Mr. Hyde’s Assets Read online

  Damn Jack for getting him into this mess in the first place!

  ———

  In the safe haven of her designated workroom on the second floor of the Vanausdale mansion, Candice blew the dust from the miniature ottoman and set the sandpaper aside. A little varnish, she mused, and it would be finished. With a nervous mixture of guilt and pride, she placed the carved oak ottoman inside the doll-house in front of the matching chair she’d made last week. She ran a finger over the upholstery on the chair and along the smooth varnished wood the ottoman would soon match.

  A fifty-fifty chance she’d have a girl. And if she didn’t… Candice shrugged. No reason a boy couldn’t enjoy a dollhouse. The sex of her child mattered little to her; a healthy baby was all she wanted.

  Staring at the two-story dollhouse she’d painstakingly created over the past year, she struggled to forget Howards reaction to her artistic efforts.

  It was no use.

  Each time she completed a new piece of furniture, Howard’s scornful laughter would mock her. Why waste your time on this silly handmade stuff when we can buy the best? Our baby will have everything money can buy.

  Ugly, relentless memories time had not faded. She wanted to forget, tried to, but she couldn’t shake the fear that at any moment her condescending late husband would pop up and ridicule her heartfelt handiwork.

  Steeped in her dark thoughts, Candice jumped as the housekeeper slid a tray onto the desk. She hadn’t heard Mrs. Merryweather approach, although she’d left the door open, comfortable with the fact that she and the other woman were alone in the enormous house.

  “Here’s your lunch. Just what you’ve been cravin’, spinach salad with crumbled bacon and chopped egg.”

  Candice rubbed her hands in appreciation. “Thank you, Mrs. Merryweather. I’m starved.”

  “Well, you’re lucky. I couldn’t keep anything down for the first six months with all three of my young’uns.” She gave a rueful shake of her head. “Guess that should’ve been a warning of how much trouble they were going to be.”

  “I do get queasy when I smell coffee.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “And certain perfumes or colognes.”

  “Nothing strange about that. Now, when you start cravin’ dirt, we’ll worry.” The housekeeper laughed and moved to the window to pull aside the curtains.

  Candice hadn’t realized the noonday sun had passed over and the room had grown dark, she’d been so engrossed in her work. She stretched and rubbed the grit from her eyes. “Aren’t you going to join me for lunch?”

  Mrs. Merryweather plopped her hands on her ample hips and shook her head, her admiring eyes on the gleaming white dollhouse trimmed in bright red. “Already eaten, thank you. I’ve made lemonade and a fresh batch of cookies, in case those men are hungry.” She peered into the house, exclaiming over a tiny braided rug in front of the fireplace. “Ooh, look at that!”

  Candice followed her pointing finger, flushing at her admiring tone. She couldn’t get used to hearing praise instead of scorn. “I made it yesterday.”

  “Why, it looks so real!”

  Candice ducked her head to hide the silly tears that sprang to her eyes. She cried at the drop of a hat these days. “Thanks. What time is it?”

  Mrs. Merryweather straightened the rug and carefully dusted the furniture with a single feather she had pulled from the duster in her hand, a comical look of concentration on her face. Candice smiled, thinking she wouldn’t have to worry about dust in the dollhouse as long as the housekeeper lived and breathed.

  “Time for the applicants to start arriving. Are you sure you don’t want to sit in on the interviews?” Her light brown eyes regarded Candice through the miniature kitchen as she rehung a tiny copper pot that had fallen from its hook.

  Folding her napkin in her lap, Candice picked up her fork and speared a piece of egg. “I’m sure. I’m especially sure you know more about hiring a handyman than I do. Howard… Howard always took care of those things.” She frowned into her salad, adding a piece of fresh spinach to the fork. It didn’t mean that she wasn’t capable, of course, just that she wasn’t comfortable.

  “We’ve got to be careful who we hire, you know. They could be spies for them, or from the tabloids.”

  Just what she needed—one of the enemy in her camp. Candice shuddered at the thought of her ruthless in-laws succeeding in getting someone inside, the bite of food in danger of sticking in her throat. She swallowed hard. “Maybe we should have the FBI run a check on anyone we consider for the job.”

  Tiny copper pots clanged together as Mrs. Merryweather removed her hand and looked at her sharply over the roof. “I’m serious. And it wouldn’t hurt to ask if they’ve had any experience in bodyguarding, either.”

  “That would be a bonus,” Candice said wryly. Although she couldn’t imagine anyone that versatile. What she really needed was a handyman who knew something about everything and was also talented enough to help her finish the nursery. Really, Mrs. Merryweather wasn’t thinking rationally. Such a man, at a price they could afford, likely didn’t even exist.

  Although the sign painter she’d seen at the clinic might have come close, she mused. He’d certainly looked very capable, and he was a talented painter, as well. Maybe she should ask Dr. Jack about him.

  The housekeeper ran her feather duster lightly over the dollhouse roof, pausing to pat a tiny shingle into place. “I’ll look for brawn and brains—and I’ll make sure he can look me in the eye. A man who can’t do that has something to hide.” Mrs. Merryweather cocked her head. “How on earth did you make these tiny bricks for the chimney?”

  “With clay,” Candice answered absently. She crunched on a bread stick, thinking about the sign painter. He’d had no trouble looking her in the eye—and other places, as well. Howard had sometimes looked at her with that kind of intensity, but only when scanning for flaws in her makeup, a loose button, anything that hinted at imperfection. The painter had looked at her as if… as if he liked what he saw. Her face warmed at the memory.

  Sharply, she reminded herself of the lawsuit pending against her. Howard’s relatives, determined to take every dime, were slandering her name, digging into her past. And they seemed to have a way of knowing her every move practically before she made it. Scandal was something she must avoid at all costs.

  So she had to stop thinking of the painter, she decided firmly. She wasn’t an innocent young girl any longer, dazzled by wealth and social standing; nor was she so naive a handsome flirt could turn her head. She was a mother-to-be with the hounds of hell—the media and Howard’s relatives—at her heels.

  ———

  “Lady, you’re gonna have my baby.”

  Austin frowned at the closed door and shook his head. No, that wasn’t it. “Mrs. Vanausdale, I know this will come as a shock to you—maybe you should sit down.”

  He chewed his inner lip. Hell. “Lady, Jack Cruise has done something very foolish…”

  Damn.

  “But I think we should have him committed, rather than sent to prison…”

  No, that wouldn’t work either, because he couldn’t—wouldn’t—place more innocent people, even institutionalized ones, in Jack’s path.

  He lifted a fist to pound on the door, but it opened before his knuckles connected. A brawny, wide-shouldered man who stood a good three inches taller than his own six feet faced him. Austin’s jaw dropped as he stared at the close-cropped hair and dangling earring. His eyebrows collided. What the hell?

  The man nodded curtly and shouldered past him, striding down the walk. Austin turned his head to follow the lumbering form, his imagination soaring. Well, Mr. Vanausdale might be dead, but it was for certain Mrs. Vanausdale wasn’t!

  As if he wasn’t shocked enough, he turned back just in time to nearly collide with another macho man, this one sporting a garish orange muscle shirt and tattoos on both arms. Austin stepped out of his way. At least this one wasn’t wearing an earring, he thought wi
th a grumble.

  Well, none of this was any of his business.

  Wait. Yes, it was. She was carrying his child, dammit. Hadn’t he read somewhere that too much athletic sex wasn’t healthy for the baby? Yes, he was positive—

  “If you’ll come right this way, we’ll get started.”

  Austin snapped his head around, staring down at the short, gray-haired woman in the doorway with absolute amazement. Her face was pleasantly seamed with laugh lines, and she looked him over in a way that made Austin think of the time Jack had sat for days using a magnifying glass to watch mold grow on a piece of bread.

  Who was this? The maid? With a house this size, Austin figured there had to be a maid. Probably several. His own mother had employed so many he was constantly tripping over them.

  And Mrs. Vanausdale might be a looker, but with her kind of money, he doubted she even had to flush a toilet.

  Shaking his head, Austin focused on the older woman’s interested gaze. When might she finish her inspection? And just what qualities did she inspect Mrs. Vanausdales male visitors for? He didn’t know what was going on, but, by God, he was going to put a stop to it. For now, though, he would play it cool to ensure he got inside.

  “I’m here to see Mrs. Vanausdale.” There, he didn’t actually growl. Under the circumstances, she was lucky he wasn’t shouting.

  The door opened wider. “Well, you have to please me first, young man. I’m holding the interviews in the den.”

  Austin choked, fearing his eyes would pop from his head. “I—I’m here to see Mrs. Vanausdale,” he repeated hoarsely. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to meet her any longer. Hell, maybe he should just forget about it, pretend Jack hadn’t told him what he had, and—

  “Do you have a prison record?”

  “No!” Austin answered before he could catch himself. What the hell kind of question was that, anyway? He frowned, but the woman didn’t appear intimidated in the least. In fact, she beamed at him.

  “Well, then, your chances are good, because you’re the first man today who doesn’t have a record. Follow me, and I’ll get you something cool to drink while we talk.” She turned and led the way down the hall.

  He followed, wondering if there was the slightest possibility he could be dreaming all this.

  The gray-haired woman waved her arm to the right. “Go on in there—I’ll be along with a nice glass of lemonade.”

  Austin hesitated, glancing at the door. Should he simply leave? Pretend none of this had ever happened?

  She returned before he could decide, thrusting a tall glass into his hand. Ice clinked, and lemonade sloshed precariously to the rim. “There you go. You look thirsty. I’ll bet you’re a hard worker, aren’t you?” She winked at him. “I can tell—you’re sweating. And hard workers are thirsty people. There, have a seat, and let’s get down to business.”

  Austin moved into the spacious den, his gaze quickly assessing the furnishings. Not bad, not too flashy. But then, maybe Mrs. Vanausdale had decorated with sweaty, muscular bodies in mind… He avoided the sofa and sat in a chair, finding his thoughts too wild to contemplate and his legs too shaky to support him. He’d stay for a moment, just long enough to confirm what he thought was going on. Then he’d leave and forget about this having-his-baby business.

  In about six months he’d place an anonymous call to Social Services so they could check on the newborn’s home environment.

  The gray-haired woman settled into a chair across from his and sighed. “I’m Mrs. Merryweather, the housekeeper. We’re looking for someone who’s got stamina and ain’t afraid of hard work. We’re willing to pay well but not outrageously, you understand. You’re welcome to use the apartment over the garage, but you’ll have to feed yourself. No benefits, standard holidays, two weeks vacation unless she needs you to—”

  “Excuse me.”

  Mrs. Merryweather blinked. “Yes?”

  “Could I speak with Mrs. Vanausdale? I’ve have something to discuss with her.” He was amazed at his pleasant tone; it was in direct contradiction to the nasty taste in his mouth.

  Mrs. Merryweather blinked again, this time in rapid succession. “So you’re not interested in the handyman job?” Her expression fell. “And I was hoping… you look intelligent, and she might be needing a bodyguard, too. I know it’s a bit much to ask of one man, but she’s easy to work for, and—”

  “Bodyguard?” Austin leaned forward, instantly alert. Swiftly, he sorted through her earlier words. Obviously he was way off the mark about what those brutes were doing here. The housekeeper was interviewing for a handyman—and a bodyguard? “Has Mrs. Vanausdale been threatened?” he asked sharply. The possibility alarmed him, which in turn surprised him. But, hell, she was carrying his child. His child might be in danger!

  He thought he detected a gleam in the housekeeper’s eyes. Just what he needed, another insane do-gooder like Jack.

  “Well; not exactly, but there have been a few calls—” When Austin opened his mouth, she rushed on in a hushed whisper, “I haven’t mentioned them to her because of her condition, you know. Mrs. Dale—that’s what the staff calls her—is expecting.” Her face screwed together in genuine concern. “I don’t like to worry her.”

  Austin rubbed his jaw, stifling the urge to laugh at all the ironies of his situation. If he released the laughter, this woman would surely detect the madness in the sound and send him on his way.

  Carefully, he set his glass down on the coffee table and prepared his answer. He hoped he wouldn’t regret his decision.

  But he suspected he would.

  Chapter Three

  It was him!

  Candice stood at the patio doors leading from her bedroom to the pool area, a tiny corner of the heavy drapes pushed aside so she could watch the man cleaning the pool. She’d done these little spying missions a hundred times over the past three days since she first saw the new handyman Mrs. Merryweather had hired.

  No doubt about it, he was the sign painter from the clinic, the very one she had wondered about when considering the perfect handyman. He had gallantly saved her from that pesky reporter, and he certainly painted a good sign. Still, her reaction had been alarm. What was he doing here? Why would a painter apply for the job of handyman? It chilled her to think he might have followed her home…

  But he had to have seen the ad in the paper, or he wouldn’t have known about the job, she reasoned. Yet, it was still a strange coincidence. He was either legitimately looking for work, or he was up to something.

  Candice intended to find out which, but without tipping her hand. Thus the surreptitious spying.

  She chewed her lower lip, watching his muscles ripple and bulge as he clumsily swung the net into the water and raked it across the surface. Sweat gleamed on his bronze skin—a lot of skin revealed by cutoff jeans, frayed and worn in several disturbing places, and no shirt.

  Didn’t the man own any shirts? she wondered, frowning. Howard would not have allowed an employee to stalk around half-naked, no matter how hot the weather. Especially if he thought she might bump into him.

  Howard would… Candice tightened her fingers on the curtain, clenching her teeth and squeezing her eyes tightly shut. No, she wouldn’t go there, wouldn’t think about Howard.

  Gradually, the tension eased. She took a deep, relieved breath—and felt ashamed, as always. Howard wasn’t here, would never be again. She needn’t worry what he would say or think or do. Her life was finally her own—or it would be when this nasty business over the will was finished.

  Lifting her chin, Candice continued her “stakeout,” as she called it in her mind. She would find out what the painter was up to sooner or later. Too bad she wasn’t confident enough to approach him and just ask him why he’d applied for the job.

  Not yet, anyway. In the year since Howards death, she’d managed to break many old habits—habits he’d drilled into her—but talking to strangers wasn’t one of them.

  “Nice-looking young man, don’t you t
hink?”

  Candice gasped and whirled, the curtain fluttering from her fingers. She met Mrs. Merryweather’s knowing gaze with acute dismay. What must the housekeeper think? To catch her watching the handyman… “I was just—just checking on his progress,” she breathed, doubting the shrewd housekeeper would swallow her lame excuse.

  Mrs. Merryweather bustled to the king-size Queen Anne bed in the center of the master bedroom and set a stack of freshly laundered sheets on the chair next to it. She brushed the wrinkles from her apron and nodded at the window. “He doesn’t know much about cleaning the pool.”

  “Or trimming hedges,” Candice added dryly, relaxing as she realized the housekeeper didn’t intend to comment on her unseemly behavior. She pictured the poor mangled hedges that graced the circular drive, biting back a smile. Well, it was funny, when she thought about it.

  At the beginning of the attack on Howard’s will by his relatives, the judge had frozen Howard’s assets until the matter was settled. Left with no choice, Candice had reluctantly released the household staff, with the exception of Mrs. Merryweather.

  But, the two women had soon come to the dismal conclusion that they couldn’t do everything themselves—they would have to hire someone. They had put their heads together and come up with the brilliant plan of hiring a handyman, someone who knew a little about everything.

  So far, their plan had backfired.

  Mrs. Merryweather shook her head of graying, tightly permed curls and began stripping Candice’s bed. “I have to agree with you there. Did you see those hedges when he finished? Looked like something straight out of The Shining. I swear, I think I saw an elephant and an ostrich. He might not know how to trim, but he knows how to shape.”

  “That’s because he’s a painter.” Candice could have kicked herself the moment the words were out. She hadn’t meant to spill the beans because she didn’t want to answer questions. Too late.

  Mrs. Merryweather shook a pillow into a clean pillowcase and propped it on the bed, her sharp gaze on her. “You know him?”