The Owner's Secret (A Secret Billionaire Romance Book 4) Read online

  Using her fist to knock on the door, Melody called out, “Mr. Mandeville, can you help me open the door?”

  She shoved against the heavy doors one more time in case he didn’t hear her—at the same moment the massive front door popped open and she fell across the threshold, tumbling against the tall, solid caretaker. Literally falling into his arms.

  “Oh!” she cried, her face growing hot when Britt Mandeville threw his arms around her, stopping her from landing flat on her face. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t get the door—I didn’t mean to—” she stopped, his face close to hers, too close.

  A rush of sensations came over her. Melody tried not to think about the man’s hard muscles underneath the soft flannel shirt he was wearing, or his sandpaper jaw, or the pair of amazing lips so close to hers—when she had practically knocked her face into his at the moment they collided.

  “You’re fine now,” Britt said, sliding his hands along her arms as he bent to look into her face. “You okay?”

  “Yep. I’m fine. Perfectly fine.” Except for her racing heart and a pounding in her ears, she was calm as a summer’s morning.

  Quickly dropping her hands, Melody stepped back, glancing away from his eyes that seemed to penetrate her soul.

  He stepped back, too. “Guess the door stuck. Are you hurt?”

  “Nope. I’m good. Just fine,” she said, trying not to waver on her feet. “Um, I’ll take that hot tea. Or cocoa. Whatever you have.”

  “Right this way, Miss—? You never did tell me your name. And you know all my personal details, right down to my weight and eye color, on my driver’s license.”

  Heat rose up Melody’s face. She couldn’t stop gazing into those deep green eyes of his and she hoped it wasn’t too obvious. And yes, she had checked out all his stats—not only on his driver’s license, but in the flesh, but she had never been the sort of girl to fall for a man on sight. What was the matter with her? Damsel-in-distress syndrome?

  “I’m—I’m Melody. Melody de Lyon.”

  “That’s a good French name,” Britt said warmly, gesturing toward the staircase.

  “I could say the same about you, Mr. Mandeville.”

  “Yeah, my family goes way back. A combination of French and Spanish from the sixteen hundreds.”

  “My grandmother always said that her great-grandfather sailed from France after the Revolutionary War.”

  “We’re both old-timers in Louisiana then.”

  “Figuratively speaking.” Melody groaned inwardly. Not a professional business woman or college grad, her. Just a tongue-tied girl when she was in the presence of a gorgeous man.

  Obviously, she needed to blame everything on the storm. She wasn’t in her right mind tonight.

  At the bottom of the staircase, Britt gave her a quick tour of what used to be the half-basement floor of the original house in the 1850s. “This is where the root cellar was, an alcove where the outdoor kitchen was located, storage rooms, slave quarters. It was enclosed in the early twentieth century and through those swinging doors, we have a nice restaurant that was added onto the rear of the house a year ago with access straight to the gardens. So the main entrance is actually the second story, although from the front of the house it appears to be the first floor.”

  “That’s why there are those pretty curving staircases up to the porch and the double front doors,” Melody said, thinking out loud. “Does the public come to White Castle for dinner, like a restaurant?”

  “Yes, the public is welcome, it’s a full-fledged restaurant, although we mostly get folks that have come for the tour, or they’re spending the night.”

  Melody’s eyes riveted on his again. “People spend the night here?”

  “Yep, we’re also a bed and breakfast.”

  “Don’t tell me you do the cooking, too?”

  “No,” he laughed. “I’d probably end up serving burned—or raw—food.”

  “Sushi is the only food allowed to be raw.”

  “I completely agree.”

  While Britt boiled water in a teapot on the stove, Melody walked through a set of swinging doors to peek into the elegantly laid dining room. It was dusky except for sporadic flashes of lightning coming through the floor-to-ceiling picture windows that did lead directly to the outside through a set of french doors.

  The restaurant was a narrow half circle curving around the back of the house just as Britt had explained. Candles and china adorned the snowy white tablecloths.

  “It’s beautiful,” Melody breathed. “Very romantic, too.”

  Britt’s deep voice spoke behind her as he held the door open. “It’s dark now, of course, but the windows look out on the fountains and oak trees. We even have an enclosed swimming pool beyond the trees—when I get around to cleaning it. This place takes massive upkeep.”

  “So picturesque,” Melody said, her breath catching at his nearness, the scent of his musky cologne wafting across her skin. She found herself feeling self-conscious to be standing next to this gorgeous man with her stringy hair, muddy clothes, and no makeup.

  “Hot water’s ready,” Britt said in a husky voice, allowing Melody to walk underneath his arm back to the warmth of the kitchen. “Sit in one of the chairs by the fire and get dry. I tend to turn off the heat when it’s just me at night, but when it storms I keep a fire going down here. Lost power earlier, but at least it’s back on now.”

  “New Orleans is a nightmare,” Melody murmured, her thoughts returning again to her grandmother.

  Britt’s expression was sympathetic when he handed her a cup of lavender tea with a saucer and spoon. “I can’t believe you got out of there safely. And I’m sorry about your grandmother in the hospital.”

  Melody sipped slowly at the drink. “Can I use your phone to call the hospital and check on her? I hate to use up the last of my battery.”

  “Of course. Anything you need, just say the word. And here’s the phone charger I promised.” He rose and took her cell phone, plugging it into the wall where a charger was already inserted.

  When Britt took a seat on the other side of the hearth, he abruptly set down his cup and leaned forward to inspect Melody’s leg. “Miss Melody,” he said with an endearing Louisianan accent. “Did you know that you’ve hurt yourself?”

  Chapter 8

  “What?” Melody sat up straight, setting her teacup on the kitchen table with a clatter. Quickly, she looked down and saw that that her jeans had a jagged rip. Underneath the rip was a bloody gash on her calf. “Good grief, when did that happen?”

  She grimaced when the wound began to throb. How had she not noticed it before now?

  “You were rescued from your grandmother’s house by emergency boat, right?”

  She nodded, thinking back over the day’s events, touching the gash where the blood had dried into a long, clumpy, ribbon of congealed red.

  “You probably cut it on something in the flood waters. A branch, a piece of metal floating by, a rock. Could be anything.”

  Melody sat back, a weak sensation coming over her now that she was out of danger and sitting down in a warm, cozy room. The gash was going to leave a terrible scar. No more short skirts for her. “How strange that I wouldn’t feel something this deep.”

  “You’re in shock. It’s been a traumatic day—and you were more worried about your grandmother.”

  “There were moments,” Melody whispered, clenching her fingers together, “that I thought she was going to die before we were rescued.”

  “You did good today, Miss Melody,” he told her with a serious expression. “I mean that. You probably saved her life by being there and getting her help.”

  “When the rain wasn’t letting up yesterday, I left the bookstore and went over last night to stay with her. I couldn’t not be with her. Granny Mirry is like my mother.”

  He touched her hand. “Your own parents are gone, then?”

  She nodded, willing herself not to suddenly cry at his tenderness. “An accident took them when I
was only three. My sisters and I were raised by Mirry and my papa, although he’s gone now.”

  “I can see why you’re so close to her then—and why you’re so worried.” He popped up to open cupboards and retrieve bandages, scissors, and a bottle of medicinal disinfectant. “My official first aid kit,” he announced.

  At that moment, the lights went out.

  “What’s that?” Melody said with a little cry. “Did somebody cut the power?”

  From the darkness, Britt’s voice was calm and soothing. “I’m sure it’s the storm again. Electricity has been going on and off all day. Made it hard to get any work done on my computer.”

  “Oh, right.” Melody let out her breath in a whoosh. “But I can hardly see a thing, outside of the fireplace’s perimeter. There aren’t many windows here in the kitchen.”

  “The logs are mostly coals now,” he agreed.

  Staying where she was, Melody watched Britt rise and rummage through a few more cupboards. A minute later, there was the flash and sizzling sound of a match as he lit three candles.

  He placed a candle on the counter behind him, and the other two on the table at each end where she sat.

  Kneeling in front of Melody, he asked, “Do you mind if I doctor you up? I promise I’ll be gentle.”

  She gave a small laugh, a tug of attraction pulling her forward so she could see the candle flames flickering in his dark irises. “Okay, doc,” she managed to say. “But no stitches, please. I’d be embarrassed if I screamed in front of you. I’m already embarrassed at how horrible I look. And I’m sorry for intruding on you. I’m sure you were asleep.”

  “You don’t look horrible at all,” he said focusing on cleaning up the streaked, dried blood running down into her socks. “And nope, I wasn’t asleep, but when I heard the front door slam open it got me out of bed in a hurry.”

  “I banged it open?”

  His mouth twitched into another grin. “I was afraid we might have looters or burglars. When I grabbed my flashlight, I sure wished I hadn’t left my toolbox down here. I’d been working on a drippy faucet earlier. But when I turned on my flashlight and saw you kneeling on the carpet of the entry hall, I almost fell down the stairs. With your black curls and fair skin—I thought—well, you looked just like an angel.”

  “You have funny ideas of angels, Mr. Mandeville,” she said, trying not to wince when he swabbed the gash with iodine-soaked cotton balls. “But I’m sure I looked more like a demon crashing into your house during a hurricane with snakelike hair and mud on my cheeks.”

  Melody found him gazing up into her eyes and she jumped a little, glancing away and then back again at his mesmerizing eyes.

  “You don’t have mud on your face,” he told her before leaning in closer. “Well, maybe just a little bit right here.”

  Britt touched her cheek with a damp cloth while Melody tried not to breathe at his closeness, the warmth of his breath, the scent of his skin. Good grief, what was wrong with her?

  “All clean,” he pronounced.

  “Thank you,” she said primly, and then laughed at herself.

  “Does this sting?” he asked, finishing off the procedure on her leg and inspecting the wound.

  “Not much,” she answered, swallowing down a wince of pain.

  “I heard that,” he teased.

  “I was never good at pain. My grandmother used to tease me about the time I howled over a scrape on my knee—that turned out to be strawberry jam.”

  He let out a deep belly laugh. “You have to admit that’s pretty hilarious.”

  “Go ahead and laugh,” she retorted, feigning insult. “My sisters used to all the time. So how bad is it? Will I need stitches?”

  He furrowed his brow. “I think we need to take you right to the hospital this instant.”

  “Are you serious? Is it still bleeding badly?”

  While she was spitting out questions, Britt finished placing a large bandage across the gash and sat back on his heels. “All done. In a couple of weeks, the scab should fall off and you’ll be good as new.”

  “You are such a liar,” she accused him, suppressing a smile.

  He chuckled again, lifting his shoulders in a shrug that was so adorable Melody shivered as though he’d caressed her hand. “Just taking your mind off the trauma you endured today.”

  There was a moment of silence between them while they stared at each other. With the flickering candles, the kitchen was cozy and intimate.

  “What you need is sleep,” Britt said. “It’s after one a.m.”

  “I feel like I’ve been hit by a sledgehammer. Or a Mack truck. I’ve been up since four yesterday listening to the news about the hurricane on the TV and radio.”

  “I’ll show you to your room. I keep fresh sheets on the beds at all times, but during hurricane season we rarely get many overnighters. So sleep as late as you need to. I promise you’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Mandeville,” Melody said, creaking to a standing position.

  The caretaker handed Melody a flashlight and then flicked his own on again. “Hopefully, we’ll have power back on by morning. If not, we have a generator I can get up and running. I didn’t want to go outside in the rain and start it up if it was just me tonight. I’ll put you in a room upstairs. I sleep down here so you’ll have the house to yourself. Sleep late and feel free to explore in the morning. I’ll bring breakfast up and leave it at your door about ten. How does that sound?”

  “Heavenly. I think I could sleep for two days straight, but I’ll be calling the hospital as soon as I wake up. I’ll be worrying about Mirry all night long.”

  “I’ll say a prayer for her, Melody,” Britt said quietly. “Try not to worry. She’s in the best place she could be.”

  The way he said her name with his soft, country boy accent was like a delicious prayer and Melody found herself wanting to lean into him. In fact, she must have been unsteady on her feet because Britt took her elbow in his strong hand and guided her upstairs to the second story, unlocking the door to a large suite.

  “Before I forget, here’s your phone and the charger. Just plug it into an outlet in your room and hopefully the power will come back on and charge it for you.”

  Britt flashed his light around the room and then went to the mantelpiece, flicking on a lighter to the wicks inside a pair of pretty, etched-glass kerosene lamps.

  The Victorian lamp glowed brightly and added a soft shine that Melody hadn’t expected. The lovely bedroom came to life, showing off a four-poster bed with thick comforters, deep, cozy couches, tables, and even a small fireplace with a marble hearth and two tall, white candlesticks.

  “This is the best room in the mansion. You have your own private bathroom, garden tub, and picture windows overlooking the rose garden.”

  “It’s absolutely beautiful,” Melody said, running her hand along the night table and the smooth surface of the fireplace. “What do I owe you for the guest room?”

  He spread his hands. “Please. Hurricanes are a no-charge season, too. Especially for damsels in distress.”

  Melody laughed weakly. “Is that what I am?”

  He lifted his eyebrows when he grinned. “Or a princess in disguise …”

  “So first I was an angel, and now I’m a princess. I have you so fooled, Mr. Mandeville,” she said with a laugh. “In reality I’m a demon or a pauper with no titles, no fortune, and no good breeding papers.”

  “Only dogs are bred. Beautiful young women have pedigrees that descend from queens.”

  When he paused, they stared at each other while Melody became tongued-tied. A moment later, she began to waver on her feet.

  “Do I need to carry you to the bed before you collapse into a faint, Miss de Lyon?”

  That broke Melody’s reverie. “No! No, of course not. I must be sleeping standing up. Never mind me, I’m going to fall into bed in about thirty seconds.”

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Britt said with a soft smile. “The
re’s a house phone on the nightstand. Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been very kind.”

  Britt strode to the fireplace where logs and kindling had previously been laid. With a single match, he lit the tinder and within sixty seconds there was a flickering fire to warm up the chilly room. “Despite no power, we have plenty of warm water, so help yourself to the shower.” Britt gave Melody a slight, royal bow, then crossed the room to the door.

  She followed him with her eyes, half wishing the caretaker would sleep in front of the fire so she wouldn’t be alone. Melody inwardly groaned with annoyance at herself. Her fears were just plain silly. She’d lived alone for years in her own little apartment above the bookstore. Still, she could hear the wind moaning through the oak trees and the sound of steady rain slamming hard against the tiled roof.

  This old house was massive and solid and had withstood many hurricanes over the last hundred and seventy-five years. There was nothing to worry about.

  “Before I forget,” Britt said, turning around on the threshold. “Here’s a key to your room. You can lock the door from inside and feel perfectly safe.”

  When he handed over the old-fashioned key, Melody gave him a wan smile. “I think you are a mind-reader, sir. Thank you.”

  Britt crossed the corridor toward the staircase and descended, giving her a quick look over his shoulder.

  Biting at her lips, Melody closed the door lest he think she was staring at him—even though she was staring.

  How did a stunning man like Britt Mandeville become a caretaker of an old house, gardening, cooking, and repairing fences? Instead, he looked like a model for a fashion magazine.

  She jumped in the shower, still thinking about him. The sensation of his gentle fingers cleaning her gash, bandaging her up, holding her leg and then her feet in his large, warm hands came over her all over again, and she found herself blushing at the daydream.

  “You are an idiot, Mel,” she said aloud, washing the dirt, grime, and rain out of her hair.

  A white plushy robe was hanging behind the bathroom door and Melody slipped her arms through the sleeves, feeling warm at last while she dried her hair in front of the fire.