The Best Next Thing ((Un)Professionally Yours 1)

The thundering rain woke him.

Miles opened his eyes and was momentarily confused by his gloomy surroundings. His body clock told him it was later than it appeared and a glance at the bedside clock confirmed that it was nearly eleven in the morning. It felt earlier because of the miserable weather. He sat up and disentangled himself from the bunched-up duvet, a silent testament to his restless sleep.

He made his way over to the glass doors that led into his private corner of the extensive garden. A glance out confirmed it was coming down in sheets. And an ominous roll of thunder in the distance told him that the weather would last for a while. The verdant garden was a dramatic counterpoint to the grim weather. But that was the beauty of the Garden Route; because of the rain it was usually lush and green in winter. Rain had been scarce over the last few years, but from what he had heard, this winter had seen welcome relief from the drought.

He turned away from the view and went to the spacious walk-in closet. He was gratified to note that his closet was stocked with clothes from his last stay as he didn’t feel like rummaging through his suitcase for something to wear. Mrs. Cole would undoubtedly unpack everything for him later. He gr

abbed some stuff, tossed it onto the rumpled bed, and went to the bathroom. He needed a long, hot shower to clear the remaining cobwebs from his head.

He was so tired, a bone-grinding weariness that made it hard for him to focus on anything for too long. It was that, in addition to his mother’s and sister’s insistence, which had made him agree to this enforced rest. He couldn’t do his job effectively without focus. He had nearly lost millions of pounds on a bad investment a couple of weeks ago. It had been an appalling error in judgment, something that would never have happened had he been his normal self.

As he stood beneath the pulsating spray of the shower, he contemplated the sobering reality that—thanks to his bloody stupidity and stubbornness—his life had nearly been snuffed out by a microscopic bug. He inhaled deeply and coughed when he held the aromatic steam of the shower in his damaged lungs for a beat too long.

Damn it.

The doctors had warned him not to rush his recovery. They hadn’t been happy to hear he intended to leave the country and even less happy to learn that he was headed to a cold, damp climate.

Not heeding their advice had landed him in this mess in the first place. He had been so obstinate, so sure he knew his limits better than his healthcare providers. He should probably have learned from his previous mistake and stayed home…or gone someplace warmer. But he liked this place, and because of Mrs. Cole, he knew that he’d be comfortable and allowed to recuperate in peace.

Mrs. Cole with her shapely, mile long legs and that ridiculous length of hair. With her velvety looking skin and her—

Fuck!

He glanced wryly down at his eager—and entirely inappropriate—erection and grimaced. This was crazy. And definitely not what he had in mind for his stay here.

He shook his head, impatient with himself for dwelling over a moment that he sincerely hoped would not recur. He was here to get healthy and strong in both body and mind. And that meant Mrs. Cole needed to remain the unobtrusive and efficient employee she had always been. Someone he knew he could rely on to always get the job done.

By the time he made his way to the kitchen, Mrs. Cole—who always seemed to have an eerie precognitive awareness of his movements—already had his brunch waiting in the solarium. She was nowhere to be seen but his boiled egg, toast, and coffee were all warm. Which meant she must have laid it out moments before. He allowed himself a final—he hoped—moment of speculation about her unexpected youth and attractiveness, before pushing the errant thought aside. Mrs. Cole and her peculiarities were not his business. As long as she maintained her efficiency and tact, he would set last night’s revelations aside.

He picked up the ironed newspaper and went straight to the business section, before thinking the better of it and putting the entire paper aside. He considered the egg for a few moments and, for the first time in more years than he cared to recall, he wanted something else for breakfast.

A creature of habit, Miles had a soft-boiled egg with whole wheat toast, coffee, and orange juice for breakfast every day since he was twenty. It was a perfectly adequate meal, and he did not see the point of having anything different. But today it held no appeal. He frowned down at his plate and looked up, wondering if Mrs. Cole’s ESP would kick in, and she’d pop out of the woodwork with something more appetizing in hand.

He waited.

Nothing.

He shook his head, amused by his nonsensical flash of whimsy, and picked up his spoon. He held it poised above the shell, before swearing and pushing himself away from the table. He rarely entered the kitchen but—for the second time in less than twelve hours—he found himself back in Mrs. Cole’s domain. The large, expensively equipped, homey room was scrupulously tidy and disappointingly empty.

“Mrs. Cole?” His voice was low and could barely be heard above the raging wind and lashing rain yet, despite that, she drifted into the kitchen by way of the pantry. Her hair was parted and pulled back into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. As usual she wore no makeup, but today Miles could appreciate the flawless, smooth skin of her face, which gave her such an ageless quality.

She wore her usual uniform of a knee-length black circle skirt, combined with a black cardigan buttoned over a white blouse, with the sharp points of the prim lace collar folded over the top of the cardigan’s round neck. Thick, opaque black tights and sensible lace-up black brogues completed the horrendous ensemble.

Clothes fit for a nun.

But where before he had found it easy to ignore the disturbing, dark depths of those haunting eyes, the long, thick lashes, the lush fullness of her heart-shaped mouth, he was finding it difficult to dismiss that intriguing loveliness that morning. Despite the matronly outfit, her beauty was distinct and unmistakable. And he remained astounded that it had not truly registered with him before now. However, her obvious reserve was enough to keep anyone at bay.

And he was grateful for that.

His eyes drifted down to the wedding band on her left hand—he vaguely recalled Jim, his attorney, mentioning that she was divorced. Or was that widowed? He couldn’t recall, but for the first time Miles wondered what had happened to the ex/late Mr. Cole.

“Did you need something, Mr. Hollingsworth?” Her tone was as frigid as the winter storm pummeling the house, and he fought back the unusual urge to grin. She clearly didn’t like having her territory invaded.

“Yes. Pancakes.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I want pancakes. Not what you’ve given me.” Even to his own ears he sounded petulant but, goddamnit, if he never saw another boiled egg in his life it’d be too soon. He didn’t understand this sudden desire for change—maybe it had something to do with nearly dying. This was the kind of thing people usually experienced after a brush with death, wasn’t it?