a husband,’ she confessed.
‘But you’re wearing a wedding ring,’ he said, confusion in his face and voice.
‘I’m a widow.’
CHAPTER FOUR
JACK hoped he didn’t look as gobsmacked by this news as he felt. Or as excited.
A widow no less. Now, that was a different ball game entirely.
‘But you’re so young,’ he remarked whilst his brain started making plans which his body definitely approved of.
‘I’m thirty,’ she retorted.
‘You don’t look it.’
‘I’ve always looked young for my age.’
‘What happened to your husband?’
‘He died in an accident, five years ago.’
‘A car accident?’
‘No. He fell off the roof of our house.’
‘Good lord. That must have been dreadful for you.’
‘It was,’ she replied stiffly.
‘Do you have any other children?’
‘No. Just the one,’ she told him. ‘Cory. He’s nine.’
Nine! She must have married very young. Either that, or she’d fallen pregnant before the wedding.
No. Jack didn’t think that would have happened. Mrs Lisa Chapman wasn’t the sort of girl who had unplanned pregnancies.
‘Is your son the problem, then?’ he asked. ‘Can’t you get someone to look after him tomorrow morning?’
‘No, I can’t.’
Mmm. No live-in boyfriend, then.
He was tempted to suggest she bring the boy with her, but decided that was going a bit fast. Jack was smart enough to realise that was not the way to go with this particular lady. She was what he and his mates in the army had used to call an ice princess. Back then, they’d all steered well clear of ice princesses, none of them having the money or the time it took to melt them.
If he wanted to know his cleaner better—and his body kept screaming at him that he did—Jack would have to be super-patient. And super-subtle.
‘OK,’ he said with a nonchalant shrug. ‘Tell me what else you’ve got left to do. It can’t be the kitchen. I’ve just been through there and it positively gleamed at me.’
His compliment surprised Lisa. As did his change in manner. Where had the grumpy guy gone who’d answered the phone last night? And who’d let her in this morning?
Finishing his book had certainly changed his personality.
But Lisa could understand that. When she finished a job, she often experienced a rush of warmth and wellbeing.
Cleaning the kitchen in this penthouse had brought considerable satisfaction. But then, what a magnificent kitchen it was! Lisa had never seen anything like it before. The bench tops were made of cream marble. The cupboards, a light warm wood. The appliances, stainless steel.
It had been such a pleasure to clean. As had the rest of the penthouse. But she hadn’t finished yet.
‘I have to iron these towels and put them away,’ she said. ‘And I haven’t washed any of the tiles yet.’
‘Aah yes, the dreaded tiles. What say you leave them and tackle my study instead?’
Lisa stared down at the tiles around her. They really needed doing. She would not feel right leaving them undone. Neither did she want to come back tomorrow morning. There was something about Jack Cassidy which still perturbed her. She wasn’t sure what.
‘If I hurry, I should be able to do everything,’ she said. ‘It’s only ten past one.’
Jack could not believe it when she set to work at a speed which made his head spin. This girl was a cleaner to beat all cleaners. Focused, and very fast. By ten to two, all the tiled floors were shining and she bustled off in the direction of his study, vacuum cleaner and feather duster in hand.
There hadn’t been a single opportunity to chat her up in any way. It was work, work and more work. His chances of asking her to come to the dinner with him tomorrow night were fast running out. On top of that, Jack wasn’t sure she’d say yes, anyway. Not once today had she looked at him with any interest, which was highly unusual. Most women found him attractive.
Maybe she had a boyfriend. Or maybe he just wasn’t her type.
This last thought rankled. But there wasn’t much he could do about it. If she didn’t fancy him, she didn’t fancy him.
Shaking his head, Jack brewed himself some coffee and was about to take it out onto the terrace when she materialised in the kitchen doorway, a strange look on her face.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Are you Nick Freeman?’
‘That’s the name I write under. Yes.’
‘Oh, my!’
Jack wasn’t sure if that was a sign she was a fan. Or not.
Either way, he’d finally snared her interest.
‘You’ve read some of my books?’ he asked.
‘All of them.’
‘And what did you think?’
‘I loved them.’
Even better. Clearly, Nick Freeman was her type. Or maybe it was wicked old Hal which brought that excited sparkle into her lovely blue eyes.
‘Now, that’s music to a writer’s ears. Come and have coffee with me and tell me more.’
‘But I haven’t finished your study yet. In fact, I’ve hardly started. When I saw your books on the shelves, I…I—’
‘Forget the study,’ he interrupted, pleased as punch with this development. ‘I’d much rather have my ego stroked. How do you like your coffee?’
‘What? Oh—er—black, with no sugar.’
‘A true coffee-lover. Like me,’ he added with a smile. ‘Now, don’t give me any more objections, Lisa. I’m the boss here.’
She didn’t like taking orders, he could see. Or not finishing her job. But he insisted and she grudgingly complied, sitting opposite him at the table on the terrace, primly sipping her cup of coffee whilst he attempted to draw her out some more.
Jack was careful not to stray from the subject of books. He’d noted that the moment he’d
