you have a key to my house?” Zane asked.
“I’m licensed and bonded, Mr. Fortune, and there is no way I could do what I do without having access to a client’s home.” Gwen plucked the wet fabric of her T-shirt away from her chest, hoping it wouldn’t immediately adhere to her body again. Zane Fortune couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off her bosom, and she knew that her nipples were showing right through her bra and T-shirt.
“Uh, what else do you do besides bathe dogs?” Zane was getting a glimmer of an idea, but he needed to know more about Gwen Hutton before advancing it.
“For you, or for clients in general?”
“For clients in general.”
“Mr. Fortune, I’m very willing to discuss my company with you, but don’t you think you should get a towel or something and at least try to save your suit?”
“Forget the suit. Tell me about your company. And let’s get out of the foyer. I’d like something cold to drink, so let’s continue this discussion in the kitchen.”
“I really should finish bathing Alamo.”
“Makes sense. Tell you what. I’ll go and change clothes, and you finish up with Alamo. Then we’ll meet in the kitchen and have a cold drink together.”
Gwen took a look at her waterproof watch. “I have another appointment in about thirty minutes, so I don’t have a lot of time to spare.”
Zane grinned, and Gwen’s heart actually skipped a beat at the sight of his incredible smile and snowy white teeth.
She instantly chided herself for such a foolish reaction to a simple smile. What the heck is wrong with you? He’s a client, and even if he wasn’t, he is not your kind of man. He’s filthy rich and probably spoiled rotten, and he is exactly the sort of man that a decent, hardworking woman should stay completely away from.
“I’m sure you can squeeze a ten-minute conversation into your busy schedule,” Zane said as he started away. “Meet you in the kitchen.”
“Come on, Alamo,” Gwen said with a frown caused by what had sounded like amusement in Fortune’s comment. If he thought her dedication to duty was funny, then there was no way she could even let herself like him as a person. She was a widow with three small children to support, definitely not a laughing matter. In fact, she would bet anything that she put in more hours a day to earn a living than Zane Fortune did.
Of course, he didn’t need to earn a living. Everyone in this part of Texas knew that the Fortunes had been wealthy for generations. Actually, Gwen had to give Zane points for working at all, when he could simply slide through life on old money, should he choose. Still, she and everybody else knew that executives in large companies had it pretty cushy, what with golf and tennis games during working hours, two-hour lunch breaks and secretaries up the kazoo to do the real work.
Well, that was none of her business she told herself while urging Alamo back into the tub so she could rinse away the soapsuds clinging to his coat. She worked fast, and when the suds were gone she turned the dog into the massive indoor pool room so he could shake away the water to his heart’s content without spreading it all over the house.
When Gwen first started her business, she’d been in awe of some of the homes belonging to wealthy clients. For instance, Zane Fortune’s home had two swimming pools, one outside and one inside. It had a tennis court and a putting green, and the grounds were lavishly landscaped. The house itself was a dream, contemporary in style, very large and professionally decorated.
Now, after almost a year of visiting luxury homes to do various chores, Gwen still admired but was no longer awestruck. She would never rub elbows with San Antonio’s rich and famous, and it didn’t bother her a bit. Her entire life was focused on her kids, on earning enough money to give them the necessities in the present and on trying very hard to save some for their future. It seemed, however, that whenever she accumulated any amount of cash, something came up that forced her to spend it. Gwen often worried about how she would pay for a college education for each of her children.
With handfuls of paper towel, she hurriedly wiped up the puddles left by Alamo during his race to the front door. She also used paper towels on herself, sopping up some of the water from her clothes. Untying the ribbon that held her hair back from her face—or was supposed to—she finger-combed straying strands back into place and retied the ribbon. She had just finished doing what she could to make herself more presentable when Zane returned to the kitchen. He was wearing baggy gray sweatpants, a mismatched blue top and old tennis shoes without socks.
His apparel surprised Gwen. Now he looked very much as she did. No, that wasn’t true. He was still so handsome that she found it difficult to look directly at him. It was a discomfiting feeling, one she didn’t much care for. Men didn’t daunt her, for Pete’s sake. Not normally, they didn’t.
“Oh, good, you’re still here,” Zane said, and he opened the refrigerator door. “So, what would you like to drink?”
“Nothing, Mr. Fortune, but thank you. I really don’t have the time to—”
“I’m only asking for a few minutes, Gwen. And for heaven’s sake, darlin’, call me Zane. Now, how about an orange juice? Or a soda?”
That darlin’ had rolled off his tongue so smoothly that it never occurred to Gwen that Zane might mean something by it. And obviously, he wasn’t going to let her leave without his “ten-minute” discussion, though she couldn’t imagine what he wanted to talk to her about. Unless there was something else he would like her to be doing for him as Help-Mate. He was a client, after all.
“All right,” she said, giving in gracefully, though she should already have left this house and been on her way to her next appointment. “I’ll have a bottle of water, if you have it.”
“Sure do.” Zane took their drinks from the refrigerator and let the door swing shut. “Let’s sit down.” He carried her water and his orange juice to the table. “Would you like a glass?”
“The bottle is fine, thanks.” Gwen took the chair that was directly across the table from the one Zane chose. He loosened the bottle cap and handed her the water.
Immediately she was uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny. He seemed to be trying to see beneath her skin. What was he hoping to do, read her mind? She certainly had no secrets. This whole meeting struck her as strange.
“Tell me what you do for your company,” Zane said.
Gwen frowned. “I’m not sure I understand what you’d like to know.”
“I’d like to know the scope of your duties. Besides bathing dogs, what else do you do?”
“Aren’t you aware of the other things I do for you?”
Zane sat back, thought a moment, then looked slightly startled. “I think I’m beginning to get the picture. Besides bathing Alamo, you’re the person who’s been cleaning my house, tending to my laundry and dry cleaning, buying my groceries, et cetera, et cetera.”
“Yes, there are a number of etceteras,” Gwen said dryly. “With most of my clients, to be honest. Help-Mate was designed to assist busy people with chores they have no time to do themselves. Things a wife or husband might do if the client had a spouse with extra time.”
“Are all of your clients unmarried?” Zane asked, and took a swallow of his orange juice while looking into Gwen Hutton’s lovely blue-gray eyes.
Her gaze didn’t waver, though she did wonder why he kept looking at her so intently. “A few of them are married, or living with someone, but most are single.”
“Like me.” Zane took a breath, and Gwen sensed it was a preamble to something—probably his reason for delaying her departure. “Gwen,” he said, “I have a problem, and I think you just might be the answer.”
She became wary, concerned about the personal note she heard in his