Chapter 2
At the peal of the doorbell, Remington strode towards the front door, his mood most foul. It was bad enough, in his opinion, to find him suddenly thrust into the most subservient of roles… even worse to discover Laura's disdain for the Wellington family was well placed. From what he'd observed, experienced, thus far, the lot of them were just this side of degenerates. Already, Harold had made inferences about the possible state of his future health…
"Welcome aboard, pal. Here's hoping that you're a better swimmer than Hastings."
Next, his room had been ransacked… a fact he'd discovered in the seconds before he'd taken a blow to the back of his head, rendering him unconscious. Unfortunately, this was not an uncommon occurrence when investigating a case – he knocked out by a murderous fiend – but in this instance, it raised questions about their own clients when Maria, the maid, revealed her association with the murdered Hastings and made him, Remington, an offer she hoped he couldn't refuse.
"Oh, Mr. Steele, you must help me. Please, I will do anything you want."
That the woman was plastered, bodily, to him at the time of the offer made it clear precisely what it was she was willing to do.
Then there were the reminders, twice now, from their clients that the Agency needed to hurry the investigation along as funds were limited.
Yes, a black mood indeed, when that doorbell rung, only for him to swing the door open to find Laura and Mildred standing before him.
Oh, my.
As attractive as she found her Mr. Steele on any given day, her blood never failed to simmer when he was clad in a tux. Who'd have thought that same simmer would turn to a full-blown boil when she saw him garbed as he was now.
The truth was, she'd lied. Alright, had outright lied. She'd never in her life indulged in fantasies about a butler as she'd told him. When it came to fantasies strictly about him, well, those all tended to be inspired by the man, himself. The fire eater and the aerialist. Mmmm… that had played out well. Her stewardess to his snobbish customer. Not one she was likely to forget. His Richard Blaine to her Ilsa Lund? Well, she was fairly itching for him to suggest it.
But a butler. Never. Until now. Let those fantasies commence! her hormones screamed.
She blinked, hard, then her eyes rounded at the glare he bestowed upon her.
Oops. It would appear someone's temper was in need of soothing. Well, she'd take care of that when they found time alone. In the meantime, a girl's got to have her fun. Right? After all, how many times had the shoe been on the other foot, and he'd amused himself at her expense? With that thought in mind, she raised a haughty brow at him.
"Laura Giles of West Coast Living magazine," she announced herself, in a snooty tone which would rival that of Mrs. Wellington.
"Milded Krebs, photographer's assistant," Mildred added.
"We're expected," Laura continued in that imperious voice.
Okay, so, perhaps Mildred's order…
"Don't forget the luggage!"
…delivered in the manner it had been, was one insult too many for his fragile temper. And it wasn't beyond her to get in her digs when she could after being put in a situation she found intolerable.
"Oh, Mr. Steele, what a hairy chest you have. So macho, so manly."
She'd enjoyed his discomfort, then, so could she really blame him when he swung a suitcase into her bottom, now, making her jump? She peered at him over her shoulder, and when they reached her room, she simply couldn't help herself.
"Right there will be fine," she directed, stabbing a finger at an area of the floor where he could deposit her luggage. He'd done as directed, then had made a point to toss camera bags, overnight bag and tripod on her bed, his message clear: Do with it what you will.
She'd hoped for a few minutes alone with him, to lift his sagging spirits, but alas, it wasn't to be. Mildred had walked in, and a discussion of the case at hand had taken priority, after which he'd taken his leave to return to his duties. Her eyes followed him from the room.
Soon, she promised herself, Very, very soon.