don’t act like any maid I’ve ever encountered.”
“Gotten to know many of them, have you?” she asked with a surprisingly bitter suspicion.
“No, actually. That is precisely what makes you so different.”
Her ruffled feathers settled around her. “Well, I don’t usually work housekeeping. I was assistant manager of desk reception in my previous job.”
“Why are you working as a maid now?”
“They wanted my mother, but she died.”
“Your mother is gone, as well?” he asked, pity touching his heart as it rarely did.
“Yes. She was from Zeena Sahra.”
“Did you come to London to be with the rest of your family?” There was a small community of Zeena Sahrans residing in the British city.
“The Amaris don’t recognize me.”
“But that’s impossible.” Family was sacrosanct in Zeena Sahran culture.
“Mom refused to allow someone else in the family to adopt and raise me. The Amaris refuse to recognize a bastard.”
He frowned, inexplicable anger coursing through him. “Do not use such language to describe yourself. It is not seemly.”
“Neither was offering to pay me off if I’d change my last name.”
“They did that?” It boggled his mind.
Aaliyah nodded, an expression of deep vulnerability coming over her features he was fairly certain she was not aware was there. “No matter what Mom hoped, they were never going to accept me into the family. She is buried in the family plot. I won’t be.”
“It is their loss.”
“I keep telling myself that, but you know? Sometimes it’s hard to believe.”
“Believe it.”
“They’re not alone. I am and I don’t like it.” She covered her mouth and stared suspiciously at him, as if he’d drawn the admission out of her rather than her offering it unasked for.
“No one should be abandoned by their family.”
She tried to put on an insouciant expression that fell far short, but he wouldn’t tell her so. He found he enjoyed seeing what he was sure others did not.
The true Aaliyah Amari.
“It happens.” She shrugged and this time her glass tipped enough to spill its nearly full contents down the front of Aaliyah’s inexpensive black suit jacket.
She didn’t even jump, just looked down at the water-soaked jacket. “Oops.”
“You are all wet.”
“I am.” She cocked her head to one side as if studying him and finally said, “You could offer to get a towel.”
“Should I?”
Instead of answering, Aaliyah unbuttoned the front and started shrugging the black fabric off her shoulders.
“What are you doing?” he demanded, his body tightening in a familiar way.
“Don’t worry, I’m wearing a blouse underneath, but if I don’t get this off, that will be soaked, too.”
Once she removed her jacket, Sayed couldn’t hold back his gasp. She’d been too late. The white cotton was wet and clinging to the skin of her torso and the lace-covered curves of her breasts.
Aaliyah looked down and made a moue of distaste his mother would have been proud of, then she giggled. “Too late.”
“My very thought.”
“I guess I’d better take this off, too.”
His conscience demanded he discourage her from that particular course of action, but he refused to listen, watching in lustful fascination as she removed her uniform tie and then the soggy blouse.
Her lacy bra was surprisingly revealing.
“You like pretty lingerie,” he said with a blatant shock that would have indicated the ouzo had already hit his system to anyone who knew him.
Sayed was not blatant. He was subtle. Especially in delicate situations like this one.
Aaliyah nodded. “Why shouldn’t I? I have to dress conservatively for the job, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be as feminine as I like underneath.”
“Your uniform does not mask your womanliness.”
“Are you sure?” she asked very seriously. “I always thought it did.”
Very decisive, he shook his head. “No.”
“This isn’t very modest, is it?” she asked in that way that said her brain was catching up to her actions.
“It is all right,” he heard himself say.
“You would say that. You’re a man.”
“I am.” Despite what many thought, he was indeed a flesh-and-blood male.
“Well, I know what to do.” She nodded with exaggerated movement.
Expecting her to put her damp jacket back on, he sat blinking in lust-ridden surprise as she lifted her hands to fiddle with her hair at the back of her head.
A moment later long, black, silky waves of hair cascaded down over her shoulders and breasts. She arranged it so the wavy strands created a black silk blanket over the tempting mounds of flesh of her breasts.
“There.” She smiled with satisfaction, clearly proud of herself.
“You believe that is more modest?” he asked, his voice cracking on the last word in a way it had not done in more than twenty years.
She looked down, as if trying to figure out why he would ask. “It covers the important bits.”
“It does.” In a way guaranteed to send his libido into overdrive.
She poured herself another glass of water, managing to do so without spilling any of the liquid. Though it was a close thing.
Taking a sip, she gave him a look of expectation.
“What?” he asked.
“It’s your turn.”
“To spill on myself. I do not think so.”
“You don’t have to spill your drink, but you’re supposed to take off your outer robe and stuff.”
“I am?” Had he fallen through the rabbit hole and not realized it?
