Temporary Wife

by Aria Ford

“Nothing.”

  I resolutely looked at the wall. He had a beautiful accent—an impeccable British voice. This was the owner of Carring Solutions, an investment bank that had steadily rolled in funds for the last decade or so, making its sole owner, Alexander Carring, a cool billion. Whatever he has in the bank, I told myself, he still doesn’t have the right to look at me like he discovered me in his soup.

  “You’re late.”

  I glared at him before I realized what I was doing. Realizing it, I looked at the wall, cheeks flaming. “I know that,” I mumbled.

  He said nothing. When I looked back at him, I caught a lift of his cheeks, before he hastily rearranged his face to neutrality. Had he been smiling? I swallowed hard.

  “Well then,” he said easily. “If you know that, I suppose there’s no point me pointing it out anymore. I expect you will be more reliable in your care of my children.”

  I wanted to glare again. Instead I made my voice so frosty I could use it to set ice cream. “I take my responsibilities extremely seriously, Mr. Carring. I would give my life to keep a child safe.”

  I meant it. Being a teacher does that to you. Every one of those twentysomething young lives is in your hands, and you find yourself diving into swimming pools or walking into traffic without even thinking about it, to keep a child unharmed.

  He gave me an odd look. “That remains to be seen,” he said, very quietly.

  “You have my word.”

  He snorted. Whatever that odd expression was disappeared, hidden behind that bland mask again. I felt hurt. My word means everything to me, and he had no right to dismiss it so glibly. I was going to take him up on that, but he was walking again and I followed. We walked the last few paces to my employer’s office together and looked at the receptionist at the same moment. The receptionist looked scared.

  “Mrs. Hitchins?”

  “Um, yes. Good morning, Mr. Carring.”

  I had the momentary pleasure of being just behind his shoulder and seeing, undiluted, the effect he had on other people. It was gratifying. At least I’m not the only person who’s scared of him. If anything, Carla looked more frightened than I was.

  “I have just met Miss Blunt,” he continued evenly. “I presume there is some sort of paperwork to be done before she meets the children?”

  Children. Not kids. I grinned to myself. He really was British, wasn’t he? It was, if I was honest, quite sexy. I was just not ready to admit that to anyone yet, not even myself.

  “Um, yes,” Carla said nervously. “You both need to sign this form. This one is for the agreement, and this one, here, is an indemnity…”

  Carla rummaged behind the desk. She did not see, as I did, the sudden closing of his features.

  “I’m not signing it.”

  “Mr. Carring?” Carla stared at him, long-lashed eyes blinking. She looked confused.

  “The indemnity,” he said. “I am not signing it. If anything happens to my children, I will hold your agency, and Miss Blunt, personally responsible.” His face was starkly empty.

  “Now hold on a minute!” I blurted out at that, feeling my cheeks heat with anger.

  He swiveled round to stare at me.

  Under that cool stare, I felt myself wither. I cleared my throat and continued in a slightly softer tone of voice. “The indemnity doesn’t excuse me if something happens,” I explained. “It is simply a statement from you, to say that you have, to the best of your knowledge, informed me of any dangers or health risks to your children.”

  I kept it as formal as possible, using each inch of my degree in English Literature to its fullest extent. He looked at me. Those dark eyes searched mine and, to my shock, I saw a deep, buried pain there.

  “Very well,” he said hoarsely. “But I am telling you, Miss Blunt, that if so much as a single hair on my children’s heads is harmed, I will seek you out. And I will see that justice is done.”

  It only occurred to me after he had signed the paper and pushed it back at Carla that he had never said whether or not justice would be carried out in the court or according to his own inner compass. I shuddered.

  “Well then, Miss Blunt,” he said quietly, when both forms were signed. “That seems to be all the formalities. Now all that remains is for me to leave you with my own papers and instructions.”

  “Sorry?”

  He was already walking to the office door. I struggled to keep up as we headed back down the hallway and to the doorway of the lift where, a few brief minutes earlier, we had just met.

  “Here,” he said briefly, passing me a sheaf of printed documents, neatly packed into a slimline envelope. “I am a busy man. In two hours I should be in Chicago. I cannot take time off simply to show the nanny round my house. In that envelope is everything you need to know. The set of keys assigned to you is here.” He passed them to me, then continued. “I should ask you to sign that you have read it but I am told you are an educated woman and I am sure you do not need me to tell you the basics. Now if you will excuse me, I am late. And for me, time is money.”

  He looked at me, lips lifting in what seemed to be a smile or a smirk. Then, before I had fully got to grips with what he had just said, he turned and walked, quickly and silently, into the lift.

  “Wait!” I shouted.

  The door was already closing, leaving me alone in the hallway with an envelope, keys and no idea at all how to begin.

  Chapter 2

  Emma

  “And the back door opens out onto the pool area. On no account allow the children out there unobserved…”

  I read the notes as I walked up the drive toward the house. That was why I was not fully looking up at it until I came to rest on the front steps. Then I looked up. I almost fell over.

  The house was massive. Painted a delicate cream, slate roofed, with twelve steps leading to the front door, it was a mansion, not a house. By anyone’s definition. I was raised in a small apartment—it had an upstairs and a downstairs. I had never—ever—seen a house with three floors. Or one, for that matter, with so many windows. And doors. And such a high wall around the garden.

  I stepped back, cleared my throat, and looked up at it again. I looked down at the doorstep, aware that my muddy feet had left a mark there. I had to stop myself wiping it off.

  Be cool, Emma, I told myself firmly. It’s a house. What’s it going to do to you? Swallow you? I chuckled nervously to myself and rang the bell. Somewhere, magnified by the depths of the vast house, I heard it ring. I waited. Pressed it again. A few seconds later, someone answered it.

  “Hello?”

  I jumped. The older woman who opened it looked up at me with a distrustful gaze. I swallowed and set off boldly.

  “Hello!” I said nervously. “I’m Emma Blunt. The au pair? I’m pleased to meet you. I was sent here, um, unaccompanied by Mr. Carring?”

  The diminutive lady in the hallway looked up at me again, more blankly this time. I realized I had been babbling and cleared my throat.

  “Emma Blunt,” I said, holding out my hand and making a rather sickly attempt at a grin. “You were expecting me, I think?”

  The older woman cleared her throat. “I’m Paula Laroche, the charlady. Mr. Carring said to expect visitors. You want to come in?”

  “Yes!” I said, weak with relief. “I’m looking after the children. Um, Jack and…Camilla? I’m going to be here for a month.” I asked, reaching awkwardly for the sheaf of notes he sent with me to check I had the names right.

  “Yes! Yes.” The woman nodded, face lighting up as I said the names of the children. “Come this way. They’re upstairs.”

  “Thank you.”

  Feeling grateful to Paula, I followed her upstairs. The stairs seemed to go on forever and I looked around as we went, marveling at the stylish understatement of the house. The stairs were laminated wood with a wrought-iron balustrade, something between delightfully vintage and insanely modern at the same time. The walls were cream, the stairs pale wood, the whole house scented w
ith some subtle perfume. I was already falling in love with the place.

  “Here.” she said, stopping outside a painted wooden door. The floor had changed again: here it was carpeted, the carpet so soft and silky it absorbed all sound. She knocked once, then opened it.

  “Paula!” I heard a childish voice cry out happily, and a second later a little boy cannoned into my newfound guardian angel, embracing her knees.

  “I have a visitor for you,” she said gently. Her long, knotted fingers stroked the gilded softness of his hair. Two wide green-brown eyes stared up at me solemnly.

  The little boy, Jack, was looking up at me like a diminutive angel. He had a soft face, wide eyes with long lashes, and slightly curly gold hair. His body was somewhere between the softness of childhood and the start of teenage growth. He was, according to my list, nine years old. I felt my heart stir with something that I could swear was awe—or the beginning of love.

  I smiled down at him. He gazed at me. He kept his hand resolutely in Paula’s, and moved so that she was between himself and I. He kept out of sight for a second, and then peered up again, to see, I guessed, if I was still looking. I grinned at him again and he smiled back, shy, hand wringing his shirt.

  “You’re Jack, yes?” I asked gently. “Hi, I’m Emma.”

  He shot behind Paula, not saying a word. He was shy it seemed. Paula chuckled.

  “Come now, master Jack. Miss Emma wanted to say something to you,” she said, voice still laughing.

  “Don’t want to come out,” Jack said firmly.

  I smiled. He seemed a little hesitant, almost as one younger than himself would be. But no one said he had to march boldly out and greet me, now did they? And far rather a shy angel than a wounded, violent child, any day.

  “Okay, Jack,” I said gently. “Now let’s go and find your sister. Okay?”

  Jack looked up at me, eyes like saucers. “Cammi’s not playing.”

  “Oh?” I asked. I looked inquiringly at Paula, who shrugged.

  “Miss Cammi’s probably upstairs, Miss Emma,” she said carefully. “She’s very…” she made a gesture with her hands that I took to mean unhappiness, or nerves. I nodded.

  “We’ll give her some time,” I nodded. “Isn’t that right, Jack?” I asked. He looked at me with those soft eyes and grinned.

  “You like cars, Emma?”

  I couldn’t help smiling at his candidness, his enthusiasm. “Yes!” I nodded. I do like cars. At one time, my guilty pleasure was the Grand Prix on TV. I haven’t watched for years, but I still followed the news.

  “Come and see my cars!” Jack said. He took my hand and led me across the room, which I assumed—rightly, it seemed—to be some activity room for the children. It had an uncarpeted, high-polished laminate floor, long windows blazing with sunshine and a strange absence of all but the most basic furniture. He went to a wooden box and lifted the lid. Inside were cars. Beautiful models, made to scale—priceless, probably. I stared.

  “An’ this one’s a BMW, and this one…” Jack was busy scratching round in the box, producing a bright red one with a rearing-horse insignia in tiny paintwork on the bonnet, “this one’s my favorite!” he said proudly. “It’s a Ferrari!”

  I smiled, noting Paula disappeared somewhere during the interaction. “It’s beautiful.”

  He had it on the floor, making car noises.

  “Vroom, vroom! Eeee…” he made the cornering noise, pushing it along on two wheels. The wheels—real rubber, I noted—left a slight stain on the pristine pale-wood flooring.

  I reached out to touch the stain, wondering if I could take it off with a toothbrush. He jerked his hand away from the car and looked up at me, eyes swimming.

  “Sorry,” he said quickly. He hastily began to gather up the cars, and I felt my heart twist achingly.

  “No, Jack,” I said gently. “What’s the matter? We don’t have to stop playing.”

  “We don’t?” He put the car in carefully as I came to join him at the trunk.

  “No,” I said gently. “What’s up? Did you think I was mad because of the mark on the floor?”

  He nodded, a tear running down his face. I swallowed hard, feeling suddenly angry. If there is one thing I hate more than anything, it is people who spoil their kids—often as compensation—and then fly off the handle when they accidentally break or damage something by playing with it. If they didn’t want to buy something expensive, they shouldn’t have.

  “Jack,” I said, gentle but firm. “It’s rubber. It’ll come off the floor. It doesn’t matter. Your daddy bought these for you. He didn’t want you to just look at them, now, did he?”

  Jack swallowed hard. “I dunno!” he wailed. “Daddy gets so angry sometimes and…and it’s not my fault I break things sometimes. He doesn’t understand.” His lip wobbled dangerously and he looked at his shoes.

  I swallowed hard, trying not to let my anger show. I wasn’t angry with Jack. I was angry with Alexander Carring. Of all the arrogant, emotionless…

  “It’s okay,” I said gently. “It’s okay. Daddy’s got his own problems, I’m sure. But if we want to play cars properly, I have much better ones.”

  “You do?” he looked up at me, eyes round.

  “Yes,” I said firmly. We’d be making our own cars, out of whatever junk I could find. At least he could play properly with those. “But first,” I said, “let’s find your sister. Camilla. She might want to play too.”

  “Cammi doesn’t like playing anymore. She’s sad all the time.” He looked somewhat frustrated, if anything. I bit my lip. What the hell is going on here?

  “Is she in her bedroom?” He nodded. “Is she sad now?”

  He nodded again.

  “Can we go find her?”

  “Okay.”

  I followed him out of the sunny room and down the hallway, back on the soft carpets again. We reached a tall painted wooden door and I stopped, looking at him questioningly.

  He nodded, then retreated a pace. I knocked. “Camilla?”

  No answer.

  “Camilla?”

  I waited and felt a tug on my hand. Jack was standing next to me. I looked down into his earnest green-brown gaze. “Ca-meel,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “Not Camilla,” he corrected patiently. “Camille.”

  “Oh. Camille?”

  Still nothing. I paused. I have a rule with children: Never intrude into their private space unless you have to. Children have dignity, too, all the more fragile for being stepped on so often.

  “Jack? Would Camille mind if I walked in?”

  Jack didn’t say anything. He just walked up to the door and dragged it open. I felt a bit shocked, and suddenly, on the threshold, a bit awkward, but I peered in anyway. It was dark in there. It smelled of the kind of perfume people buy for little girls, sweet and floral. I walked in across the soft carpet, reached for the curtains and opened them. Jack had already disappeared into the hallway and I let him go. Meeting his six-year-old sister would probably be better with just the two of us there. I breathed out, settling myself.

  “Camille?”

  Somewhere on the bed, something moved fractionally. I looked around to give her time. The room was done in lurid pink, the furniture was cottage-style, wooden, and white. The bed covers were black and pink pinstripes. I focused on the movement on the upper of the bunk beds. As my eyes came into focus, I saw the figure of a small girl. She also had pale hair, more strawberry toned than the sunny hair of her brother. She was dressed in cream and she had a bow in her hair. She was huddled so I could not see her face.

  “Camille?”

  The bundle inched inward, curling up on itself. Camille clearly didn’t want to know anything about me. I reached up, tempted to touch her on the shoulder, but something told me I should be ultracareful. I withdrew.

  “I just want to tell you that I’m here. Your brother and I are going to go and play outside. We’re going to make cars. If you want to join in, you can, but if
you don’t want, that’s also fine. You can stay here until lunchtime if you want.”

  I waited a moment or two, then turned and walked slowly out.

  “Daddy?”

  The little voice on the bed made me turn around suddenly in the doorway. It was so heartbroken, so wracked, that it compelled me. I looked up at the bed.

  A small dainty face, plump cheeks streaked with tears, was looking up at me. Her blond hair was disarrayed, curls sticking to her face where tears had soaked it. Her mouth was already wobbling with misery. I breathed out, feeling suddenly heartbroken.

  “Yes?”

  “Where’s Daddy? I want to see him.”

  I sighed. “Daddy left this morning. To Chicago. He’ll be back on Wednesday night.”

  Camille started crying brokenly. “But he didn’t say goodbye! Why did he just go? Is he mad at me?”

  She started crying again and I felt my blood boiling. How could her father just walk out, without even telling her he had gone? What kind of father just leaves, without saying goodbye, or without any assurance he’ll come back soon? I sat down on the pink-and-black cushion of a wooden chair. Looked up at her. She sneaked to the end of the bunk to look down at me, curious despite tears.

  “Camille,” I said. “Your daddy wasn’t mad at you. I saw him before he left. He told me you’re the most special little girl in the whole world, and that I must take very good care of you.” More or less.

  “Really?” Camille breathed. The pure wonder on the little angelic face stabbed my heart. I wanted to cry too.

  “Yes, really.”

  “Oh!” She suddenly looked happy again. I cursed Alexander Carring for having just left her like that, with no word or explanation or even a kiss. She slid across the bed, heading for the rails.

  “Who are you?” she asked, foot on the railing, suddenly suspicious. “Why would Daddy tell you that?”

  I sighed. “He left me to look after you,” I said gently. “He wanted to know you were safe.” That part was absolutely true. He seemed fanatical about his childcare’s physical safety, which, for a man who seemed entirely ignorant of their emotional states, was odd.

  “He didn’t tell me that,” Camille said, squinting at me mistrustfully. I half expected her to call the police and have me thrown out. Of the two siblings, though the younger, she seemed far more worldly.