than not somewhat maternal looking. This one was neither and if there was one thing he wanted, it was someone experienced. But he was a fair man and willing to be convinced.
She looked at him as if he’d just insulted her. “Yes,” she replied with more than a little feeling. “I have references. I can show them to you once we finish talking about the basics here.”
He nodded at the information, although when he’d find the time to check her references was beyond him. Maybe he could get Alain or Remy to do it for him. Both had more free time than he did.
She was obviously waiting for him to define the requirements. He gave it his best shot. “Well, I won’t be asking you to do anything you haven’t done before.”
That didn’t come out quite right, he realized the minute he’d said it.
The blonde reinforced his impression. Blinking, she asked, “Excuse me?”
He must have said something wrong but hadn’t the slightest idea what. There was no clue forthcoming from the woman’s daughter either. Kelli seemed amused by the whole exchange. Maybe she wasn’t a little girl after all, just a very short adult. Her face was certainly expressive enough to qualify.
Philippe tried again. “I mean, it’ll be the usual. Some light dusting.” He shrugged, thinking. “Shopping once a week.”
The woman’s mouth dropped open. And still managed to look damn sensual. It belatedly occurred to him that he still didn’t even know her name. “I don’t—”
“Do windows?” he completed her sentence. “That’s okay, I have a service that comes by twice a year to wash my windows.” There was no way he could reach the upper portion of some of them even if he did have the time, which he didn’t. “I just need someone to clean up—nothing major,” he assured her quickly, “because most of the time, I’m holed up in my office.” He jerked a thumb toward the rear of the house. “And I’d rather you didn’t come in there.”
The woman shook her head, as if put off. “Mr. Zabelle, I think there’s been some mistake.”
He didn’t want there to be some mistake. He wanted her to take the job. He couldn’t see himself going through this process over and over again.
Philippe took a stab at the reason for her comment. “You’re full-time, right?”
“When I work, yes.”
Philippe paused, thinking. “I really don’t need anyone fulltime.”
“I think what you need is an interpreter.” Her response confused him, but before he could tell her as much, she was saying, “When I start a job, Mr. Zabelle, I finish it.”
Well, that was a good trait, he thought, but he still wasn’t going to hire her full-time. “That’s very admirable, but like I said, I’m only going to need someone once a week.”
Rather than accept that, he saw her put her hands on her waist. “And why is that?”
Maybe this was a mistake after all. He could have gone to the store and back in the amount of time he’d spent verbally dancing around with this woman. “Because there won’t be enough to keep you occupied,” he told her tersely. “I’m pretty neat.”
She shook her head as if to clear it. “What does your being neat have to do with it?”
“I realize you probably charge the same whether you’re working for a slob or someone who’s relatively neat—”
She cut him off before he could finish. “I charge according to what the client requests, Mr. Zabelle, not based on whether they’re sloppy or neat.”
That sounded a hell of a lot more personal than just cleaning his house.
Their eyes met and Philippe watched her for a long moment. The more he did, the less she looked like a housekeeper. Just what section had his ad landed in? And if it was what he was thinking, what was she doing bringing her daughter along on this so-called job interview?
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Did you get my number from the personals?”
He watched as her mouth formed as close to a perfect O as he had ever seen. He saw her hand tightened around Kelli’s.
“Mommy, you’re squishing my fingers,” the little girl protested.
“Sorry,” she murmured, never taking her eyes off his face. She was looking at him as if she thought that perhaps she should be backing away. Quickly. “I got your number from my machine, Mr. Zabelle,” she told him, her voice both angry and distant now.
Okay, he was officially lost. “Your machine?” That made no sense to him. “I called the newspaper this morning.”
She cocked her head, as if that could help her make sense of all this somehow. “About?”
“The ad,” he said, annoyed. Had she lost the thread of the conversation already? What kind of an attention span did she have?
“What ad?” she demanded. She sounded like someone on the verge of losing her temper.
Taking a breath, Philippe enunciated each word slowly, carefully, the way he would if he were talking to someone who was mentally challenged. “The…one…you’re…here…about.”
Her voice went up several levels. “I’m not here about any ad.”
Suddenly, something unlocked in a distant part of his brain. Her voice was very familiar. He’d heard it before. Recently.
Philippe held up his hand, stopping her. “Hold it. Back up.” He peered at her face intently, trying to jog his memory. Nothing. “Who are you, lady?”
A loud huff of air preceded the reply. When she spoke, it was through gritted teeth. “I’m J. D. Wyatt. You called me about remodeling your bathrooms.”
And then it hit him. Like a ton of bricks. He knew where he’d heard that voice before—on the phone, last night. “You’re J. D. Wyatt?”
J.D. drew herself up. He had the impression she’d been through this kind of thing before—and had no patience with it. “Yes.”
He wanted to be perfectly clear in his understanding of the situation. “You’re not here about the housekeeping job?”
“The housekeep—” Oh God, now it made sense. The weekly shopping, the cleaning. He’d made a natural mistake—and one that irked her. “No, I’m not here about the housekeeping job. I’m a contractor.”
He thought back to what Vincent had said when he’d given him the card. “I thought I was calling a handyman.”
J.D. shrugged. She’d lived in a man’s world all of her life and spent most of her time struggling to gain acceptance. “A handy-person,” she corrected.
The discomfort he’d been feeling grew. It was bad enough not being handy and feeling inferior to another man. Aesthetically speaking, all men might have been created equal, but not when it came to wielding a hacksaw. Feeling inferior to a woman with a tool belt? Well,
