Chapter Two
They rode in silence out of town, the heat lulling Noelle into a doze. After a while—she wasn’t sure how long—they turned off the main road, and she shook off her exhausted stupor enough to realize a few facts. One, she rode in a limousine in her nightgown going she had no idea where. Two, she was going there with a complete stranger who could, with no chance of being found out, kill her and leave her body in a ditch. And three….
“I don’t even know your name.” Opening her heavy eyelids, Noelle peered at her savior/murderer…one or the other. Sandy-blond hair neatly trimmed still managed to send a lock over his forehead in a boyish way. His firm jaw was dusted with a five o’clock shadow and a nose as straight as a Roman’s lent character to full, sensual lips. He wore a long, black coat, unbuttoned in the car, but immaculate. She glanced down at her filthy nightgown and inhaled a breath redolent with the reek of smoke clinging to her. A modern rendition of “The Little Match Girl.”
How holiday appropriate in a bad way. She’d almost ended up dead in a snowdrift, too. Although her bah humbug at Christmas and general anger at God at the moment for stealing what little she had left did not bode well for her. In Hans Christian Anderson’s story, the little one wound up in Heaven happy with God and her grandmother. In her current state of mind, Noelle might be finding another kind of warmth after her demise.
Whatever.
“Charles,” he said, his deep voice rumbling over her. “My name is Charles.”
Of course. Driving a limo, coming back from the airport…no doubt taking his employers there for a holiday in some exotic location. Skiing or maybe a tropical island. Where did rich people spend their Christmases? Charles. Could there be a better name for a chauffeur?
“I’m Noelle.” She wouldn’t give her last name either. Plebeians rarely did. Or match girls. “It’s so kind of you to help me out, but I am sure your employer wouldn’t want you bringing home strangers while he’s away.” Or did the servant class get to entertain? She wasn’t sure how that worked, never having had or been a servant. Although running a restaurant wasn’t too different. Serving the people food and all that entailed.
He glanced her way then arched a brow. “I beg your pardon?” Both hands on the wheel, he returned his attention to the road, but chuckled. “While who’s away?”
“Your boss.” They made another turn onto an even narrower lane, at the end of which loomed a huge brick edifice. “Is that a hotel?” Hadn’t he said he’d take her home? Maybe he drove the hotel shuttle.
“No, it’s a house.” He’d said mansion. Bypassing the circular drive, he continued past the house and down a ramp into an underground garage. Lights flicked on at their entrance, revealing a half-dozen cars even she knew were incredibly expensive. A Jaguar, a Rolls, and others so sleek and shiny she had an idea what her new friend spent his days doing when not driving his employer around. In the movies, the chauffeur was always polishing the cars, right?
Stopping near a double door, he turned off the engine then faced her again. “I think I have something of yours.” Charles reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a limp bundle of black-and-white fur. “While you were napping, he came over to keep me company.”
“I guess he was warm and cozy in there.” She unfolded her coat to find the other two curled together, purring. “Want a kitten?”
Ignoring her question, he tucked the sleeping kitten back in his pocket and opened the car door. “It’s as good a place as any for him until we get inside.”
By the time Noelle reached for the handle, he’d already opened the door and held a hand out to her. It must be habit to help his passengers out, although most of them would be in the backseat. She accepted his help, startled at the tingle where their palms connected and the faint sense of regret when, after a long moment, he released her. Cuddling her coat and its purring contents, she followed him to the steel doors where he pressed a button.
“Wow, your boss has an elevator.” Although she supposed anyone with a fleet of vehicles like the ones in the garage would never consider using ordinary steps. “Snazzy.”
He quirked one straight blond eyebrow again but didn’t reply. When the doors slid open, she followed him inside to stand beside him while they rose from their underground location to somewhere above the surface.
He strode out again as soon as the doors opened, and she followed him into a long hallway lined with a dozen or more doors interspersed by paintings. Each of the framed pieces of art was decked with a large red bow and a sprig of greenery—an unpleasant reminder of the holiday she tried to forget. Despite the warmth of the air, the marble floor, between blessedly not cold colorful rugs, chilled her bare foot.
“Wait.” She juggled the kittens and hopped on one foot, taking off the filthy slipper on the other. “I don’t want to get any more soot on these floors than I have to.” Now barefoot, she winced. “I’d hate for you to lose your job because I ruined some fifteenth century Persian antique rug. If the people who live here are anything like some of the wealthy customers who come into the restaurant…. I could tell you stories. Add one drop too much vinaigrette and….” She sank into silence at the memory of the restaurant. It didn’t matter anymore whether customers were cranky.
Charles cleared his throat and paused beside a door on the left side of the hallway. “Yes, well, it’s fine. I think you’d find the man who lives here very pleasant.”
Her odd comments began to make sense. Not only did she not like rich people, but she thought he worked here. As what? Of course. The chauffeur. Charles. Lucky his parents hadn’t named him Jeeves. Of course, in his parents’ blue collar neighborhood—where they still lived, in the tract house from which they refused to move no matter how often he offered them a nicer place anywhere in the world—a kid wouldn’t have survived to grow up with a name like Jeeves. He’d been Charlie, the name still used by close family and friends. If he’d given her that name, would she have made the same assumption?
Guiding Noelle into one of the guest bedrooms, he waved toward the dressing room connecting to the attached bath. “I know you’ll want to clean up. After you bathe, there should be some clothes in the dressing room closet you can use. My, err, the owner’s sister uses this suite when she visits, and she’s about your size.”
Halfway across the room, she paused. “I couldn’t. You’d be fired for sure. Can’t we just go to your quarters? Where are they? Over the garage?” She faced him, cheeks red in her pale face. “In fact, we should go now before the housekeeper or butler or someone catches us here.”
Cliché! Did she think he had a dozen other servants clustered under the roof in an unheated attic where rats scurried over their bowls of gruel? He swallowed a chuckle and his dismay at the same time. His driver, along with the rest of his small staff, did not live in. They owned nice homes of their own where they preferred to sleep at night with their families. For the moment, however, he would play along. His damsel in distress intrigued him, and, with nobody else here on Christmas Eve, he didn’t want her to hate him. At least not yet. Never, if he could help it. Even in her high-necked nightgown covered with soot and reeking to high heaven, her feet and bare ankles grimy, and her long hair stringy and tangled, she was the cutest thing to visit his home since he’d moved in. Long lashes framing her wide blue eyes almost drew his attention away from the dark smudges under them. No matter if she’d hate him tomorrow or the next day, he’d get her and her charges comfortable for the night and welcome their presence in his empty home.
He didn’t want to be alone on Christmas. Not on his favorite day of the entire year. If she wasn’t too tired, he’d lure her downstairs for some eggnog and tidbits before he tucked her into the guest bed. Maybe with a kiss on the forehead. Not on those rosebud lips. No, because he wouldn’t be able to stop at one, and he wouldn’t kiss her unless she knew who she kissed back.
Forcing a cheerful grin, he said, “Nobody else is here on Christmas Eve.”
She nodded. “With the boss away, he doesn’t need everyone around getting holiday pay. I guess that’s why rich people stay rich. They don’t waste a dime.”
She was so going to hate him when she learned his identity. He’d never be getting a taste of her sweet lips. Maybe he’d kiss her anyway. Once. No. Yes.
Shrugging, he focused on the here and now. “Are you planning to take the kittens into the shower with you?”
Noelle glanced down at the bundle she still held and frowned. “No, of course not.”
Approaching, he unfolded her coat and retrieved the sleeping pair. Tucking them in the same big pocket with their brother, he gave her a little push toward the bathroom. “Okay, then scoot. After you get cleaned up, if you’re not too tired, join me downstairs for a cup of eggnog by the fire.”
A crinkle formed in her brow. “Are you sure you aren’t going to get in trouble for taking over the whole house?” How cute. She worried about his future.
He winked. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“Never.” Her sincere, innocent tone made his heart thump harder. Why did the prettiest, sweetest woman—someone who rescued kittens in the cold when she had just lost her home and business in a tragic fire—have to be prejudiced against successful billionaires? He could have called one of a dozen beautiful women chasing him and invited them over after his family cancelled, but he hadn’t wanted to spend Christmas Eve with a casual conquest.
No, better to spend it with someone who, after tomorrow, would consider him one of the evil wealthy who made life hard for her and her staff. As the door closed behind her, he headed downstairs to his office to make some calls. Maybe even an evil billionaire could help out a damsel in distress on Christmas Eve. Besides, he wanted to find out more about the fire that placed her in his home. Buildings didn’t burst into flame on their own. What could have set hers ablaze?