Stroke of Fortune by Christine Rimmer

was still passed out at his desk and she pulled all the curtainswide-open, letting in the hard, clear light of day. He’d groaned, growled at her to get out, and then turned his head away from the light.
    He hadn’t bargained on her bringing a bucket of ice water with her. She threw it on him.
    He came out of that desk chair bellowing, calling her a number of very bad names. He grabbed for her—and she slapped him, hard.
    And then she started talking.
    She told him off good and proper for throwing his life away. She called him a coward. She said he had no right at all to treat his body that way. She said he was hurting not only himself, but everyone who cared about him, by carrying on the way he was.
    She said it was time he quit rolling around in his own self-pity. That he had to pick himself up off the floor and get on with his life.
    Somehow, when Josie told him off, it worked. He hadn’t had a drink since that December morning.
    And she’d gone back to doing her job. They hardly spoke, except for the kind of things that pass between a man and a member of his household staff.
    â€œCoffee, Mr. Carson?”
    â€œYeah—by the way, did you pick up those shirts?”
    â€œThey’re in your closet.”
    â€œGreat, Josie. Thanks.”
    But he was more aware of her than before. He felt the tension building between them. He noticed thingshe shouldn’t: that she had pretty, slim hands with long, graceful fingers. That her neck was white and smooth and seemed to beg to have his mouth on it. That she had breasts just the right size to fill his hands…
    And then came that night in July. It was a week-night, the twelfth. The day had been a scorcher.
    He’d arrived home from a series of meetings and property tours in Corpus. It was after eight and he went straight to the air-conditioned comfort of his own rooms, not pausing to greet anyone in the family. He wanted a drink. Since that wasn’t an option, he’d reconciled himself to settling for some food and some peace and quiet, followed by a shower and a good night’s sleep. He’d ordered a tray sent up to his study.
    He was there, at his desk—the same desk she’d splattered with ice water six months before—when Josie brought him the tray. He had his laptop open and he was studying some drawings for prospective additions to one of the family’s apartment complexes.
    She entered quietly, as always. She could move into a room, do whatever needed doing there and leave again with no one the wiser. But in his study, the desk faced the door. He saw her come in.
    He knew he should tell her to put the tray down on the low table across the room. But when he opened his mouth, the wrong thing came out.
    â€œI’d like it over here, Josie.” He indicated a clear spot on his desk.
    She came toward him, her head down just a little, not making eye contact, looking at the tray as if she didn’t dare not look at it.
    She reached his side. He smelled the clean, dewy scent of her. She put the tray down right next to him.
    Before she could slide silently away, he caught her hand—just reached out and snared it—and held on way too tight.
    She gasped. Then she met his eyes and whispered his name. “Flynt?”
    He was up out of the chair, yanking her into his arms, pulling her as close as he’d been dreaming he might get her and bringing his mouth down to taste hers, at last….
    Â 
    In the crib, the way babies will, Lena had dropped off to sleep. She simply shut her eyes and in one split second she went off to dreamland, her little mouth slightly open.
    Behind him, Josie remained silent.
    He had to hand it to her. The woman had nerves of steel to stick there the way she was, saying nothing, waiting for the moment when he’d have to turn and deal with her.
    He gave in, straightening and turning to face her. “I don’t like to talk about Monica.”
    â€œI know.”
    He let