Chapter One
Angela Evans was stunned when she rang the bell and Rory Keith, himself, answered the door. She actually took a step back in surprise--her face turning red--as she encountered his world-famous cocky grin and the blue-green-gray--what the heck color were his eyes?--that crinkled so merrily at the corners.
"Angela?" he asked in the Scottish brogue that set the hearts of women young and old racing recklessly.
"Yes, sir," Angela managed to say, taking the strong, tanned hand he held out to her and feeling positively fragile as he encompassed it within his own.
"Come on in!" he said, drawing her with him into the airy expanse of his New York loft apartment. "Terrible day to be out interviewing, isn't it?"
She could only nod, for she was lost in that handsome face she'd spent hours watching on movie and television screens. His hand was warm covering hers, and that smile--oh, God that smile--was doing shameful things to her libido.
"I love bad weather, myself," he said, finally releasing her hand as he fanned it toward the sitting area of the loft. "You can't be born in Scotland and not like the rain."
A tremulous smile hovered on Angela's lips as she followed him to the plush sofa and took a seat at his urging. She couldn't look away from the crisp white cotton shirt and black jeans that hugged his muscular frame so lovingly. That he was barefooted just made her melt inside.
"How 'bout you?" he asked in that brogue that sent shivers down her spine.
"I'm not fond of bad weather," she said, "even though I grew up on the Gulf Coast of Florida and we have more than our share of storms coming in." She flinched, telling herself she had given far more detail than he'd required.
His eyes lit up and his expressive mouth did the cute little quirking of his upper lip that was his trademark. "You're a southern woman!" he exclaimed. "God, I love your accent!" He took a seat across from her, leaning forward so his elbows rested on his knees. "Please tell me you know how to make good sweetened tea."
Angela's left eyebrow crooked upward. "You like sweet tea?"
He was like a little boy as he sat hunched there, his smile bright and his eyes dancing. "When I was in Pensacola filming, I fell in love with southern food. God, barbeque ribs and cornbread and.... "He groaned. "When I asked the agency to find me a housekeeper, I wanted to make sure she knew how to cook fried okra and make sweet tea."
"It's fried okrie," she corrected, unable to keep from grinning as broadly as did he. "Tea with or without lemon?"
"Oh, with! Definitely with!" he replied. "When can you start?"
She laughed. "To make the tea or as your housekeeper?"
"Both!" he answered and was on his feet, holding out a hand. "Let's go do it now!"
His words drove straight through Angela's soul. Making tea wasn't what she would have liked to be doing with him, but as he pulled her up and began walking her to the kitchen part of the loft with her hand cupped in his, she followed willingly, looking up at the nape of his neck where the curly brown hair just brushed his collar.
"I've Earl Grey," he said. "Will that do?"
She hated to tell him that it wouldn't. "Actually Tetley loose tea would be...."
"Let me get my shoes! There's a market 'round the corner," he said, letting go of her hand and practically sprinting away from her to disappear down the hallway.
She laughed as she heard him rummaging around in his bedroom. The man was a vortex of nervous energy and everything he did, he did at breakneck speed.
Outside it was pouring rain with lightning flashing now and then to light up the large expanse of windows in the loft. When he returned, he had on a baseball cap, tennis shoes without socks, and what she had come to realize must be a favorite leather coat for she'd seen him wearing it in several of his movies.
"I'll ring down and have the car sent for us straight away," he said, picking up the receiver.
She watched him, thinking he had to be the handsomest man she'd ever seen. Tall and thoroughly masculine, she could imagine he broke at least a dozen female hearts a week just by flashing those mesmerizing green eyes and that crooked grin. Single--and supposedly quite content to remain that way--he had been linked with every Hollywood goddess coming down the pike and the paparazzi pictured him with women who were constantly hinting marriage was in the works. It was going to be a challenge to work for a man who she wanted to throw down on the rug and have her way with.
"That was a strange expression," he said, cocking his head to one side. "What were you thinking?"
Angela felt the heat branching up her neck and into her cheeks. "I'll never tell," she said and when he slowly grinned at her, she knew damned well he had some idea of where her feeble mind had flown.
"Don't fall too deeply in love with me before you make my tea, wench," he teased, opening the door for her.
"I'll try not to," she countered.
"Good, 'cause it gets so bloody boring, you know?"
"Having to fight off the girls?" she asked as she walked out into the hall.
"Girls, guys, damned Labrador retrievers, too!" he replied with a hand to the small of her back.
She reached for the umbrella she'd propped outside his door, but he tugged her away from it.
"You won't need it," he promised.
She stumbled along in his wake, for he was like a tornado of nervous energy as he stabbed repeatedly at the button on the private elevator, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. He reminded her so vividly of her sons when they were boys.
"Trying to quit," he said, "and I'm climbing the walls."
She knew he meant smoking. "Have you tried hard candy?"
He snapped his fingers. "Lemon drops! Aye, remind me to grab a few hundred bags at the market!"
Angela laughed.
"Ah, now that's just cruel," he said. "I bet you don't smoke."
She shook her head. "Never have, never will."
"Evil woman," he pronounced in that sexy brogue. "Rub it in, why doncha?"
"Mind over matter," she told him.
"If you don't mind, it don't matter, huh?" he queried, wagging his dark brows.
The elevator door opened and he ushered her inside, standing so close to her she could smell his expensive cologne. She felt him looking down at her, and she looked up to see him staring at her, his eyes dancing with merriment, his lips twitching in a reckless grin.
"So, tell me about you," he said. He leaned over. "I don't see a wedding band."
)
Angela Evans has what every woman in the world wants: twenty-four hour a day access to Rory Fallon, the Sexiest Man in Cinema. Being hired as the handsome Scottish actor's housekeeper will put her in close contact with him, catering to his needs, traveling the world at his side as she looks after his numerous residences from London to Los Angeles and taking care of his motor home on movie sets. It is a dream come true job any woman would kill to have. What Rory finds he needs most, though, is something Angie isn't willing to give him. She has a son older than him and doesn't take his flirting seriously, yet slowly but surely he is intent on wearing her down. He knows he's found the woman he's been searching for. To him, it was love at first sight. He wants Angie and no other. Rating: Contains graphic sexual content and adult language.
