by Ford, Aria
“I’m also making a car,” Camille explained happily. “I’m making room for people. See?”
I saw she had carefully torn a hole in the box and had folded other cardboard to make something like triangles, laid on their backs.
“That’s very clever,” I said. She grinned up at me. Outside, I noticed, her eyes were blue, like the sky.
“I told Jack that,” she said. I laughed.
Jack pouted. “Mine’s clever,” he said stiffly.
“It is,” I agreed.
Half an hour later, triumphant and grinning, the two kids returned indoors with their creations, whooping and making car-noises. Or at least Jack was. Camille was carrying hers carefully, weaving it through the air almost as if it were a plane. She looked more relaxed than she had all day.
While the kids had lunch, I chatted to Paula, who explained that, even though it was holidays for the kids, they had lessons. Jack in arithmetic, Camille in dance. Sure enough, at one o’clock, exactly, two students turned up. The elder, a girl called Carey, took Jack upstairs to tutor and the younger, a bright-faced girl in her late teens called Millie, took Cammi to another room for her lessons. The lessons at least gave me time to go home and collect my things—some clothes for the next while and my laptop.
My room—when Paula took me to it—was yet another surprise. On the same floor as the rooms of the kids and, presumably, the master of the house. It was a delight. Small and meant for guests this place might be, but it was easily the most sumptuously-appointed place I had been in before.
“I must admit I actually hate this man,” I said, looking at the ceiling. “But I do like his house.”
The rest of the afternoon passed faster than I would have thought, and getting the kids to bed and sleeping also proved easy. At around nine o’clock, exhausted myself, I collapsed into the sumptuous, comfy bed.
I found my thoughts straying to Alexander Carring. I was so angry with him for how he had raised the kids. They were well behaved, it was true. But they were like small, frightened automata, not real kids. For all that, I also had to admit, at least to myself, that I was attracted to him. I recalled our meeting just that morning. My hand settled on my abdomen, drifted, and I was surprised to notice a dampness between my legs.
What? I blinked. I giggled. Was thinking about Alexander Carring arousing me? Already? I shook my head.
This man is the father of my charges, I told myself sternly. He is arrogant, unfeeling and self-serving. He is not for you. Yes, he is the sexiest man ever. But don’t. Just don’t.
“Emma,” I said aloud, laughing at myself. “Stay away.”
I couldn’t help imagining what he would be like undressed, how that lean body would gleam in the soft light of the bedroom, the scent of his cologne warm on his skin, the feel of those hard lips on my own. What would he be like in bed? Slow and sexy, or fast and passionate? I giggled, imagining his own hand stroking me, his body pressed on my own. What would I do if it was possible to find out more about him?
It wouldn’t, I thought, as I rolled onto my side, be that hard to resist temptation…he was not attractive enough to overcome his repellant character. Not for me.
I tried not to think about my discovery in the study—the beautiful glamor girl in the picture. I tried not to wonder what had happened or where she was now. I tried not to know, despite myself, that he would never really be attracted to someone as ordinary, as plain and frumpy, as me.
Chapter 3
Emma
My days with the kids went faster than I had expected. And already, I could swear I could see differences. That morning I was informed by Jack that he had dreamed about motor-cars, and he had decided he wanted to be a driver when he grew up. Camille laughed.
“You wouldn’t be a good driver.”
“Why?” Jack asked, voice screechy with rage.
“Your arms aren’t long enough to reach the wheel.”
Jack looked miserable and I grinned at him. “Long arms aren’t needed for driving. I promise. Look at me. I can drive…are my arms that long?” They both giggled.
“What?” I asked innocently.
“Nothing…”
That day, we played outside, games of hide-and-seek and races. We played until lunchtime and then came out and played afterward—Wednesday was their afternoon off. The games of hide-and-seek grew more elaborate, and I found myself perpetually “on,” actually challenged. There was no sign of Jack. It was five o’clock, shadows lengthening, and I was getting the first flutter of distress.
“Jack?”
Camille walked behind me, also looking worried. We had been hunting for ten minutes when we heard it. The roaring of an engine, coming fast across the lawn.
Jack was driving. What he was driving I took a moment to discern. It was small, knee-height and whirred like a grass-cutter. At first I thought it was one, except that it looked just like a miniature car. It was a miniature car, designed perfectly for a tiny rider, complete with the Ferrari badge. Cammi clapped her hands delightedly and ran toward him.
“There it is! You found it!” she shouted excitedly.
“Vroom, vroom!”
Jack was shouting at the top of his lungs, Camille was grinning benevolently, and I had my hands clasped, laughing with joy.
Then, suddenly, a voice rolled across the lawns like a gunshot.
“Jack Carring! Stop. Right. Now.”
I stopped too, terrified for a moment, whirling to face the sound. Camille stood still, and Jack’s face transformed into a mask of fear. He jumped out of the car and ran across the lawn, skidding to his knees in haste. He sat there, lip trembling, fighting not to cry. I struggled not to stare as Alexander Carring marched across the grass toward his small prone son.
“What on earth did you think you were doing?” he hissed, dragging on his arm to make him stand. He cuffed him on the side of the head.
Jack didn’t react to the blow. He scrambled up, looking up at his father, big eyes swimming. “Daddy, I…I…”
He started sobbing. That was too much. I marched over the grass, heedless of how my hair was in disarray, how covered with grass-stains my jeans had become. I was sure I looked horrible, but it matched my rage.
“Mr. Carring,” I said, loud and clear. “Your son didn’t mean to do any harm. If he was not allowed to use that car, shouldn’t you have told me? And there wasn’t any need for hitting. Your son is frightened.”
Jack hiccupped with fear, his thumb in his mouth in the gesture of a much smaller child.
“My son knew very well he did wrong,” Mr. Carring said thinly. “I confiscated that thing for a good reason. Look at the lawn!” He waved a hand despairingly at the green grass, now furrowed, here and there, with small brownish wheel-tracks.
“The lawn!” I exclaimed. “It will grow back. Look at your son.”
We both looked at Jack. Cammi had gone across to comfort him. As we watched, he pushed her away and she walked off, tears running down her cheeks. I watched Alexander Carring as he looked at them. He ran a hand through his hair. Then he turned to me.
“Do you have children?” His voice was arid.
“No,” I retorted, heatedly. “But I was one. And Heaven help me, I’m glad I wasn’t raised the way you’re raising these ones.”
He spun round, glared at me as if I had slapped him. We regarded each other levelly for a moment. Then he cleared his throat.
“You have no right to interfere with my raising of my children,” he said icily. “You are their nanny. Not their mother.” He spat the word. “I know our contract was for a month. But you clearly have no idea of your place. Get off my property.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Now go.”
“Mr. Carring,” I said. I was an arm’s length away from him and I could smell the spicy musk of his aftershave and see a small pulse beating somewhere in his forehead. I drew in a breath and counseled myself to ignore both, and the effect they were beginning to have on me. I tipped my
head back to look into his eyes. “We had an agreement. I am here with these children for a month. And I think they are sorely in need of me.”
He jerked as if I had slapped him. His eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your children are great,” I began, suddenly hesitant. “Well behaved, polite, perfect. They are also nothing like normal kids. The last few days have given them some of their childhood back. I will not let you throw me out and end all that because of some personal disagreement between us.”
I was panting when I finished, my rage burning inside me. He glared at me. I glared back, defiantly. I saw something flicker in his eyes. He flicked a tongue across dry, perfect lips. I tensed. Waited for the next words.
“You have no right to criticism my methods. My kids are perfect,” he said quietly. “I…appreciate your concern,” he said sarcastically. “But there is no need for it.”
“Fine,” I said, feeling suddenly bitter. So he had just fired me. So what? I didn’t actually need to stand here arguing with him. “Then I’ll go.” I turned quickly away from him.
He grabbed my wrist. The fingers, pressing on it, were corded with muscle, hard and strong. I could feel the warmth of his skin and, somewhere, a pulse throbbed deep in me. I looked down at my wrist and then up at him.
“You will unhand me.”
He was looking down at me and, as I wrenched my wrist left and right, trying to free it, what was written in his eyes was not anger. Anything but.
“Let me go,” I said, giving my wrist a savage wrench to the right. He didn’t react, didn’t move a muscle. His eyes stayed watching mine and a warmth flickered in them, a warmth that excited me. I twisted my arm. He blinked, as if trying to clear his thoughts.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. He let go and, as abruptly as it had flowered, the tension died. I took my wrist back, circling it experimentally, though I was sure there was nothing broken. His grip was almost strong enough for that. “I had no right to…lay hands on you like that. Forgive me.”
He was looking at the ground and he licked his lips again, clearly a nervous habit. I said nothing, and he looked up at me. His eyes were bare of any kind of pretense, and the expression I read in them was a mix of fear, surprise and, somewhere in their depths a spark of longing.
The latter surprised me, more so because it mirrored exactly what I felt. I wanted to grab him, to hold him in my arms, to press that lean, strong, firm body against my own and let him take me, let that wild encounter go to a natural conclusion. But that was my foolish imagination. Fired by the scent of spice and musk, aroused by the depths of his eyes. I was being stupid.
“I should go,” I said, clearing my throat.
“You should,” he said quietly. “We should discuss this when we are both more…rational.” He said it with a quirk of his lips that could have been self-mockery. I nodded.
“Yes,” I agreed. “We’ll do that.”
Neither of us moved. We both looked at each other and, in that moment, our eyes locked. He was the first to look away.
When the pounding speed of my heart returned to normal, I cleared my throat again.
“I should go,” I said again. This time, he made no move to stop me. I walked quietly across the lawn, leaving Alexander Carring and two small children standing there behind me. When I reached the house, I turned around.
Alexander had crossed the lawn and he was crouched beside Jack. The boy looked marginally less terrified, and Camille looked tense with hope. I bit my lip.
I hope everything works out between them.
Whatever happened, I was left with a tumult of my own feelings to address.
And I didn’t know where to start. I didn’t understand what I felt about this tall, cold authority that had just blasted into my life. All I knew was that I probably never would.
And I knew that, deep inside, I wanted him. I was wondering, with a flicker of hope that sent chills down my body, if he maybe, just maybe, didn’t feel that way too.
Chapter 4
Alex
I need to be objective about this. She is here, in my home, living just a story away. She is the nanny, for Pete’s sake! I need to be sensible here.
But how can I be? The look in her eyes when she confronted me. The passion in her voice! And the soft skin of her wrist, in between my fingers, making my body tense and stiff with longing.
She is fearless. She confronted me without a second word. She glared at me.
I wanted to smile, thinking of the fierceness in those hazel hawkish eyes. She was a fighter, and yet her heart was big. Why else had she defended the children, against me?
Am I really as bad as she said?
I swallowed hard, thinking of that. It was difficult to understand, difficult to know where I had gone wrong in his care for them. All these years since Ada had been here…I stopped. It was still too hard to think of her. Here, in this space, where I could almost, if I listened hard, hear her laughter on the air coming from the bedroom next door, where she lay in a satiny gown, just waiting for me…
Pull yourself together.
I shook his head, mind whirling. I had come in here to work, not to spend ages thinking about the new au pair! There were deadlines to meet, forms to fill in, deals to organize I didn’t need to waste this time as it is. I groaned, running a hand across my face, just thinking about it. I was tired. The excitement of having her here had made me forget that but it was true.
I reached across, yawning, taking one of the forms off the pile I had just printed and, glancing at the laptop I saw it was already nearly nine pm I really did have to get this stuff done soon. But I couldn’t stop my mind from going back over that unexpected confrontation, again and again. Couldn’t stop myself from thinking about the fact that she was here, somewhere, in my house. I had not felt like this for years. My cock was pulsing in my pants and my heart raced. I had thought myself devoid of desire, had thought he had long ago given up feeling this for any other woman. Until now.
Until a small, pert, and lovely young au pair had confronted me.
I swallowed, thinking of her curvy form in the tight jeans, her plaid blouse loose and casual under that abundance of shiny hair. I felt his throat tighten at the memory of her pale skin, the moist pinkness of her lips, the swell of breasts pushing the buttons of her shirt.
She is here somewhere, in my house. Alone.
I felt my hands clenching into fists. I shook my head, reaching for my pen. Forcing myself to think about work. I should not be thinking about her like this. She was my children’s nanny. I had met her three days before in a hallway, when she ran into me. And now. I recalled the brief first meeting with a smirk. She had cannoned into me, and for the briefest instant I had known what it felt like for those breasts to press against me, for that soft body to be pressed up close against me.
I wonder what she would do if I drew her close again. If I held her. Kissed her.
The thought sent an unfortunate excitation my groin I clenched my teeth, fighting it down. I would not touch her. I could stop right now in these games of imagining what she might be like in bed, what kind of a lover she might be. The thought of her, on her back, her smile broad, eyes closed, sent shivers through me. But I would not waste time on asking questions that must remain unanswered: what kind of a lover she was didn’t affect me.
The fact that I just almost fired her, though, did.
For that I had to apologize.
What if she took it into her head to leave? I was here for two days and then I would fly off for another business-meeting. A longer one. I could not imagine anyone with whom I would leave my children, besides her. And it was too late to start looking now. Besides, I trusted her. Already. If she would defend them against their father, how much more so against anything else?
Come on. Better go do it.
I glanced at the clock. It was past nine o’clock in the evening, well past suppertime. I had eaten a little at the dining-room table alone. I did not even know whet
her or not she ate something. Feeling a sudden pang of guilt for that, as well as for my earlier unkindness. I stood and walked slowly from the room.
I stopped at the window in the hallway, checking my reflection in the reflective surface. Couldn’t help laughing.
Alexander Carring, you are apologizing to a nanny. Not presenting a million-dollar deal at a business do. Or going on a date.
The last thought made my pulse quicken and I quickly fought it down. Walking along the hallway I reached the door to the room he had assigned Miss Blunt. Weird to feel this excitement, this sense of delicious anticipation, as I walked up the hallway but I did.
I reached the door. I knocked.
No answer.
I waited, listening. Somewhere, I could hear water running. And a thread of sound suggested someone sang. I listened, feeling my heart beat faster.
She was in the shower, clearly. It was not simply the thought of water cascading over that naked skin, glistening on her wet breasts and strong thighs that moved me, though. It was the strange intimacy and innocence of her voice. High and clear, it spoke to me of sweetness, of simple pleasures. Things I long ago lost…I am surprised to find she hadn’t.
I knocked again. The water was off now, but I did not receive an answer and assumed I had not heard. I was leaning on the lintel, lost in pleasant daydreaming when the door suddenly shot open. I found himself looking down into a face that looked up, as surprised to see me as I was in that moment.
“Uh, Miss Emma…”
I cleared his throat, feeling deliciously confused and faintly silly at once. It had been many years, too many, since I had been so surprised, so clearly put at disadvantage. The feeling was surprisingly nice. And she was, also, surprising.
This close, her fresh-washed hair just curling with the warmth of her skin, smelling of roses and toothpaste, mixed, her skin clean and radiant, I had to fight not to touch her.
Her eyes were wide open, the whites showing all around from shock. Her lips had parted, too, and the space between them was a little “o”. Perfect, he thought, for sliding in a tongue, for deepening a kiss, for tasting those sweet lips.