Guys' Night . . . Plus One I believe, dear brothers, you all need to be fitted for Manley Maids uniforms." Liam Manley bit his tongue at his sister Mac's announcement as she laid her winning hand on the green felt poker table. She'd played him--him and his brothers, and she'd played them good. She'd played poker good. Who knew she even played poker? And that bet . . . Four weeks' worth of free cleaning service for her company against their vacation homes and expensive sports cars. Why did Liam feel like a sucker? "I am not wearing an apron." Bryan, the youngest Manley brother, sounded so offended it made Liam bite his tongue even harder--so he wouldn't laugh at him. You might think Mac had asked him to wear . . . well . . . an apron. Sean, his middle brother and fellow loser, kept stacking the poker chips, avoiding Mac's jack-high straight flush like the plague while keeping his mouth shut. Bryan's mouth was hanging open. Any second their movie-star brother was going to start gaping like a fish. Where was a camera when he needed one? Bry would pay anything to keep that unflattering picture out of the press, and Liam could use a new hot tub for the house he was renovating--make that, had just finished renovating, which meant he had some time on his hands. No time like the present to get started paying off the ridiculous bet. "When do you want us to start, Mac?" "I have extra uniforms, so whenever you have the time." Extra uniforms? Since when did she have extra anything when it came to the business? Something was going on. He never would have thought Mary-Alice Catherine would resort to dirty tricks to get her older brothers to do what she wanted. Hell, when they'd gone to live with Gran after their parents had been killed in a car accident, they'd practically tripped over each other to take care of their baby sister. Now he was going to be tripping over brooms and mops and vacuum cleaners. Ugh. "Hey, can I do my own house?" That was Bryan, working whatever angle he could to come out on top. "You'd put Monica out of a job to weasel out of the bet? Really?" It was Mac's turn for mouth-gaping. "I'm not weaseling out of anything." But Bry didn't look happy. "You can count on me for Monday, too. I've got a month between projects and was looking for something to do anyhow." Liam highly doubted Bryan's choice would be to play maid, however. It wasn't Liam's, either. Still, he'd made the bet . . . And so had she. He finished off his beer then gathered the cards, dragging Mac's winning hand across the felt last. Bryan's gaze was on those cards the entire way. Sean kept his on the chips. They were probably the most anal-retentively stacked chips in the history of the game. "I didn't know you had guys working for you, Mac." Liam kept his voice even. Controlled. And if there was the slightest hint of something else in it, well, he'd be fine with Mac assuming it was anger at losing. But why would Mac (a) want to play poker so badly with them when she couldn't afford the cash if she lost and (b) make that bet and win? Something was rotten in the state of Manley. "Wha . . . what?" Yeah, that startled look in her eyes confirmed exactly what he'd thought. There were no guys employed by Manley Maids, so those uniforms weren't "extra." She'd had them made in advance. For them. Mac had planned this. Her winning was no fluke. He'd call her on it if he had any proof other than his gut, but he didn't. And God knew, he couldn't always trust his gut. It'd let him down before. "Never mind." He shuffled the offending cards in with the other forty-seven, then tapped the long edge of the deck on the table. "I'll be there Monday." And he'd use the mindless monotony of cleaning to come up with some way to pay his sister back. In spades. Chapter One IF there was one thing Cassidy Davenport hated, it was to be kept waiting. And if there was one thing her father did best, it was keep her waiting. "But, Deborah, I just spoke to him." She had to go through her father's executive secretary for every little scrap, but that's the way Dad's empire worked. No one got to him without going through Deborah. The woman seriously ought to demand the title of CEO because Cassidy doubted her father ever made a business decision he didn't run through Deborah Capshaw first. She had been with him for nearly thirty years and kept the business running while Dad went running. Running around, that is. "I'm sorry, Cassidy, but he's in a meeting he can't be pulled out of. I'm sure you understand." Oh, Cassidy understood all right. She wondered how old this one was. Probably blonde--most of her father's "meetings" were--and probably had an impressive degree. That was the weird thing. Somehow Dad always managed to snag the Harvards and Yales of the world. You'd think those women would know better, but there was something about Mitchell Davenport that made women lose their minds. Cassidy was about to join their ranks. She ran a hand over her Maltese, Titania's, soft fur. "All right, Deborah. I understand." They both knew she didn't understand. "Have him call me when he's free." And showered , she wanted to add, but Deborah didn't deserve crass. Poor thing had to deal with it on a daily basis. Or hourly. Cassidy ended the call, then stroked her cheek over the little dog's soft head. When was she going to accept the fact that her father only came through for her when it garnered him something? And the "meeting" in his office was garnering him a lot more than she ever would. Lunch and, more importantly, the conversation she wanted to have with him were now going to be curtailed time-wise. She set Titania down on the floor and picked her iPad off the glass table in front of the glass wall that looked out over the glass-like lake twelve stories below her condo, the riot of wildflowers reflecting off all surfaces. She'd love to spend the day painting, trying to capture this scene. The oils she'd bought yesterday would bring out just the right shimmer of the flowers' reflection on the gray blue water. Her fingers itched to get to her brushes. Cassidy tapped the calendar app to make sure she had enough time today. There was nothing worse than getting all psyched up to lose herself in her art only to find out she had other commitments. Which she did. MANLEY MAIDS was written in for ten A.M. Ah, yes. Today was the day Sharon, her housekeeper, had been going to train the new girl the service was sending over, but Sharon had gone on maternity leave early over the weekend. Cassidy checked the time. Nine fifty-five. She tapped the calendar and set the iPad back on the table. Nothing like having to introduce someone to the Davenport world she inhabited. At first they were awestruck--Dad did like to do showy in grand style, with a side helping of decadent just to make himself look good, and he'd had the designer outdo herself with this place. It usually took less than a week for a newcomer to see beneath the veneer and start with the pitying looks--the ones she had to pretend she didn't see because it made no sense for anyone to pity someone who lived a life as fabulous as hers. Wasn't that what Dad always said? Actually, Cassidy didn't know what Dad said anymore. If it weren't for email, she'd rarely hear from him. Right at ten, the doorbell rang. Cassidy shooed Titania into her enclosure, brushed her chestnut waves over her shoulder, straightened the lapels on her beige silk blouse, then smoothed the braided belt at the waistline of her matching linen pants. She'd test the one-week theory with this one. She opened the door to the condo's vestibule. It took the hunk in the Manley Maids uniform less than one second to start with the looks. Only his weren't the pitying kind. They also weren't leering, which was another reaction she'd come to expect. No, if she had to guess, she'd call his look angry. *   *   * CASSIDY Davenport stood before him in the flesh. Flesh-colored pants, flesh-colored top, and enough buttons unbuttoned to reveal a lot more flesh. Liam worked hard to keep from groaning. Mac had assured him she wouldn't be here. Not on Mondays. Yet here she was. Cassidy Davenport. Pampered socialite whose daily clothing bill was probably more than a blue collar worker earned in a week--and he doubted she'd know a blue collar worker if he came up and bit off her ridiculously priced manicure. The woman was frivolous with a capital F. He was done with frivolous. Been there, done that, spent a fortune on designer clothes and rhinestone-studded T-shirts for his ex, Rachel, that had matched the diamond studs she'd insisted on having. The scene in Flannigan's Pub came back in blinding clarity. Rachel giving a lap dance to that damn pretty boy frat guy with a tab longer than his dick, one hand down the back of his pants while she rubbed her chest all over the kid's face. Liam had stood there in stupefied disbelief, watching her talented fingers--that he'd thought had been reserved for his pleasure alone--slip the wallet from the kid's pocket and into her own, and no one at the table, least of all the kid, had been any wiser. A socialite-wannabe stealing money because he wouldn't pander to her shoe-and-pocketbook habit. He'd backed out of the place, sick to his stomach over the loss of what he'd thought had been his future, questioning everything he'd thought he'd known, then he'd driven home in a fog, hurt and disillusionment overshadowing everything else. Eventually, anger had risen like a phoenix from the ashes of his love, so when she'd shown up later with that new Louis Vuitton bag she'd said was a knock-off, he'd called her on it. On everything. Rachel hadn't denied it. Hadn't even tried to manipulate him with tears into taking her back--for once--when he'd demanded his key. He'd been almost as surprised at that as the bar scene. She'd merely shrugged, handed it over, thanked him for a good time, and sauntered down his front walk, shredding his heart beneath the damn Manolo What's-their-names he'd bought her. No, women like Rachel--and Cassidy Davenport--women who lived off the hard work of the men in their lives . . . he was done with them. He'd been played once, but luckily, not to the point of no return. He'd learned his lesson: stay away from the high-maintenance types who only had looks to commend them. He was really going to have to work for this job. And not to keep it. " You're the maid?" Liam winced. Surely there had to be a better term, but domestic goddess didn't exactly fit, while housekeeper brought up an image of the Brady Bunch. He gripped the vacuum cleaner and straightened his shoulders. His pecs flexed--purely involuntarily of course. "Um, yeah. I am." He didn't have to be a college graduate--though he was--to read what she was thinking when her gaze ran over him from head to toe. Mac didn't run that kind of a business. "They didn't tell me they were sending a guy." "Is that a problem?" God, let her say "yes" so he could get the hell out of here, because he felt a sudden need to clean something--himself. Women like her got under his skin and not in a good way. They used to, but what was the saying about repeating history's mistakes? Liam had zero intention of doing that. "Well, no. I guess it's not a problem." She tapped one of those ridiculously priced nails on her surprisingly non-collagen-enhanced lips. "Won't you come in?" "Uh, yeah. Sure." Mac would kill him if he said no. This had been his baby sister's first account. That's why she'd selected it for him, she'd said; she knew he wouldn't lose it for her. So he sucked up his innate prejudice against the Cassidys and Rachels of the world, and took the step up into the foyer beside her. She was smaller than she'd first appeared now that they were on the same level. Then he got a look around the place. No way would they ever be on the same level. Rich dripped from the chandelier with the pear-sized crystals. It wove through the gold-threaded rug, vined through the marble floor, and scented the air with the hint of millions. Liam had money, but this . . . Even the froufrou little dog had a gilded cage. This was on the level of the Donald Trumps and Conrad Hiltons of the world. And Mitchell Davenports. The Trump-in-training had turned a small construction business into a residential and commercial design and management firm in an enviable amount of time. But none of this was actually Cassidy's of course. She lived off Daddy's money. Cassidy Davenport was more Bryan's or their pro-ball player friend Jared's type than his these days. He was done with women who looked down their noses at men who couldn't give them what they wanted. He glanced at Cassidy's nose. Perfectly pert in that rhinoplastic way of the rich, but she'd never get the chance to look down it at him. He'd learned his lesson, and women like her, while not a dime a dozen--because they upped the ante to about a hundred thou a dozen--were so far below women who knew how to make their own way in the world that all he felt for her kind was anger at such uselessness. But he wasn't here to judge; he was here to clean. For four frickin' weeks. He should have folded that last hand. Taken his losses and lived with them. But Manleys didn't go down without a fight. It was how he'd made his own fortune, inconsequential though it was when compared to this place. The one he was supposed to be cleaning. He gripped the vacuum wand and planted it in front of him. "Where would you like me to start?" "I guess the bedroom's as good a place as any." Seriously? Did she really think he'd fall for that? Was she slumming today? Pissed off at the boyfriend or something? Wanting a little spice? "Sharon always started in the bedroom, then worked her way out. She said it kept what she'd already cleaned from getting messed up again before she finished. Makes sense to me, but if you've got another routine, I'm okay with that. Whatever you want to do is fine." Sharon. The maid. The one he was here to replace. Liam glanced at the bucket of cleaning supplies and vacuum cleaner as if he'd never seen them before. That's right. He was here to clean house; not play house. Liam bit back a chuckle. As if she'd be interested in him that way. He'd forgotten he was in the green golf shirt and cotton pants that constituted a Manley Maid uniform. He didn't feel very manly in it, and with the vibe he wasn't getting from Cassidy Davenport, he probably didn't look it, either. He should be glad. He could get through this nightmare without having to fight off a society babe who thought she'd have some fun with the help . Been there, done that, ripped off the diamond-studded T-shirts. And wished he could have shredded them, but he'd been the one shredded. He adjusted his grip on the bucket, took a deep breath, and headed into Cassidy Davenport's bedroom. If he wasn't involved with a woman, going into her bedroom should be no big deal. And if he couldn't even stand to be in the same room with that woman, her bedroom was just another room. Then he saw the silky baby blue robe tossed over a padded chair. A piece of black lace peeking out from the top drawer of the dresser. Something peach and frothy lying in a puddle beneath the flowered bench at the end of her rumpled bed. It'd landed near a pair of shoes. Black shoes. With really high heels. And ankle straps. Black lace. Peach nightie. High heels. The spiked kind. Cassidy bumped into him from behind. He'd called this just another room ? He seriously needed to have his head examined and his sense of smell shut off because the scent of her--still of millions but this time with a good dose of woman threaded through--wrapped around him the way that silk robe had embraced her curves. And those curves, the ones her unbuttoned shirt hinted at, were every bit as lush and soft as he'd expect--except that he hadn't expected them to be lush and soft. Most women in her income bracket underwent the knife as if it were a day out with the girls, but the few nanoseconds she was plastered against him were enough for Liam to learn that she hadn't subscribed to that particular social custom. She jumped back. "Why'd you stop?" Because the image of her in those heels and that nightie, all wrapped up in silk, had nailed him to the floor. "You don't make your bed?" Anger was always good for dispelling tension, sexual or otherwise, and right now Liam knew which one he needed to focus on. Not focus on. Whatever. "I forgot you were coming." Did she have to use that particular word? What was wrong with him? He didn't even like the woman. "Are you going to hover over me while I do this?" These were going to be four really long, hard weeks. He so wished he hadn't used those words. And when he saw the look on her face--fleeting though it was--he wished he hadn't used that tone. It wasn't her fault that he'd reacted this way to her. "Um . . . well, no." She backed up, her green eyes wide and--shit--teary. "Hey, I'm sor--" Damn it. He wasn't going to apologize. He'd learned his lesson when it came to women's tears. Rachel had been a master of the waterworks and he, fool that he'd been, had bought them. Every single time she'd used them. "I guess I'll leave you to it." She spun around on her sexy-as-hell stilettos and strode out of the room, her ass-hugging pants leaving nothing to his imagination. Which sent it into overdrive. Liam cursed beneath his breath and turned around-- To stare at the rumpled, unmade bed with sheets that had been wrapped around that curvy ass, those long-as-sin legs, and her perfectly natural breasts, and Liam didn't know if he was going to make it four hours in this place let alone four weeks. Chapter Two CASSIDY gulped the San Pellegrino and blamed the fizz for the tears in her eyes. They certainly weren't caused by Mr. Manley Maid in there. Mr. Rude-Obnoxious-He-Man Manley Maid who probably expected every woman to fall at his feet for one small glimmer of his interest. Well she'd seen the interest--fleeting though it'd been--but she was still standing. Bastard. She would have thought he'd have been a little nicer. After all, all she had to do was make one phone call and his ass would be canned. Cassidy fumbled for her cell phone and hit her contacts list. Yeah, she didn't have to put up with his attitude. Who did he think he was? Did he know who her father was? Her finger hovered over the Manley Maids' phone number for a second. Two. Was she really going to throw her father's name around to demand respect? Seriously? Where was her backbone? Her sense of pride? Self-esteem? Cassidy set the phone on the counter. She couldn't make that call; she'd be just as bad as her father. Wasn't that what today's lunch was all about? To prove to herself that she didn't need him? That she had her own talent, her own skills, and she didn't need him and the made-up position at his company to support herself? She took a deep breath, not really looking forward to the conversation. It would be a battle. Dad always expected everyone to jump to do his bidding, her included. Look where that'd gotten her. Cassidy walked into the living room. Okay, so this wasn't a bad place to be, but while it might be a giant, gorgeous room with the best furniture and view money could buy, a Steinway in the corner, a sound system fit for a Philharmonic, and enough artwork to feed a third world country, it was still just as empty and devoid of warmth and hominess as any of the other top-of-the-world penthouses or hotel rooms or boarding school dorms Dad had put her up in over the years. If he'd let her, she could've made this place a home. With splashes of color and personal knick-knacks, and that granny-square afghan she'd found at a flea market in college and had kept hidden in the steamer trunk in her closet ever since for the day she'd have a house of her own. If she didn't get this lunch with him, that day was going to be later rather than sooner. Something crashed in her bedroom and Mr. Rude cursed. Cassidy bit her lip to keep from smiling. It wasn't funny, really, but served him right for being so testy. Normally her room was in pristine shape when Sharon showed up, but she'd been more focused on the lunch with her father than the fact that someone new was coming by. Titania growled and that did elicit a smile from Cassidy. She picked up the teacup-sized dog and nuzzled her topknot. "Hush, Titania. I can't hear him cursing if you start barking." Titania licked Cassidy's neck, little tail brushing the side of Cassidy's breast, reminding her all too well what her breasts had felt like pressed against the guy's hard, muscular back. She'd had to jump away to keep him from noticing her body's reaction. He was one giant pheromone in a way Burton, her father's right-hand man and her semi-regular date these past eight or so months, wasn't. Mr. Maid cursed again and Cassidy winced, waiting for the crash. Luckily, it didn't come, though, honestly, there wasn't anything in that room that she'd mourn the loss of. She'd learned long ago not to put out anything personal that wasn't designer-selected or Dad would have a fit. Everything had to be picture-perfect for her father. Everything. Including her. She twisted one of the diamond studs her father had given her on her birthday. The ones he'd picked up in Dubai. She'd seen them when Deborah had unpacked his briefcase, both of them figuring they were for the flavor du jour , neither one of them certain what that flavor's name was since it'd only been one jour . But that's all that one had lasted and Dad had given them to her. What was there to be said for getting a bimbo's cast-offs? Cassidy sighed and set Titania, the show-dog-caliber pet, back in her pen. She needed to talk to Dad; this living in a gilded cage thing was over. She was almost thirty years old and after her mother had walked out, she'd practically been in limbo waiting for her real life to start. Well now it was time and Dad was just going to have to face it. He couldn't go jet-setting all over the world and expect her to sit here, twiddling her thumbs or arranging flowers or meeting with women old enough to be her grandmother on some charitable board to discuss which tea sandwiches to serve, waiting for the moment he needed a hostess. "Event Director" was her official job title within the company, but it was as shallow as she used to be. This was no kind of life, and after twenty-nine years of being a Barbie doll he put on display when the mood suited, she was sick of it. Not that Dad would ever understand. He'd think she was nuts. But then, his life hadn't been changed by witnessing one young boy's battle against a disease that didn't care how much money someone had. It'd put life in a whole new perspective for Cassidy and she'd changed hers the day they'd buried poor Franklin. She slid the deposit slip from the bank for the gallery's check from her pants pocket. Her first sale, and now that she'd actually sold a piece of handmade furniture-- without Dad's help or his name attached to it--Cassidy finally had the proof and the resolve to show him she was more than just a pretty face. Dad owed her this lunch, whoever the hell he was "meeting" with. She grabbed her purse and the keys to the Mercedes and left a card with her phone number on the kitchen counter, then decided to let Mr. Rude know he could now clean without having to suffer her presence. She poked her head back into her bedroom to tell him so. That was her first mistake. Mr. Manley Maid was bent over, those green pants stretched tight across the finest backside she'd seen since that last World Cup match she'd attended. So she stared at it. After all, it was there, just begging to be stared at. Staring was her second mistake. "Need something?" He stood up and looked over his shoulder at her, and her third mistake was taking a few nanoseconds too many to take her focus off his backside. When she finally did, it was to find his blue eyes boring into hers. Gorgeous blue eyes. Cerulean, like the sky she'd painted on the bombe chest she'd sold. "Is there something I can do for you, Ms. Davenport?" She ignored the slight sarcasm on the Ms. and instead thanked God she didn't make a fourth mistake and tell him exactly what he could do for her. "I'm going out," she answered calmly, willing herself not to clear her throat to cover her embarrassment. Those Swiss finishing classes came in handy. "There are extra cleaning supplies in the hall linen closet, and if you have any other questions, my cell number is on the kitchen island. Please lock up when you leave." She willed herself to smile warmly and turn slowly, the perfect tilt to her head that said I am in complete control , and walked calmly out her front door. With his gaze boring through her shirt the entire way. *   *   * JESUS, the woman could light a fire in him. Standing there, looking so unbelievably cool, yet so utterly hot in that nude outfit, with her head held high and that lingering glance on his ass . . . He'd wanted to turn around and call her on it, but he hadn't been able to turn around. Let her think he was arrogant--he could be--but in this instance, it'd been all about self-preservation. She'd had him harder than the stupid vacuum cleaner wand he'd been holding and just as thick. Liam threw the wand away in disgust. God, comparing his anatomy to a vacuum cleaner only brought images of suction and that went down a road he had no business--nor interest--in going. Liar. Hell. Yeah, he was lying. He was definitely interested--at least physically. Any other way? Out of the question. But she packed one hell of a punch to his libido, so he'd better keep his guard up. Forget kissing her or he'd be kissing this stupid job goodbye. And in under twenty-four hours, no less. Mac would kill him. Liam sank onto the bed and swiped a hand over his face. He couldn't let Cassidy Davenport get to him. She was everything he hated in a woman: spoiled, pampered, self-entitled, condescending . . . Sexy, gorgeous . . . He exhaled. The physical part had been his downfall with Rachel. He'd been so infatuated with that part of her, that he'd missed the rest--who she really was beneath the gorgeous veneer. It was time to go on a date. Find someone else. Someone new. Someone real . All these months--all eighteen of them--since Rachel, he'd steered clear of women, even for the most basic of his needs. Rachel had done one hell of a number on his heart, his goals, and his judgment. To find out she'd been using him solely for the things he could give her . . . The yippy little dust rag Cassidy Davenport called a dog started imitating a mouse on steroids, dragging Liam back to the present. Christ. Mac hadn't mentioned anything about dog-sitting for this job. He'd ignore the thing, but unlike its owner, the dog wasn't to be blamed for being a spoiled little monster used to having its demands met with the first shrill bark. Liam headed out to see what was wrong. The thing was running circles inside its pen, hopping onto its back legs when he walked up to the enclosure, a rippling bundle of white silk, complete with a stupid little bun on the top of its head, its little pink tongue hanging out as if Liam were carrying a steak. It'd probably expect Chateaubriand. "What do you want?" Liam practically growled when it yipped at him again. He couldn't even call it a dog. Dogs were animals of substance. Man's best friend. Saver of kids who'd fallen into wells. This thing was a feather duster on paws. An animated accessory and he couldn't believe Cassidy Davenport had forgotten to take hers with her. That purse she'd been carrying had been big enough for this little thing. The dog yipped again. "I don't know what you want, dog." The thing ran clockwise around the pen a few times, then stopped, yipped again, and ran the other way a few more times. Liam walked into the kitchen to get it some water. The room looked like a mausoleum. White marble floor and countertops, pristine white cabinets with glass doors, everything lined up inside like a showroom. And of course the dishes were white china rimmed in gold. He wouldn't be surprised if Evian came out of the faucet. He took a bowl of water out to the dog. The thing sniffed once, then ran circles around it. Oh hell. It probably needed to go out. Mac definitely hadn't mentioned dog-walking in his duties. But the other choice was to let it do its business on the floor and that he would have to clean up. No thank you. Besides, he didn't have any issues with the dog. "All right, hold on. Where would she have put your leash?" After some deductive reasoning because he did not want to go searching through her closets and drawers--that peach nightie he'd picked up probably had a matching thong to go with it that he did not need to see--Liam found the leash in the closet in the foyer. It was pink. Not that he'd expect anything else. This dog and its owner screamed pink. He wanted to scream when he saw the leash was covered in rhinestones. Christ, he couldn't get away from the stupid things. What was it with women and sparkly things? He clipped the leash onto the dog's matching pink and rhinestone collar--which matched the pink bow around the silly bun--and headed out of the condo. Just before the front door closed behind him, however, he tossed that stupid pink bow back inside. Bad enough people were going to see him walking this stuffed animal; that ribbon was too much. The building's elevator operator smiled politely as he got in with the dog, but laughter hovered at the corner of the guy's mouth. Liam couldn't blame him. It was funny-- if it was happening to someone else. "I'm assuming you know this dog's name?" he asked the guy. Marco, his name tag read. Marco nodded. "Titania." Figured Cassidy Davenport would name her dog after the queen of the fairies. Nobility and fairy tales. Could be a metaphor for her life. She even lived in a gilded tower. "She likes the patch of grass beneath the dogwood tree," Marco said. "It's to your right out the front door." He probably also knew what Titania ate for breakfast, the last time she'd taken a constitutional, and what designer costume her owner had put her in for Halloween. That was the kind of service buildings like this offered and what people paid millions for. But the guy was making an honest living, so Liam couldn't fault him. Instead, he tucked a few bills into the breast pocket of Marco's uniform as the doors opened into the lobby. "Thanks." Liam patted the pocket. "For the info and for not mentioning this to anyone." He might not have many friends in this part of town, but if word somehow got back that he'd walked a froufrou piece of fluff for some spoiled socialite--on a pink sparkly leash no less--he'd never hear the end of it. Bad enough he was going to take ribbing for being a cleaning lady. Thankfully, Titania took care of business quickly and bobbled back to the building as quickly as her stubby little legs could take her, while Liam could only imagine the laughs the guys monitoring the security cameras must be having over this scenario. Hopefully, the management had a restriction about posting security videos online. He put Titania back in her pen, hung the leash back in the closet, then resumed his job of cleaning Cassidy Davenport's bedroom. The woman was a piece of work. He always straightened up before Sharon came to clean his place. Funny that he was taking over for her here, since she also cleaned his house. Clean ed . Mac was going to have to send someone new over now that Sharon's leave had come earlier than expected because there was no way Liam was going to play maid here then go home and do the same. He swept the dust rag over what he'd guess was a high-priced piece of artwork on the table beside her bed and--shit! A pewter sphere rolled off and under the bed. Liam got on his hands and knees and looked for it. He could just hear the woman now, complaining that he'd broken it, and it'd probably cost more than he'd made all year. There it was, smack under the middle of the bed. He flattened himself on the floor and inched toward it. With his head, shoulders, and practically his entire back under the bed, he finally reached it. Jesus. What size bed was this? It certainly was bigger than his king. What came after king? Monarch? Sovereign? Dictator? Whatever. Liam grabbed the ball and backed out. Except his shoulder snagged on the bed frame. He stopped, not wanting to rip Mac's uniform, then tried to reach back and free the shirt, but there wasn't enough space to maneuver and he wasn't a contortionist who could get his fingers back there. He wiggled a little, shimmying like a snake. Tried rotating his shoulder to see if that would free it. Nope. Christ. Liam lay on the floor, those black, ankle-strapped stilettos directly across from him. Perfect line of sight. He did not need the visual. He headed back toward the middle of the bed and felt his shirt come loose. Shimmying down and over, Liam managed to extricate himself from Cassidy Davenport's bed. He wondered how many men would think him stupid for wanting to. He stood up and something dropped at his feet. A photo and something else. Liam picked them up. The photo was of a woman with a dark-haired little girl on her lap sitting on a beach somewhere, palm trees and a grass hut behind them, buckets and shovels and sandcastles all around. Cassidy Davenport, no doubt. The child had the same smile, and the same brilliant green eyes. He flipped it over. Mother. Martinique. The last vacation. That last bothered him. Obviously Cassidy Davenport had had a mother, but as far as Liam knew, Mitchell Davenport wasn't married. Divorced? Widowed? Was his daughter the result of a love affair? Liam picked up the other thing that had fallen out. A bracelet made of seashells. Cracked, the cord fraying, it was a match to the ones the two in the photo were wearing. Why hide these under the bed? Or had she lost them? Would she be glad that he'd found them? Or upset? He had no idea and he didn't want to give Cassidy any reason to complain to Mac about the service, so he knelt down and felt around for where they'd come from. Out of sight, out of mind. But that word wasn't out of his mind. Last . And the four other words with it: concise, stark. Practically devoid of emotion. Liam tucked them away and stood up. Those words--that picture--were too real. Too raw. Too honest. He didn't want to see Cassidy Davenport like that. It would make her too human. Chapter Three CASSIDY'S father's pitiful grab for youth had only gotten worse since he'd turned the dreaded six-oh. It was as if he knew the date of his impending death and was determined to do everything on his Bucket List. Three times. Including any bimbo he could entice into the back of his Rolls. It was utterly sad how many of those women there were. Case in point: the one leaving his office now, trying desperately to cover up the fact that her blouse was mis-buttoned. Cassidy just rolled her eyes at the chick who couldn't be older than she was. Why these supposedly smart women with great degrees and good jobs opted for sleeping their way up the corporate ladder was beyond her. Didn't they have any self-respect? "Thank you, Mr. Davenport, for your time." The poor thing was actually trying to make it look as if the sales call had gone as planned. Or maybe a quickie on his desk had been her objective all along. Cassidy could tell her it was futile. That the blondes came and went--she coughed to cover the inappropriateness of that thought--at regular intervals. Her father was a dog, which made the media's moniker of Hound From Hell for him so very apt. He was tenacious, and once he'd set his sights on a project, watch out anyone who got in his way. Mother had been his first victim. Or, at least, the first one Cassidy was aware of. And that'd been over for twenty-five years. "He'll see you now, Cassidy," Deborah said after touching her earpiece. Poor Deborah. Mitchell had her on an electronic leash, able to reach her at any time or anywhere by buzzing in her ear. Did she ever take it out? Like in the bathroom or when she went home to her husband? Cassidy just hoped her father paid the woman what she was worth, but doubted it. He hadn't gotten where he was today by being generous. Everything had a price, according to him. Including his daughter's obedience. She stood up and smoothed the linen pants. Funny that her father hated if she showed up wrinkled yet the woman who'd just left his office had looked like something someone had left in the washer a few days too long. Ah well. Not her problem. For much longer anyway. She took a deep breath before pushing open the door to Dad's office. Thankfully the girl hadn't latched it; Cassidy was loathe to touch anything in the office for fear of what DNA might be lingering and from whom. "Hello, Cassidy." Dad did his usual throw-his-arms-open-wide, politician-style hug as he walked out of the full-sized bathroom he'd had custom-designed for his office. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" The word pleasure coming from him made her shudder. "Lunch? Remember, we have a date?" "Ah . . ." He looked at his desktop calendar and tapped it. "Yes. I see it right there. Lunch with my daughter." His smile was indulgent, but it set Cassidy's teeth on edge. He still thought of her as a malleable sixteen-year-old, kept in line by the promise of a cool car and credit card privileges. God, she'd been so shallow. So easy. "So where would you like to go? Chinese? Thai? Indian? Italian?" "It doesn't matter to me, Dad." She wouldn't be able to eat anyway. She'd been psyching herself up for this conversation for almost a year. Now it was finally time to have it. "All right, then. How about Padraic's? It's been a while since I was there." That's because, to her father, Padraic's was "slumming it." Which showed her the importance he put on this luncheon. One more reason for her to go through with it. "Actually, you know what? I would like to go to La Maison. It's my favorite." Until the words came out, she'd had no idea she was going to contradict him. Dad was just as surprised that she was finally getting a backbone. At twenty-nine, it was about time. No, she wasn't going to dwell on that. She wasn't exactly proud of herself for playing into his world order. Most people were sucked in; it was hard not to be when the charismatic Mitchell Davenport put his plans in action. It'd made him a good businessman but a shitty father. And she, who'd been starved for some sort of parental affection after Mom had walked out, had chosen to ignore the fact that she was living a sycophantic lifestyle. But no more. He wasn't going to like what she had to say. He also didn't like her lunch suggestion--his left eyebrow was arched almost into his hairline. As a kid, she'd dreaded that eyebrow. Disappointment, anger, disinterest . . . it was all there. And had been for way too long. She had a feeling there was going to be a lot of eyebrow arching in the next hour. He punched a button on his phone. "Deborah, have Paxton bring the Rolls around." He smiled his business smile when he disconnected the call. "I'm guessing this is a special lunch today?" Hence the Rolls. Cassidy would have preferred anything but the Rolls. He took his "meetings" in that car. But she'd give him this one; he was going to have a lot more to deal with than her unwillingness to ride in his love-mobile. But he had to see, once she explained it, that this was what she was meant to do. She could only be an ornament for so long; she needed a purpose in her life. She needed to do something. Her artwork was good. Someone had paid real money for it--someone who hadn't known who she was. The feeling of getting by on her talent, her efforts . . . It was heady. It opened the door to all sorts of possibilities, not the least of which was her own career and her own place. One she would be able to afford on her earnings instead of the monthly allowance Dad liked to call her salary. But she wasn't sixteen anymore; she knew exactly what that money was. It was a way to keep her in line and make his life easy. It was also the physical embodiment of her marking time. Franklin's death had shown her how little time anyone could have. He'd left behind a legacy; what did she have to speak for her? The byline on the programs and agendas she put together for her father and the photos in the society pages weren't enough for her. Not anymore. Dad had to understand it. He'd made a name for himself; was it so wrong that she'd want to do the same? He was solicitous on the ride to the restaurant, holding the door for her, offering her a glass of wine in the car. Noon was a little too early for her to start drinking, though with what she was going to tell him, maybe she ought to get him liquored up. The doorman opened the car door when Paxton pulled up to the restaurant's porte cochere . "Good afternoon, Miss Davenport." "Hello, Dennings." She'd grown up calling those in the service industry by their last name, but it'd never felt right or comfortable to her. But if she didn't, Dad would start in on an embarrassing cringe-worthy "lesson" of how to comport herself. He was really not going to like what she had to tell him. Fifteen minutes later, after the pleasantries had been discussed and their orders delivered, Cassidy took a fortifying sip of the wine she'd caved in and ordered, set it down, folded her hands in her lap--so he wouldn't see her wringing them--and took a deep breath. "Dad." "Yes, Princess." She tried to keep the cringe off her face. She'd hated that nickname when she'd heard every one of her friends called the same thing by their wealthy never-home-and-typically-divorced fathers. Just once, she'd wanted him to come up with a new one. One that meant something. But after twenty-nine years, she was finally reaching for her own happiness and her own self-esteem and not relying on him to come through for her. It'd been a lesson she'd learned the hard way. "I did something that I'm very proud of." "Oh?" He signaled to the waiter to refill her wine. She ground her teeth. He might as well just pat her on the head and give her a lollipop. Her nails bit into her palm. "I sold my first piece of art." Dad set his fork down and for the first time since she'd seen him today, he actually looked at her. "You did what?" "I've been collecting old pieces of furniture, painting them, and selling them." "You sell furniture?" "No, Dad. It's art. I refinish old furniture and turn them into collectibles." "Where?" "Where do I paint them?" "No. Where are you selling them?" "At Marseault's Gallery. On commission." "What name are you using?" Of course. He was worried about his reputation. "Don't worry. Not Davenport. I'm using C. Marie." There went that damn eyebrow again. "Your full name has been published often enough in the papers, Cassidy." "Which is why I didn't use it. No one's going to know that C. Marie is Cassidy Marie Davenport." "Does the gallery owner?" "Well, yes, of course, but--" "No buts, Cassidy. The owner knows. Do you think he's going to miss out on the opportunity to cash in on my name? That little immigrant came to this country to make his fortune and you handed him the perfect opportunity. My God, how short-sighted can you be? After all the years I've put into building my name, now you've gone and ruined it with some paint-by-numbers hobby." "It's not a hobby!" The diners around them stopped talking and stared because of her raised voice--a bigger sin than her "hobby" if Dad's reaction was anything to go by, but Cassidy didn't care. A hobby ? How dare he! She'd worked her heart out on the pieces she'd finished and had almost a dozen more in the works, squeezing in time between his "engagements" where she was supposed to show up looking elegant and glamorous, the perfect Davenport, all so he could say his properties were as beautiful as his daughter. She'd always found the pitch tacky, but now . . . "Who bought the piece?" Mitchell dabbed at his mouth with the linen napkin, then tossed it onto the table and grabbed his phone. One punch and poor Deborah was again summoned. "I want you to find a piece of furniture. No Deborah, listen. It belongs to a--" The damn eyebrow went north as he glared at her. "I don't know." And she didn't. Jean-Pierre, the gallery owner, hadn't told her who'd bought the piece, just that it'd been sold. "That's not helpful. Nor professional." He shook his head. "No, Deborah, not you. I want you to track down the owner of the Marseault's Gallery and buy back a piece sold by C. Marie. Yes, that's right, you heard me. C. Marie, not Cassidy Davenport. And I don't care what the price is; you buy it back." He turned off the phone, picked up his napkin and placed it back in his lap, picking up his fork and spearing one of his snails as if he hadn't just completely dismissed Cassidy's life dream. "Now that that unpleasantness is out of the way, what did you want to talk to me about?" She ought to throw her fork across the table and storm out, but Cassidy was so sick at heart at her father's callous disregard for her feelings and dreams she couldn't summon the energy. Plus, he and the headmistress of her boarding school had ingrained proper behavior into her so much that she wouldn't dare create a scene-- "Is it about this evening? I know Burton had to attend the ground-breaking ceremony in Charleston, but he has the helicopter. He'll make it in time to escort you. I guarantee it." The gala. Another one. Number forty-two for the year. She knew because she'd just donated forty-one dresses to a local auction to raise funds for underprivileged children. It's what she did with all her dresses. Dad had pitched a fit over her giving away designer clothing until the publicity had started rolling in, extolling her generosity and giving the Davenport name kudos left and right. Now it was a matter of pride for him that her wardrobe constituted the majority of the donations. "I'm not worried about Burton not making it." Because, God knew--and so did Mitchell--that nothing would keep Burton Carstairs from making it to one of her father's command performances with the boss's daughter on his arm. "But, Dad, about my art. You can't just buy it back. What'll that say about me? Jean-Pierre will never sell any of my pieces again if he thinks you're going to hunt down the buyer. It won't look good for his gallery--" "You're assuming I care about this man's gallery. I don't, Cassidy." He examined the snail he'd pulled from the shell as if it were more important than a conversation about her life. "He's a businessman and he should have thought things through. At the very least, a phone call to me as a professional courtesy would have been in order. But he didn't make that call, so this is the price of doing business his way. I protect my name at all costs." "But it's not your name; it's mine." "Last I looked, my name is on your birth certificate. Therefore, it is my concern." He popped the snail into his mouth as if that was the end of the conversation. Cassidy almost gave in. She'd had too many dealings with him in the past to think he'd ever go along with it now. But if she didn't fight now, for herself and what she wanted out of life, when would she? She had proof that this wasn't some fly-by-night career choice. She had talent and there was a market for it. If she dropped the ball now, she'd have an even harder time getting the chance to pick it up again because her name would be sullied by Dad's little clean-up act. She leaned forward, gripping her fork as if it were a lifeline. "Dad, look. I didn't use Davenport on purpose. I didn't want it to affect you if things didn't go well." She crossed the fingers on her other hand resting in her lap. That wasn't why she hadn't used her last name, but she'd let him think so to show him she was still on his "team." Dad had a thing about loyalty and her going out on her own would challenge it. "But things have gone well. And I don't have to use my last name. That's the beauty of this. I did it on my own. Jean-Pierre thought enough of my talent to take on my pieces, and someone else thought enough of it to buy it. I can have a career at this, I know I can." "You already have a career, Cassidy. You don't have time for both." She bit back her retort that wearing designer gowns and schmoozing his business associates only constituted a career if she worked for a call girl service. Because honestly, that's pretty much what she'd felt like ever since she'd met Franklin. Her life had been so shallow compared to what she'd learned in the short time she'd known him. It was the connections, the honesty, the relationships between people, that gave life meaning. Mitchell Davenport used people for his own gain. And that was fine for him; his dream had been to make it big in his industry and he'd accomplished that. But it wasn't her dream and now that she finally had one, he couldn't pooh-pooh her for it. "But I do have time for both, Dad. I managed to finish the piece and more, and find a gallery all while working for your company." "Then why are we having this discussion? Why bother telling me at all?" Excerpted from What a Woman Gets by Judi Fennell All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.