I stood openmouthed in Caine’s apartment.
Holy …
The penthouse.
Caine had a penthouse on Arlington Street. Like in his office, there were floor-to-ceiling windows everywhere, giving him awesome views of the city. The apartment was open-plan living with a stunning state-of-the-art black-and-white kitchen with an island in the middle. White leather stools lined the front of the island.
White leather. In a kitchen.
Clearly the man either didn’t eat there or was the cleanest guy in the whole wide world.
To my left was a raised platform where a stylish eight-seater dining table and chairs were set up so diners could enjoy that view. Opposite the kitchen was a reading area, and beyond that was a huge black sofa that faced a wall where a massive flat-screen television hung.
A spiral staircase behind me led up to the bedrooms. Lifting my jaw off the floor, I carefully made my way up the staircase and down the narrow, short corridor to the first bedroom on the left. Caine told me this was the master bedroom and I was to leave the dry cleaning I’d just picked up for him in there.
I felt a flush of heat at the sight of Caine’s bed.
That was definitely a bed.
Huge, dark wood, masculine, with four posts.
Opposite it were two doors. After a quick peek inside both, I discovered my dream walk-in closet and an Italian marble bathroom.
The best part of the master suite, however, was the steps that led up to the glass window that ran along the back of the room. A sliding door led out onto a small terraced balcony where Caine could enjoy the view over Beacon Hill and beyond in privacy.
Carefully I laid his dry cleaning across his bed and made my way back out of the room. I wanted to be nosy and have a thorough look around, but I had to be back at the office with the salad he’d ordered from his favorite deli.
I did note, however, as I walked through his private space that again there was nothing overly personal in his apartment. There were no photographs of him or of friends … nothing that showed any personal ties to anyone.
Maybe that was normal for a bachelor, but I couldn’t help feeling that prick of guilt again because in among all the nothing in Caine’s everything there were no photographs of his family.
Frowning, I let myself out of his apartment, locked up, and turned around only to almost collide with a small old woman in a vibrant fuchsia robe. She glowered up at me with her hands on her hips, her dyed black hair styled into an elegant beehive. Those narrowed bright blue eyes of hers were framed by lashes liberally brushed with mascara, and her lips, which were surprisingly full for a woman who I guessed to be in her late seventies, were painted a vivid red.
“Who the hell are you?” she asked in a thick South Boston accent.
I blinked in surprise. “Uh …”
“Well? You got five seconds to tell me before I call up Security.”
“I’m Alexa Holland.” I stuck my hand out. “Mr. Carraway’s new PA.”
It was her turn to blink owlishly. Slowly, as her gaze roamed over me, a smile stretched those youthful lips of hers. “So you’re Alexa, huh? Oh, I heard all about you.”
She had? “You have?”
“Mmm-hmm. When Caine told me he’d hired the offspring of that bastard that destroyed his family, I thought for sure he was making a big mistake.” She laughed as she drank me in. “Now I get it.”
“Uh …” I didn’t.
“I’m Mrs. Flanagan. I live in the other penthouse.” She gestured down the hallway past the elevator. “Come, have tea. We’ll talk.”
As curious as I was to chat with the flamboyant Mrs. Flanagan, who clearly knew Caine well enough to know his history, I had to be back at the office. I couldn’t help grimacing in disappointment. “I’m sorry. I wish I could, but I have to get Mr. Carraway’s salad to him.”
Mrs. Flanagan’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, no worries, sweet-heart. Caine’s putting you through the paces, huh? You tell him I said he’s not to work you too hard. If you don’t get enough sleep you won’t age well. I know. Look at me. I get a solid eight hours every night and have done so for the past fifty years. I’m a walking testament to the power of beauty sleep.” She waved her finger in front of my nose. “You’ve got natural beauty. Don’t let lack of sleep waste that shit.”
I burst out laughing, completely charmed by this character in front of me. “I will endeavor to get my eight hours if it means I’ll look as good as you when I’m your age.”
“Oh, I like you.” Mrs. Flanagan chuckled. “When you come back you and I definitely need to sit down over some tea and cakes. Speaking of, tell Caine I’m making his favorite—banana cream pie—so he better stop by tonight.”
Caine liked banana cream pie? I looked down at the bag in my hand that carried his salad. For three days I’d been in his employment and so far I’d discovered the man was a health nut. He visited the gym every morning before work and he only ate steamed veggies, soup, and salad.
Banana cream pie was a whole other side of him.
I grinned. “I will definitely tell him.”
Dean from the main reception desk threw me a sympathetic smile as I flew past him with an out-of-puff “Hey, Dean!”
Although I hadn’t had a chance to really mingle with many of Caine’s other employees, and doubted I ever would with the schedule he gave me, Dean had dropped by a few times to check in with me. He was sweet and friendly, and honestly just having one person treat me like a human being helped me get through the day.
I hauled ass toward Caine’s office and tried to catch my breath as I stopped at my desk to arrange his food on a plate and on a tray. I called into his office to let him know I had his salad. He told me to come in and I strode inside, thankfully no longer out of breath, to find him settled on his sofa with one ankle resting on his opposite knee as he frowned at the paperwork in his hands.
I approached with the tray and Caine looked up at me. I quickly wrenched my gaze away from his forearms. His sleeves were rolled up, displaying his corded, tan arms.
The son of a bitch had to have some kind of physical flaw. I was going to find it. I was.
“You’re late.” He curled his lip in annoyance.
Personality flaws, on the other hand … oh, I’d already found lots of those.
“Sorry, Mr. Carraway,” I murmured, placing the tray on the coffee table in front of him. “I was delayed by Mrs. Flanagan.” I straightened, eyeing him for a reaction.
And I got it.
Wariness had crept over him.
If I could have I would have done a fist pump in triumph.
“She wanted me to tell you that she made your favorite—banana cream pie.” I grinned with faux sweet innocence. “You’re to stop by tonight for a piece.”
The unhappiness radiating from him would have quelled any normal person into silence—or at least wiped the stupid teasing smile off their face. But I never claimed to be normal. Nope, I was enjoying his obvious discomfort, because it meant I had found something real out about him, and I was eager to learn more about the charming Mrs. Flanagan.
“Get out of my office, Alexa.”
At the growled command, I decided it was wise to choke back my chuckle and do just that. Caine’s gaze burned into my back the whole time.