Glass Houses

by Helena Maeve

  Table of Contents

  Legal Page

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  New Excerpt

  About the Author

  Publisher Page

  A Totally Bound Publication

  Glass Houses

  ISBN # 978-1-78430-448-5

  ©Copyright Helena Maeve 2015

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright February 2015

  Edited by Sue Meadows

  Totally Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorized or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2015 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

  Totally Bound Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

  Warning:

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Melting and a Sexometer of 2.

  GLASS HOUSES

  Helena Maeve

  Miriam’s world is knocked off kilter when an ex-lover walks back into her life, eager to reacquaint himself with both her wit and her whip.

  Fresh out of college, Miriam Chase has only recently found work as nanny to a wealthy couple with three unruly children. Mere months into the job and her personal life is already on hold. Dating is out of the question and romance hasn’t really been on the docket since she pinned her hopes on the wrong man back in college.

  The man in question? Rakishly handsome and enigmatic in all the right ways, he was around just long enough to open her eyes to the joys of whips and leather, and submissive men. Miriam should have known that he wouldn’t call. She’s been telling herself she’s over him for the past two years. It’s not until a dinner party throws him back into her orbit that she realizes old scars can still smart.

  Elliot McFarland has known the Hamiltons for twenty years and can’t fathom missing one of their famous soirees. He has no idea that his one and only romantic indiscretion is now their nanny. In the two week stretch before Elliot must leave for the East Coast, he and Miriam are quick to resume their affair, all props included. But secrets have a way of rising to the surface of even the stillest waters and with their illicit romance brought out into the open, Miriam may well be forced to choose between being employed and being with Elliot.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Alice in Wonderland: Lewis Carroll

  Sound of Music: 20th Century Fox

  Wii: Nintendo Co., Ltd.

  Barbie: Mattel, Inc.

  Bowser: Nintendo Co., Ltd.

  Swiffer: Procter & Gamble Co.

  Dora the Explorer: Nickelodeon Products, Nickelodeon Animation Studio

  Mary Poppins: Buena Vista Distribution

  BMW: Bayerische Motoren Werke AG

  Google: Google, Inc.

  Nebula Award: Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America

  Man Booker Prize: Man Group plc

  Blu-ray: Blu-ray Disc Association

  Netflix: Netflix, Inc.

  TiVo: TiVo, Inc.

  Star Wars: 20th Century Fox

  Vesuvio Café: Vesuvio

  Mario Kart: Nintendo Co., Ltd.

  The Adventures of Tom Sawyer: Mark Twain

  Burger King: Burger King Holdings Inc.

  Audi: Audi AG

  Chevy: General Motors Company

  Aston Martin: Aston Martin Lagonda Ltd.

  Harley-Davidson: Harley-Davidson Inc.

  Winnie the Pooh: A.A. Milne

  My Pet Goat: Siegfried Engelmann and Elaine C. Bruner

  Lolita: Vladimir Nabokov

  Clift Hotel: Morgans Hotel Group

  YouTube: Google Inc.

  Mandarin Oriental: Metropolis Investment Holdings Inc.

  Hello Kitty: Sanrio Co., Ltd.

  Valium: Hoffman-La Roche

  Pinterest: Cold Brew Labs

  Coke: The Coca-Cola Company

  CK: Calvin Klein Inc.

  Rolex: Rolex SA

  Omega: Omega SA

  Martini: Martini & Rossi

  Chanel: Chanel S.A.

  Nordstrom: Nordstrom, Inc.

  Dolce: Dolce & Gabbana

  Band-Aid: Johnson & Johnson’s

  Converse: Converse

  Michelin: Michelin SCA

  Prada: Prada S.p.A.

  Dior: Christian Dior S.A.

  Chapter One

  Judging by the slide show, it had been a beautiful ceremony. The church was decorated with baby’s breath and carnations, the aisles lined with gold trim. The bridesmaids wore teal and yet, miraculously, didn’t look like something out of Alice in Wonderland. Penny herself was radiant in her embroidered white gown and I had to admit that, with a three-piece suit and a nice haircut, even her groom cleaned up nice.

  The time stamp on the photos dated back to almost four months ago today. That was harder to digest. I nudged my laptop screen shut and pushed myself up from the bed. It had taken me four months to save up for a new computer and now that I had it, I couldn’t wait to shut it off.

  I tried to smother the hurt blooming in my gut. It was a bit like trying to put out a flame when all I had on hand was rice paper. It only sort of worked. I couldn’t help feeling betrayed. Penny was my best friend. We told each other everything. Well, I thought bitterly, almost everything. For my part, I had gone as far as to share with her my one and only indiscretion back in college—albeit minus some of the more sordid details.

  How could a wedding be too sensitive a topic to bring up when she knew all about my steamy one-night stand with a professor who must’ve been my dad’s age?

  Okay, so he had been a mere guest lecturer from another college.

  My point still had merit.

  I brushed the tips of my fingers under my eyes, fiercely glad that I didn’t put makeup on when I was working. The woman staring back at me from the mirror wore disappointment like an ill-fitting dress. She usually preferred anger to dismay. It burned itself out a little quicker than the seasick frustration I could feel swimming in my belly. There was nothing to be done about that now. Later, once I was done feeling like I’d been methodically but oh so effectively sectioned out of Penny’s life, I would have to send her a message, something nice and harmless and heartfelt, to wish her well.

  I would have to fib my way through the congratulations.

  Break time was over. Any minute now, Mrs. Hamilton would be yelling my name, or one of the kids would spill something all over themselves
and start crying their eyes out like neurotic mini-persons. Something. Distractions were usually a dime a dozen in this job.

  It happened almost on cue, via Mr. Hamilton rather than his wife. And he wasn’t yelling so much as rapping his knuckles on my bedroom door. I wondered if he was attempting Morse code.

  I made one last ditch effort to compose myself and decided to brave the music.

  Patrick Hamilton was a tall, reedy sort with a strangely angular face and a patrician nose. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d sought me out for anything, but my sisterhood of fellow nannies had warned me during one of our playground chats that this sort of thing could happen. Employers—men in particular—sometimes let their imaginations run away with them. They got to thinking that just because a woman slept in their house and took care of their kids she was open and available to all sorts of things.

  I didn’t blame staid porn flicks for the confusion. I blamed the men themselves.

  If this was seduction, though, Mr. Hamilton couldn’t have appeared more embarrassed. “Miriam, hi. Um, am I disturbing you?” he asked, shuffling his feet like a little boy.

  I shook my head and considered pointing out that I was technically at his beck and call during work hours.

  I knew I was lucky that Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton didn’t mind me taking short breaks so I could freshen up or grab a coffee—or to check my emails. They were more than reasonable about that. Then again, after going through three nannies in as many months at the beginning of the year, they seemed to think their progeny were devils incarnate and anyone who managed to herd them through the day must have been part Fräulein Maria. It wasn’t the case.

  “How can I help?” I asked, affecting what I hoped was a solicitous smile. Given my big, horsy teeth, it was likely touch and go.

  “I’m afraid we’re entertaining tonight,” said Mr. Hamilton. “Spur of the moment kind of thing—a couple of writers and sculptors and the like. Terribly inconvenient and we didn’t plan in advance, so, um…”

  “You need me to run to the store?” I was quick to pull on my denim jacket over my baggy, flower print dress and finger-comb my black hair into some semblance of form. This served me perfectly. I didn’t want to be in the house right now. The temptation to sulk was too great.

  Mr. Hamilton nodded and held up a hand-scrawled shopping list. “Would you mind? I’ve run out of eggs and flour and—well, everything you see on that list.” He grinned a little sheepishly at me.

  In the Hamilton household, it was Patrick—Mr. Hamilton—who usually did the cooking while I took care of the kids. Paolo cleaned up after all of us.

  Mrs. Hamilton’s talents lay elsewhere, in some unidentified sphere to which I didn’t have access.

  “No problem,” I said. “I’ll take the munchkins along. Make an outing of it.” Although peeling Riley away from her phone was always a challenge and I’d have to bribe Phoenix somehow.

  “You’re a lifesaver,” Mr. Hamilton beamed down at me like a particularly lanky cocker spaniel. He reached out to pat my shoulder and the companionable thump of his hand on my arm couldn’t have been more awkward. It took him a moment, but eventually he realized that he was touching staff. Poor Mr. Hamilton pulled back as if stung. It was a close thing, but he just about avoided smacking his hand against the door in his haste.

  I tried not to laugh.

  I appreciated the compliment—they were scarce enough—but it was my job to say yes to reasonable requests and make things happen. The Hamiltons paid me well and the job had its perks. Not having to pay rent was the biggest and by far the most attractive. No entry-level job could beat that.

  Maybe that was why Penny hadn’t told me about the wedding—maybe she hadn’t wanted to rub it in that she was going places while I was stuck taking care of other people’s kids.

  I made my way downstairs into the living room and found the children exactly as I’d left them—Phoenix with his Wii remote in hand, Zara pensively chewing one of her Barbie’s feet, and Riley stabbing her fingers into the smartphone touchscreen, texting God only knew whom.

  “All right, troops,” I said, clapping my hands, “we’re going out for a walk.”

  Phoenix was the first to complain. I could have predicted that. “Do we have to?” He was the dreaded middle child and the only boy. He had his mother’s knack for getting his way and he knew his way around a puppy-eyed pout. I often felt bad for telling him off.

  “Yes,” I insisted. “Save your game. You can get back to it later.” I had tried to separate Phoenix from computer and Wii without his consent before—to no avail. The tantrums that followed just weren’t worth the effort. Sometimes the path of minimal resistance worked better. As long as Phoenix and I were on the same side, there was hope of negotiation. “You too,” I said, prodding Riley’s shoulder with a finger.

  “Hmm?” At thirteen, Riley was every bit her father’s likeness. Judging by the family portraits, she had been short and boyish up until last year, when her growth spurt had put her a head above most kids her own age. She was still aloof and distracted, but now the object of that distraction was boys.

  I would have liked to say I saw something of my own adolescent years in Riley, but the truth was that I’d only clued in to romance when I hit college. Then it was as if I hadn’t been able to make up for lost time fast enough.

  “Phone off. We’re going out,” I repeated. I wasn’t going to budge on this. If I got the kids out of the house for an hour every day, it was a victory. They were homebodies, all of them, and despite my distrust of any so-called golden rules of parenting, I worried that they weren’t getting enough exercise.

  Riley made a face at me. “But I don’t want to…”

  “You sure? I think your dad’s making lemon cheesecake but he’s missing a few vital ingredients…” It was blatant manipulation. Riley’s weak spot for cheesecake had made her pliable to my requests in the past. One day she was bound to figure it out and the trick wouldn’t work anymore. I wasn’t exactly waiting for that with bated breath.

  For now, though, she caved with a put-upon sigh. “Fine.”

  We bundled Zara into the stroller, Barbie and all, and set off for the grocery store in a more or less orderly fashion. I liked four-year-old Zara best. Of my three kids, she alone didn’t complain or care if I picked her up and put her in a different chair. As long as she had her dolls, she was fine.

  There was no room for my mind to wander when I was with the kids. I couldn’t be Penny’s friend and the Hamiltons’ nanny at the same time. Only one of them could steer the kids through the late afternoon bustle, get them into the store and out without incident and not lose her temper when Mr. Hamilton called to ask if I could pick up Mrs. Hamilton’s dry cleaning on the way back.

  With the house already in view, the kids greeted the detour with all their usual enthusiasm.

  “But I’m tired,” Phoenix complained, dragging his feet.

  I was tired, too, and the shopping bags weighing down the stroller weren’t making it any easier to push up the hill. “You don’t want your mom to look nice for her guests tonight?”

  “We’ve got guests?” Riley huffed out a breath, and I realized I had forgotten to relay that detail. I don’t know why I thought their father would’ve said something. Mr. Hamilton was everything but considerate. Riley caught on quickly. “Oh, so that’s why Dad’s in the kitchen. He wants to brag about making dinner himself. God, he’s such a loser.”

  That stopped me short. “Hey, watch your language.” I agreed with her, but that wasn’t the point.

  “You know I’m right,” Riley insisted, pleading with her eyes. “And I don’t care what Mom wears. She always overdoes it anyway. That’s like…her thing.” Riley folded her arms, defiant. “Plus, it’s probably just a bunch of old people coming over.”

  “Probably,” I echoed. It was a fine line to walk between comforting the kids and spoiling their relationship with their parents. I didn’t want to take sides, even if I was often o
n theirs. It wasn’t my place to judge. “It won’t be that bad. Think of the lemon cheesecake.” When Riley didn’t budge, I put my arm around her shoulders and gave her a little squeeze. She groaned, rolling her eyes. “At least be glad I’m not dressing you up in curtains and making you sing.”

  That flew right over Riley’s head. I could see bewilderment in the frown creasing her brows. “Huh?” she asked, and I remembered that there were more than ten years between us.

  I had been kind so far about making her watch old movies—until now. I didn’t expect her to catch every reference, but some classics were sacred.

  “Oh, we’re marathoning musicals later—just you wait. I’ll get you singing about your favorite things if it’s the last thing I do.”

  I had no illusions about her liking it, but I thought it might be fun for comparison’s sake. It didn’t matter that with my olive-dark skin and black hair I was a far cry from Andrews’ Fräulein Maria. Just about the only thing we had in common was a crazy streak that occasionally ran counter to how respectable women our age were supposed to behave.

  I couldn’t help it. The long faces around me just wouldn’t do.

  “Last one to the mailbox is a feather duster!” I screeched and took off running as fast as I could with a stroller in front of me and shopping bags swinging back and forth like pendulums.

  From the lofty perch of their early adolescence, Riley and her brother liked to pretend they were above playing silly games with me, but their competitive streak often got in the way of their James Dean cool. I liked proving them wrong. I didn’t know how else to tell them that it was okay to be kids for a while longer.

  My sandals slapped the asphalt as quickly and as fruitlessly as I’d expected. I didn’t try to lose, but pushing Zara up the unforgiving hills was a workout in and of itself. She squealed adorably as we fell behind.