Page 28 of Carbon

If he wanted to go French, I’d have preferred french fries and a juicy hamburger to nouvelle cuisine, but I could hardly say that, could I?

“Sounds wonderful.”

The caretaker glanced sideways at us as Gregory led me across the ballroom, no doubt glad he’d be able to get back to his cleaning. Should I apologise for my earlier outburst? I’d just opened my mouth to say sorry when the faint smell of lime hit me.

Gregory held me up as I tripped over my feet and fell against him, and with my nose buried in his chest, I sure as hell knew the aroma wasn’t emanating from him. Nor was it me. Yes, I’d had Dorothy buy me my very own bottle of lime shower gel, but I hadn’t opened it yet. Which left...

I snuck a sideways glance at the caretaker, but he was fiddling with the floor-polishing machine. Could it be...? No, no, it was probably just a coincidence. After all, lime shower gel was most likely available at the supermarket along with strawberries, chocolate, and condoms.

The caretaker stretched forward, his overalls tightening against his buttocks, and I gasped. If the way the fabric lay taut against them was any indication, he could have had a second career as one of Sapphire’s cover models.

“Are you okay?” Gregory asked, concern radiating from his eyes.

My head bobbed up and down of its own accord. “I thought I was going to sneeze.”

As he wrapped one arm around my waist, I took one last glance back at the caretaker as we exited the room. The man kept his head down, eyes fixed on the floor. Shyness? Disinterest? Or a fear I might recognise him?

Dammit! The caretaker. Could I have slept with the bloody caretaker?

If so, he was right about one thing. He definitely wasn’t the kind of man my mother would welcome at the dinner table.

* * *

“Dorothy, have you got a moment?”

The housekeeper smoothed out the sheet on Angie’s bed and straightened. “Of course, ma’am.”

“Please, call me Augusta. Or Gus.” I’d asked her a thousand times over the years, but she still shook her head.

“Mrs. Fordham won’t allow it, ma’am.”

Damn my mother and her snooty tendencies. “Never mind. My reading lamp has stopped working, and I’m not sure if it’s the bulb or the fuse. Do you think the caretaker might be able to help?”

Despite being in her late fifties, Dorothy blushed and averted her eyes. “I’m sure he would, ma’am. Beau’s very capable.”

Beau. So that was his name. I’d asked Angie earlier, but she hadn’t had a clue, and Mother most probably called him “Hey, you.” Much like I had in the ballroom, in fact. I cringed at the memory.

“Do you know where I might find Beau?”

Dorothy glanced at her watch. “He usually rakes the gravel on the drive before lunch. Speaking of lunch, would you like something to eat?”

Lunch? Even the thought of food made me feel ill. Yesterday, Gregory had been surprisingly attentive on our date to La Rive, probably because he didn’t have anyone more interesting to talk to, but I’d been so distracted by thoughts of Beau’s bottom I’d barely been able to eat. I’d stomached the starter, then given up halfway through the main course, citing a headache.

And what did Gregory do? Carried on his charm campaign by passing me a packet of paracetamol.

I’d felt terribly guilty as he handed over his credit card to the waiter and then drove me home—guilty enough to agree to dinner with him next Tuesday, a move I regretted because if Beau was Mr. Midnight, and if he found out I was seeing another man, he’d most likely think I was a bit of a slut. And I couldn’t blame him.

“I’m not hungry at the moment, thank you,” I told Dorothy.

“Well, just you let me know if you change your mind. Cook’s prepared a lovely quiche.”

Rather than go outside, I climbed the stairs to the third-floor landing where a window overlooked the fountain in the centre of the drive. Sure enough, Dorothy was right. Beau leaned over to pluck a weed from the gravel and then resumed raking, something Mother insisted on to keep up appearances with the neighbours.

Even from that distance, there was no mistaking his muscular physique. The moment my suspicions were aroused, my first thought had beenhow dare he?How dare he, the caretaker, encourage me into doing those filthy things with him? But later yesterday evening, when I’d purged Mother’s prejudices from my mind, “how dare he” turned into “thank goodness he did.”

That’s assuming he truly was Mr. Midnight. Beau didn’t have the monopoly on a tight butt and solid thighs, although admittedly they were in short supply around Sandlebury. Believe me, I knew. Angie had spent the last decade searching and enjoyed updating me on every sordid detail.

Gah! I had to find out. I needed to speak to the man, but I could hardly just walk up to him and ask whether, by any chance, he’d happened to bend me over a chaise longue and take me from behind, could I? Would I recognise his voice? Probably not. Midnight’s words had been half whispered, and my mind hadn’t exactly been concerned with memorising his speech patterns.

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