She also nabbed her Valentino Rockstud clutch and shoved it under her arm as she hopped out of her car.
She weaved her way through the other vehicles, taking in the copious barrel, saguaro and ocotillo cacti intermingled with olive and palo verde trees of the landscaping, the impressive three-tiered fountain the cars were parked around in the center of the drive, and the log-festooned veranda and recessed entryway decorated by brightly colored Mexican pots overflowing with healthy succulents.
That was, she took this all in until she realized in the shadowed entryway one side of the front double door was open.
And leaning against the jamb wearing faded jeans and a white linen, long-sleeved shirt, his feet bare, was Stellan.
God, God, Gawd.
The man could be adorable.
And he wore jeans.
She’d never seen him in jeans.
He looked …
Edible.
She hit the tile of the veranda, wondering why he couldn’t be in board shorts, or something that made him look just normal (something she suspected was an impossibility), her sunglassed eyes adjusting from the bright sun to the shadows, and it was then she saw he also looked ticked.
Hmm.
“Stellan,” she greeted.
“Sixx,” he replied, unmoving from his place, essentially barring one half of the two ornately and exquisitely carved doors.
She stopped in front of him.
He swept her top to toe.
And when he did, the way he did, made one of the two sets of lips she had, the hidden ones, quiver.
She disguised her reaction by shoving her sunglasses on top of her head.
His gaze tracked her movement.
Another quiver.
Hell.
“Have I been uninvited?” she asked, quirking her eyebrows.
“No,” he answered.
He still didn’t move.
She held his gaze.
She also, as per the norm, lost the staring contest.
“Listen, I—”
He disengaged from the jamb, leaned into her, and she braced.
But he just took the duffle from her grip and ordered, “Come.”
Then he disappeared into the cool dark, his disappearance sending a wave of frosty air-conditioning to chill her skin.
In Phoenician, that translated to, Welcome to my home.
“Shit,” she whispered.
And followed.
His door weighed a ton, and she was no lightweight. She battled the monster and managed to get it closed.
She moved in and noted the beautiful, soft, sandy buff of the outside adobe was not carried through to the inside.
The ceilings were beamed with dark, shining timbers. The floors were covered in uneven, large, square, undulating blocks of shimmering, rich chocolate tile. And the adobe walls on the inside were a deep terra-cotta color that sucked out all the light.
With lots of rugs, comfortable but large and space-eating furniture, huge prints on the walls depicting epic Western scenes, and gluts of toss pillows, throws, furs and poofs, the dim, dark interior veritably screamed, “Lie down and take a freaking nap, why don’t you!”
In fact, everywhere you turned there was nothing that didn’t say, at the very least, Relax, I got you.
She’d been there before.
But she’d never been there as Simone.
She’d always been there as Sixx, a guest, removed, belonging and … not.
Now, she didn’t know what she was.
She also didn’t know where Stellan was.
“Hey there.”
Her head came around, and in a large arch behind which was a huge, rustic dining room table with approximately fifty chairs (a shade over-exaggerated), she saw a Hispanic woman with a mass of gray-and-black hair, a petite, round body, gorgeous skin, sparkling brown eyes and a friendly smile.
“Sixx?” she asked.
Sixx nodded.
“The last one to arrive!” she cried, as if that won a prize.
“Sorry I’m a bit late,” Sixx said.
“There is no late at Casa Lange,” she replied on a smile, like she owned the joint. Though Sixx was relatively certain she was in error as to what she said, she wasn’t going to correct her. “I’m Margarita. Stellan calls me ‘M.’ I’m his housekeeper, and cook, and the annoying woman who tells him to take his vitamins even though he’s a grown man. I’ve got five kids. They’re all grown too. And so far, two grandkids, who are not grown. Also one on the way. So you know … habit.”
God, she was cute as all hell.
And she was Stellan’s housekeeper.
Growing up, she’d known a couple of women who were kind of like housekeepers considering they were house cleaners.
But she knew not one person who had a housekeeper.
Not true.
She did.
Frigging Stellan.
Not knowing what to say, she stupidly said, “Hi.”
“Hi,” Margarita replied brightly, still smiling, friendly and big.
Sixx stood there with her clutch under her arm, feeling awkward.
“He went upstairs,” Margarita shared, indicating to her right with a little tilt of her head. “With your bag.”
“Oh, okay,” she mumbled, but didn’t move.
Margarita’s eyes took in Sixx with her big gold hoops in her ears. The fall of a plethora of tiered, thin, gold chains hanging from her neck adorning her front from upper chest to below her breasts. The thin gold bangles at her wrist that were so profuse that although each was delicate, they crawled up five inches on her wrist. Her black t-shirt dress that looked just that at the top, but was tight and ruched at her hips. And her gold slides that were a series of straps from her toes to the tops of the bridges of her foot.
“You’re to, uh … change in his room,” Margarita explained.
“Oh, right,” Sixx again mumbled, deciding to move, something she did.
“All is set for your fiesta, which means I’ll be leaving soon,” Margarita announced when Sixx came abreast of her. “So I’ll say now it was nice meeting you.”
“You too,” she returned, spying the stairs that were around a wall.
A graceful curved design that included some log action as well as some fancy wrought iron.
He couldn’t just have stairs.
No, his stairway had to be a showcase.
She took the first step realizing why she was out of sorts, and it didn’t just have to do with the split-personality thing she’d been experiencing since Tuesday night.
She knew nothing about real estate.
But she didn’t have to in order to know she was in a home that cost more than she’d make in her entire life, even if she still did for a living what she used to do for a living and now just did for the thrill (and so she could buy Valentino clutches).
“Master’s at the far end!” Margarita called up as Sixx made it past the curve.
She could say that again, as Sixx was sure he was, though the woman was referring to his aptly named bedroom.
“Thanks! And again, nice to meet you!” Sixx called back, feeling like an idiot.
She hit the top hall, which was wide and also decorated with a heavy but handsome hand with paintings on walls, half-tables against them, candles, lamps, four-foot-high bronze statues, and she saw a variety of doors, most of them open, except one.
She headed down to the door at the far end.
She entered it and ceased moving.
Completely.
Good Christ.
She’d been to Stellan’s home.
She’d never been in there.
There were chandeliers. There were French doors to furnished balconies. There were arches. There was stained glass. There was wrought iron. There were carved columns. There were arched doorways. There were tapestries. There were acres of wood floors. There was heavy, magnificent furniture. There were two levels, the bed one was to her left, up two steps.
And everything was in colors of … nothing … but beauty. Parchment. Linen. Ivory. Alabaster. Pearl. Cotton.
And on the smooth white comforter of the huge bed was her Henri Bendel duffle.
Stellan appeared through an arch that led to … she had no idea where. There was the bed platform, and the lower area was big enough to be a living room, and furnished as such (also in Relax, I got you, just lighter in shade). And then there was the desk area, like he was some French count and needed a desk in his chambers to write missives by candlelight, something he could do with the thick candles set in gorgeous candelabrum there.
It was insanely beautiful.