Maid for the Millionaire
© 2013 Javier Reinheart
Cover design by Javier Reinheart
Book design by Javier Reinheart
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book contains explicit scenes of an erotic nature and is not intended for those under the age of eighteen.
I hope I don’t screw it up.
That single phrase was all that resonated through my head as I walked through the forest path in the twilight hours of a beautiful day in June. Birds were chirping, the wheels on my suitcase were squeaking, my heart was pounding. As a fresh-out-of college 24 year old girl, my worries had changed in the month since I graduated. Instead of fretting about the extra pounds I had put on or that my term paper was five thousand words too short, I was now concerned with finding the money to put food in my mouth and a roof over my head. My degree was in a saturated field, one that required at least a year of unpaid internships to get lucky enough to be considered for a paid position. I was broke. I couldn’t wait that long.
The road I walked down led to the Carawell estate. The family had been famous in my neck of New England for their wealth and for the scandal involving their missing infant son around fifteen years ago. Victor Carawell was something of a legend in the stock broker business, carrying an uncanny streak of investments that led to untold riches. Many would pay quite a price for his dedication and skill in the trade. Some accused him of being a cheat, an insider. Others proclaimed his intelligence and luck to be entirely self-made. I couldn’t tell you which was my opinion; I had never met the guy. To me, he was my future employer. My ticket to building up my savings account. So I could go on to bigger and greater things. That’s right, I had been accepted to be one of Mr. Carawell’s many maids.
I had done a bit of cleaning as a part time job in college for some extra fun money. It was never anything on the scale of serving a multi-millionaire. Thankfully my friend and former classmate James vouched for me, he had been working an apprenticeship in the stables ever since he graduated ahead of me a year ago. The thought that I would have a friendly face to see in this hidden in the woods mansion comforted me. My heart still pounded as I walked.
When I reached the front doors of the mansion it was 6:15. A full quarter-hour after my scheduled arrival time. As I knocked on the door my mind was fully prepared to make one of many understandable excuses for my tardiness. The bus was late, the hike from the main road to the mansion took nearly ten minutes; it was not an easy location to get to. But seconds after I rang the bell a woman appeared in my sights from behind the front door. She looked distinguished: perfectly parted hair, expensive grey sweater, tight black pencil skirt and the highest heels I had ever seen. No words initially, just a careful stare as her eyes darted up and down. I felt like a lion’s prey being scoped out for its next meal.
“April Thompson?”
“Yes Ma’am. I apologize for my lateness, I...”
“No matter. I’ll be your supervisor. You may call me Helen. Come, let’s get you sized up. Let’s hope we finish by dinnertime.”
Helen led me so fast through the mansion I barely had time to register each of the rooms. The echo of her heels set the pace as my eyes darted through each open door I walked by: The majestic entrance hall with grand staircase, the library with books that stretched to the ceiling, the smells and sounds emanating from the kitchen. As we walked Helen gave me a brief history of the mansion. Her voice reminded me of a cross between an overexcited tour guide and a traditional Catholic high school teacher.
“The Carawell Estate formerly belonged to the Elliot family. It was built in 1927 with renovations in 1940, 1977 and most recently in 1995. The last remaining survivor of the Elliot family, George Elliot, squandered away his inheritance and was forced to sell. Our staff could not be happier to be rid of the selfish git. Victor Carawell is a much more proper man to work for. He and his wife treat us very fairly.”
“Will I be meeting him tonight?”
“April, my dear, I should hope not. Mr. Carawell is a very busy man. Our duty is to make sure the drudgery of daily life does not inconvenience his career. Do the hands of the grandfather clock pay mind to the cogs? If you do your job correctly and efficiently, there will be minimal interaction with the master. And in return, he will compensate you accordingly.”
Part of me was a little disappointed. Victor Carawell was something of a recluse, conducting business entirely from home. To have actually met him in person and to have shaken his hand would put me in a very exclusive group of people. Still, the tone and words in which Helen carried struck true. I was the maid, just a small part in the functioning of this household.
“The mansion is divided into two wings, the east and west. The east wing is which where Mr. Carawell conducts his business. Due to his unique skillset, his trade secrets must be protected. As such, entering the east wing without express permission from Mr. Carawell, Mrs. Carawell or myself is grounds for dismissal.”
“No entering the east wing, got it.”
“You will be spending much of your day in the west wing, which contains the dining area, kitchens, parlor, master bedrooms, and head staff quarters. Like the east wing, you are not to enter the master bedroom area without express permission from Mr. Carawell or myself. He occasionally would like dinners or late night snacks to be brought there.”
“Where would I be staying?”
“Our destination in this tour. There is an annex next to the stables outside that houses the maids, butlers and cooks. You will have your own bedroom to retire to at night. Technically, you will be on duty at all hours of the day, but we do try our best to make sure the workload is distributed evenly. You are allowed free reign over the annex, which also contains kitchens for your own use and a recreation area. If you feel like you are missing anything, contact me and I will see what I can do.”
At the end of the hallway there was a large wooden door that led to the outside. A small gravel path traveled for about a hundred yards before connecting with a small building that could easily house ten or twenty employees dormitory style. Helen warned me that the door to the mansion would lock automatically, but I would have my own key and should immediately report in the case of loss. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the stables on the side of the mansion. I wondered if James was working in there that very second. Helen and I entered the annex together.
“The annex will be fairly empty at this time of day. I will show you to your room, where you can unpack and settle yourself for the night. I will return with your uniform.”
Only the muffled sounds of hurried footsteps and doors opening echoed throughout the annex as Helen showed me my personal habitat. I don’t know why I expected it to be as lavish as the rest of the mansion, but it had the bare essentials: bed, desk, drawers, closet and my own personal bathroom. Helen went out to grab my uniform from the annex storage. I took the opportunity to appreciate the view of the mansion out the window.
The woods extended far beyond what I could see. Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement on one of the upper windows. There was a man, staring out into the distance as he buttoned up his white dress shirt. The paintings that peppered my initial tour match his face exactly. There was no doubt about it, I was looking at Victor Carawell himself.
Even at
this distance I felt very small in his presence. Victor’s face was very youthful and boyish for his age; but the way he buttoned his expensive shirt, groomed his jet black hair, held himself filled me with a sense of power. The eyes that stared into the woods were cold and focused, hinting that he was thinking of a million different things at this very second. I could see why he was so good at selling his skills, just one look at him and I was convinced he was a pro.
The eyes of the billionaire snapped from the woods to the annex, straight at my peeping face. No longer holding the million unique thoughts, they instead focused on the strange girl spying his half dressed self. I panicked, practically leaping away from the window. So much for first impressions.
I unpacked the rest of my things, taking careful note not to look out the window again. Helen arrived right before I finished, carrying my uniform in her arms. She urged me to try it on in the bathroom immediately. There, standing on the cool stone stiles, I modeled for myself. It was a puffy little outfit: frilly lace skirt and a black bodice complete with cute little pink bows lining the hem. It looked and felt distinguished, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling I wouldn’t be out of place in a maid-centric porno. I wasn’t bothered; fancy clothes like these were a rarity and they showed off my curves rather well. I could get used to this.
“How does it feel dear?” Helen questioned through the bathroom door.
“It’s a little tight up front.”
Wrinkles spread across her face as she scowled.
“It used to be mine.”
Oops.
“I’ll see if I can get it adjusted later. I’ll leave you to your things, we start tomorrow morning at 5am sharp.”
Maybe I should have said nothing at all.
Mr. Carawell and I never crossed paths the entire week. Instead, I found myself in the empty rooms, trying my best to stay in the shadows while I cleaned. Occasionally I would catch a glimpse of Mr. Carawell or his wife walking from one room to the next; often with a whole cabinet of servants following them. These casual glances only fed my curiosity; I had never held a job before where I never met my boss. I wanted to greet him, get to know him, understand him. But he was untouchable, always with Mrs. Carawell or an assistant. What made it worse was the fact that aside from that first night through the annex window, he had never even glanced in my direction. I was a shadow in his mansion.
During my off hours I would often go down to the stable to talk with James as he tended to the horses. We would catch up on each other’s days, kick back and relax with some beer to unwind from the fancy environment. I tried my best to pry more information about our boss from him, but James was just as clueless. Occasionally, he provided bits of gossip that I obsessed over.
“Have you seen Mrs. Carawell lately? Cid is telling me that she’s been fed up with Victor. There might even be a separation.”
I felt my heart pound at the prospect of a single Mr. Carawell, even though my mind kept telling me why it meant nothing. I was confused as to why I felt this way about such an older man. I was a college graduate with no money, a plain face, and little to offer to a man like Victor. If he was used to women of Mrs. Carawell’s caliber, there was no way I could ever hope to compare. Still, my mind ran wild with fantasies of him coming into my bedroom late at night and having his way with me. I didn’t share my secret with James.
“Huh. I wonder if she’s going to do it before the Lockheart dinner party. Everyone is already stressed out as is.”
“Let’s hope she waits.”
I hope she waited too. From dawn to dusk, it seemed all that everyone talked about was the upcoming dinner party in hopes of securing a new account for Mr. Carawell’s portfolio. No one talked the exact specifics of the deal, but there were rumors of a thousand dollar bonus to all staff if the night ran smoothly. It wasn’t exactly charity money, but I still found his respect towards his staff endearing.
“They are looking for extra hands on deck. I can put in a good word for you if you want it.”
Standing at attention during dinner and serving. Placing napkins on laps. Refilling wine glasses. I could do that!
“Oh James, that’d be fantastic! Thank you so much!”
As I gave him a friendly hug, I thought about what this opportunity meant. I’d be in the same room as Mr. Carawell for an entire evening. Back against the wall and silent, of course. My mind judged my reasoning. But my heart pounded in excitement. Maybe, just maybe, I would be noticed in his eyes.
James certainly put in a good word in for me, and then some. The very next morning Helen tested me in my serving aptitude. Thankfully I had grown used to the heels I wore as part of my uniform and was able to walk in a straight, concise manner. Even when balancing five plates (thank you, teenage waitress job). The detail that Helen demanded was absolute, from my chin always behind held high to the way I held my hands when waiting for further instruction. Several hours of training later, I was accepted into the position for the night. It still felt like I was accepted by the skin of my teeth.
The day of the party I felt as if I could fall apart at any moment. I meticulously checked my makeup, my dress, my hair, my posture. And still I wished I had more time to prepare. By the time 7 rolled around I was already lined up with the other servers in the dining hall. Every single pair of eyes was focused on the entrance door. It opened promptly at seven fifteen. Helen was the first to lead; followed by Mr. and Mrs. Carawell, what I assumed was Mr. Lockheart and his wife, and several other men and women I assumed to be their lackeys. As Helen introduced the woodwork design on the walls of the dining area, I kept hoping his head would turn in my direction. No such luck, although Mr. Lockheart did give me a small smile when he passed by. I returned the smile as best I could while his body odor invaded my nostrils.
It was like a synchronized dance. I played my timing with the other servers to the second; setting down silverware, handing off food, lighting the candles. When placing Mrs. Lockheart’s napkin I noticed her husband staring down my chest. Combined with his increasing familiar smell of whiskey and sweat I suppressed the urge to throw up.
“Beautiful house, Victor. If your business sense is as good as your sense of decor, I see an very bright revenue stream in our futures..”
Laughing, Mr. Carawell continued his sell.
“I certainly am proud of this place. Though I cannot take all the credit, we have an exceptional staff here at the Carawell estate. Now, I understand you’re proposing a reverse split on Irvine Energy. I’ve seen this pattern before, the shareholders will come knocking about their value...”
The business talk bored me, so I focused instead on the atmosphere. Mrs. Carawell had not spoken a word since she entered and seemed to be avoiding her husband’s conversation at all costs. Mr. Carawell was clearly dominating the conversation, meticulously picking apart each and every point of Lockheart’s business plan. Even with a large prize on the line, he never shied away from being brutally honest. Yet he never jumped the line from critical to insulting. I could see why he was good as what he did.
Lockheart raised his glass, signifying the need for a refill. I had hoped another server would assist, but the man was looking directly at me. Keeping my face straight and holding my breath, I grabbed the bottle of wine from the bar and paced back to the table. The man’s eyes violated me with great interest. I fought the urge to run away, instead focusing on pouring the wine.
My face ran cold as I felt the sudden sensation of Mr. Lockheart’s hand run up my skirt and grope my butt. It startled me so much that I lost control of the wine. It fell from my hands, spraying all over his suit. You would have thought a gunshot went off with how ballistic Helen went. Within a second she was screaming.
“Young April, you will take Mr. Lockheart into the kitchen and clean your mistake up!”
She continued apologizing for quite some time. With a brutally red face, I hoped someone had noticed what the pervert had done. Apparently not. Instead of outrage at him, there was only disappointment t
owards me. The stupid server who had spilled wine all over the important guest. The saving grace was that Mr. Lockheart was not outraged himself, instead insisting that it was a simple mistake over Helen’s profuse apologies. I looked up at Mr. Carawell. He looked back at me with cold, stern eyes.
At least I was finally noticed.
The sink was in the back area of the kitchen. My mind ran wild with fear. What if I got fired? I had no plan B. For the first time since I graduated I wasn’t worrying about where my next paycheck would come from. If I would have enough to buy food for the month. The fear of losing my job outweighed the fear of this repulsive man standing before me. I wet a towel with the sink and began patting his shirt down. My mind was so distracted that I didn’t even notice we were out of sight of the cooks.
“There there, you made a mistake. We all do. Your name is April?”
“Yes sir.”
“That’s a very pretty name. Do you have a boyfriend?”
The warning bells began to go off in my head. I felt frozen to the spot, unable to decide what to do.
“...I don’t think that’s appropriate to ask, sir.”
“Of course, you're a professional. Let's speak business then. Dear April, do you know why I’m here?”
“Of course sir. To reach an agreement with Mr. Carawell. I couldn’t tell you the details, the maids don’t concern themselves with that.”
“Aren't you precious? Then again, I doubt Victor would tell his staff. You see, he’s fallen on hard times recently. A bit of bad choice in investments. Of course, the public doesn’t know about this, but he’s losing credibility. He’s very good at hiding it, but he needs people like me to continue paying for the lavish life he lives. Which places me, the business partner, in a very good position.”
I felt his hand on my shoulder. Looking up into his eyes, I felt very small. He continued to speak to me.
“To be honest, I’m not sure I want to partner with Victor anymore. At least that’s the decision I’m leaning towards. He's lost his edge. Can't be trusted anymore. I’m a understanding man though, and I can be persuaded. Do you want your employee to have my business?”
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