doubtless be…

He sighed fitfully. Oh, who was he kidding? The woman appeared to have no sense of style, humor, or beauty whatsoever. And just because he was a connoisseur of fine feminine flesh didn’t mean he could make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Whatever the hell that meant.

All in all, he decided pretty quickly that he didn’t like the woman and had no use for her in his life. And, just as quickly, he decided he also wanted her to go away so that he could experience the hired—albeit plastic—bounty of Victoria instead. He opened his mouth to tell the woman exactly that, but before he could say a word, she grabbed him by the bow tie and tugged him forward. Hard.

"Mr. Kimball?" she inquired in a tone that was the absolute picture of politeness, her voice soft and lovely, and tinted with just a hint of the Georgia peach debutante thing—a feature that rather compromised her aggressive manhandling of his upper person.

Still, no need to be hasty, he thought. He was familiar enough with the works of the Williams—Faulkner and Tennessee—to know that these southern belles could be formidable foes. So, every bit as courteously, he replied, "And who, may I ask, wants to know?"

She jerked her hand upward, an action that nearly cut off his breath, then continued in that Miss Antebellum. Manners voice, "I’m Mrs. Beecham. Mrs. Caroline Beecham. I’m the headmistress of the Van Meter Academy. That’s Chloe’s school, in case you’ve forgotten. And Mr. Kimball, you and I need to have a little chat."