The Scandal (Billionaire's Beach Book 4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,2

startling Sara. Her foot slid off the brake and the car glided into the heavy duty fortress-styled gate with a discreet but definite thunk.

The sole of her shoe returned to the pedal—too late—as a male voice cursed. Sara jumped again, but this time had the presence of mind to put the car into Park then turn it off altogether. She reached for the door handle just as a broad, long-fingered hand snaked inside the window to do the deed.

The door swung open and by instinct she cringed, leaning toward the passenger seat as a man—presumably the one who’d knocked on the car’s roof—bent to peer at her. “Are you okay?”

She didn’t see a camera. Just a dark-haired male figure in jeans and a dress shirt with the tails out, sleeves rolled up to expose powerful, veined forearms dusted with black hair. Weird, how attractive Sara suddenly found those forearms. It took effort to yank her gaze to his face. A chiseled jaw, firm mouth, straight masculine nose. The rest was covered by aviator-style sunglasses with mirrored lenses. Looking in the direction of his eyes meant gazing upon two images of herself, mostly cap brim and lips.

“Are you okay?” he repeated, his tone more brusque now, which reminded her he might not be.

Who was he? “How did you get here?”

Still half-bent, he glanced over the top of her sedan. “Car.”

Following the direction of his gaze, she saw it now, most of it screened by the lush-growing oleanders on the other side of the driveway. “Oh. Did you…did you break down?” She reached into her purse to locate her cell phone. “We can call a tow.”

“I didn’t break down,” the stranger said. “I couldn’t get in.”

“Get in?”

“You must have changed the passcode.”

“Oh.” Uh-oh. Sara moistened her lips, hoping, hoping this wasn’t going where she thought it was going.

“You are Sara…Sara Butler, right?”

“Um, almost.” Then her training kicked in, even as embarrassment at the awkward meet twined with resentment—because her privacy was now compromised—coursed through her. She punched the release on her seatbelt and climbed from the car. The man moved back to give her space. He was over six feet tall, broad-shouldered and muscular.

She pinned her gaze on a neutral spot near his Adam’s apple and stood straight before him. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Sara Smythe. The butler. And you’re…”

The master, a mischievous voice said in her head, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Emmaline’s. He’s your master.

Sara’s face burned hot. Get your mind out of the gutter, the voice continued, a suppressed laugh in its tone. I meant, he’s the master of your house.

With a silent gnash of her teeth, Sara ignored the Emmaline-in-her-head and reached out her hand. His grasped it, their palms touching, his fingers closing around hers.

“I’m Joaquin Weatherford.”

“Yes. Mr. Weatherford.” Sara pulled her hand away and hoped the jerky movement didn’t betray the urgency she felt about getting free of him. But from their point of contact a bolt of sensation had shot its way up her arm and was now tumbling down her spine. It seemed like a warning. “It’s nice to meet you, sir,” she said, to mitigate any residual rudeness from her hasty de-coupling. Memory reminded her that the estate’s owner was indeed one “J. Weatherford.”

“Thank you. And nice to meet you…the, uh, butler.” He shook his head, then turned and paced toward the front bumper of her car to inspect the place where it had met his front gate. “You’re not American?”

Behind his back, Sara made a face. People here thought she had an accent. People in England thought she had an accent. “Half. I grew up sometimes here and sometimes in the U.K.”

Without glancing at her, he gestured toward the driver’s side with his hand. “Looks like you’re not hung up. Just put your car in reverse and back up a little.”

Sara did as instructed, then popped out of her seat again. Her bumper appeared mildly scuffed, the gate just fine. She blew out a relieved sigh and stroked the wooden surface. “Don’t worry,” she reassured it. “Not even a scratch.”

Then she felt eyes on her and realized Mr. Weatherford was staring, his eyebrows arched over those aviators. Okay, her action probably seemed odd. Her cheeks heated, and she thought maybe she could convince him that talking to a house, well, the entrance to a house, wasn’t weird, but a Brit thing. A Brit butler thing.

To cement the idea, she turned to him and pinned on her best staff smile,