Playboy Bachelors. Marie Ferrarella

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СКАЧАТЬ he decided.

      Planting the opened can of flat soda he’d discovered sitting in the back of his all-but-barren refrigerator on the first space he unearthed by his computer, Philippe flipped on the radio that resided on the bookcase beside his desk. Classical music filled the air as he sat down and got to work. Within seconds, he was enmeshed in programming language and completely oblivious to such things as time and space and earthly surroundings.

      During the course of the day, when his brain begged for a break and his stomach upbraided him for abuse, Philippe made his way to the kitchen to forage for food. Lunch had consisted of pretzels, made slightly soggy by being left out overnight. Dinner had been more of the same with a handful of assorted nuts downed as a chaser. But the food hardly mattered.

      It was his work that was important and it was progressing well. He’d gotten further along on the new software than he’d expected and that always gave him a sense of satisfaction, as did the fact that he handled everything by himself. He created the programs, designed the artwork and developed the tutorial and self-help features, something that was taking on more and more importance with each software package he created.

      With a heartfelt sigh, Philippe closed down his computer. Rising to his feet, he went to the kitchen to get himself the last bottle of beer to celebrate a very productive, if exhausting, day.

      He had just opened the refrigerator door to see if perhaps he’d missed something edible in his prior forages when he heard the doorbell. Releasing the refrigerator door again, he glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock. Both his brothers and his friends knew that he generally knocked off around seven. One of them had obviously decided to visit.

      Good, he could use a little company right about now. Maybe he and whoever was at his door could go out for a bite to eat.

      His stomach rumbled again.

      Several bites, Philippe amended, striding toward the door.

      “Hi,” he said cheerfully as he swung open the door.

      It took him less than half a second to realize he’d just uttered the greeting to a complete stranger. A very attractive complete stranger wearing a blue pullover sweater and a pair of light-colored faded jeans that adhered in such a way as to drive the stock of jeans everywhere sky-high. The blonde was holding the hand of a little girl who, for all intents and purposes, was an exact miniature of her.

      Like the woman whose hand she was holding, the little girl was slight and petite and very, very blond. He guessed that she had to be about five or so, although he was on shaky ground when it came to anything to do with kids.

      Philippe looked back to the woman with the heart-shaped face. He had to clear his throat before he asked, “Can I help you?”

      Eyes the color of cornflowers in bloom washed over him slowly, as if she was taking his measure. It was then that he remembered he was barefoot and wearing the first T-shirt he’d laid his eyes on this morning, the one that had shrunk in the wash. And that when he worked, he had a habit of running his hands through his hair, making it pretty unruly by the end of the day. That, along with his day-old stubble and worn clothes probably made him look one step removed from a homeless person.

      Philippe glanced at the little girl. Rather than look frightened, she was grinning up at him. But the woman holding her hand appeared somewhat skeptical as she continued to regard him. She and the child remained firmly planted on the front step.

      He was about to repeat his question when she suddenly answered it—and added to his initial confusion. “I came about the job.”

      “The job?” he echoed, momentarily lost. And then it hit him. The woman with the perfect mouth and translucent complexion was referring to the housekeeping position he’d called the paper about this morning. Boy, that was fast.

      “Oh, the job,” he repeated with feeling, glad that was finally cleared up. Beautiful women did not just appear on his doorstep for no reason, not unless they were looking for Georges. “Right. Sure. C’mon in,” he invited, gesturing into the house.

      Philippe stepped back in order to allow both the woman and the little girl with her to come inside.

      The woman still seemed just the slightest bit hesitant. Then, winding her left hand more tightly around her purse, she entered. Her right hand was firmly attached to the little girl. Philippe found himself vaguely curious as to what the woman had in her purse that seemed to give her courage. Mace? A gun? He decided maybe it was better that he didn’t know.

      “My name’s Kelli, what’s yours?” The question came not from the woman but from the child, uttered in a strong voice that seemed completely out of harmony with her small body.

      He wondered if Kelli would grow into her voice. “Philippe,” he told her.

      The girl nodded, as if she approved of the name. It amused him that she didn’t find his name odd or funny because of the French pronunciation. She had old eyes, he noted.

      The personification of curiosity, Kelli scanned her surroundings. Had she not been tethered to the woman’s hand, he had the impression that Kelli would have taken off to go exploring.

      Her eyes were as blue as her mother’s. “Is this your house?” the girl asked.

      He felt the corners of his mouth curving. There was something infectious about Kelli’s inquisitive manner. “Yes.”

      She raised her eyes up the stairs to the second floor. “It looks big.”

      Philippe wondered if all this was spontaneous, or if the woman had coached her daughter to ask certain questions for her. Children’s innocent inquiries were hard to ignore.

      Deciding to assume that Kelli was her mother’s shill, he addressed his answer to the woman instead of the child.

      “It’s not, really,” he assured the blonde. “It looks a great deal bigger on the outside, but mine is just the middle house.” He spread his hands wide to encompass the area. “This is actually three houses made to look like one.”

      The information created a tiny furrow on the woman’s forehead, right between her eyes. She looked as if his words had annoyed her. “I’m familiar with the type,” the woman replied softly.

      “Good.”

      The lone word hung in midair between them like a damp curtain.

      He’d never had a housekeeper before. As a matter of fact, he’d never interviewed anyone for any sort of position before and hadn’t the slightest idea how to go about it now without sounding like a complete novice. Or worse, a complete idiot. The image didn’t please him.

      Clearing his throat again, Philippe pushed on. “Then you know there won’t be much work involved.”

      The woman smiled as if she was sharing some secret joke with herself. She had a nice smile. Otherwise, he might have taken offense.

      “No disrespect, Mr. Zabelle,” she said as she appeared to slowly take stock of his living room and what she could see beyond it, “but I’ll be the judge of that.” She turned to face him. “Once you tell me exactly what it is you have in mind.”

      He had no idea why that would cause him to almost swallow his tongue. Maybe it was the way she looked at him or, more likely, the way she’d uttered СКАЧАТЬ