Taming Cupid

by Emily Bishop

  I’ve already been waiting days to execute my new escape plan, which adds to the weeks I’ve been trying to escape from this gilded hellhole.

  Seven weeks and four days.

  That’s how long I’ve been rotting here. That’s how long it’s been since I made the biggest mistake of my life.

  I should have known it was too good to be true. I should have known a nobody like me with no name, no money, no manager, and no family would never make my mark on the world. But did I listen to that voice inside my head? No.

  I thought at twenty-two I could already spot bullshit and assholes. I thought I was strong enough, wise enough. But no. I was too weak, too naïve, too foolish.

  And now, I’ve paid the price.

  Not anymore. Enough is enough.

  I glance at the bed. I’ve already arranged the pillows beneath the blanket so it seems like I’m still hiding under there with my wrists and ankles tied.

  Thank God I managed to cut through the pillow cases that he used to tie me. I cut them with my teeth and my guitar pick–the only thing really left of my guitar–that I keep in the back pocket of my pants.

  Now all that’s left to do is to wait for Vince to come in.

  Finally, I hear someone at the door. I hear the beep, which means the keycard has been accepted. I hold my breath as I lift the lamp, wincing from the pain that shoots up my still-bruised left arm from Vince’s last tantrum but ignoring it as I prepare to strike.

  Please let me hit him.

  The door opens and a man with hair as black as his tux and a blonde in a red dress, both wearing masks, tumble in.

  Wait. What?

  “I told you it was a good idea to get that keycard, Babe,” the woman says. “I knew it would lead to an interesting room.”

  “Steal the keycard, you mean,” the man says.

  “Whatever. Finally, we can have some privacy.”

  They start kissing, oblivious to my presence or to what they’ve just stumbled upon.

  I still don’t know what’s going on, but it doesn’t matter. The door’s open and there’s no sign of Vince, so I go out, leaving the lamp outside the room.

  As I do, I realize there’s loud music playing. Really loud.

  A party? That would explain the weird couple and the masks they’re wearing.

  A masquerade party. My perfect chance to escape.

  Avoiding the cameras in the hall, I sneak into one of the rooms, finding another couple fooling around in there.

  What kind of party is Vince throwing?

  I don’t care. I pick up the feathered mask and the gown that have been discarded on the floor and I put them on before continuing my escape.

  I go down the stairs, trying to act as naturally as I can past Vince’s thugs. I pass through the crowd of guests, half of whom are dancing and the other half making out, most of them drunk. At least they provide good cover.

  As I catch a glimpse of Vince, my heart stills, fear coursing through my veins. I steel my nerves, though, and quickly leave the crowd to search for the exit. Finally I see the door leading to the kitchen, which I know leads to the gardens and to the gate.

  Almost there.

  Just when I’m a few feet away, a thick arm stops me.

  Shit.

  It’s one of Vince’s thugs. Bart, I think his name is. I don’t know. They all look the same to me – huge and scary.

  Now, what?

  “Where do you think you’re going, miss?” he asks with a grin, putting his hand on the wall.

  I take a deep breath.

  Calm down, Sabrina. He doesn’t know who you are. Yet.

  Right. He thinks I’m a guest so I should act like one.

  I return his grin with a mischievous one of my own as I run my fingers through my hair.

  “Miss? How kind. My name is Eleanor, and I’m actually looking for my husband.” I lower my voice as I lean forward. “We’re playing a little hide-and-seek, you see.”

  “Oh.”

  I can hardly believe it, but he’s blushing. So, even brutes can blush.

  “You didn’t happen to see him pass this way, did you?”

  He touches his stubble. “No. I’m afraid I can’t say I have.”

  “That’s fine. He’s very good at sneaking and hiding.” I trace circles on the front of his shirt. “You could say he’s had a lot of practice. But I will find him. And when I do, he’s going to pay for all the trouble he’s caused me.” I clench my hand into a fist then look up at him sweetly. “Do you think you could step aside so I can check the kitchen just in case? He does like sweets, you know.”

  Thank goodness I’ve watched a lot of movies and attended an acting workshop when I was part of the glee club in high school.

  “The kitchen?” The thug’s eyes narrow. “How do you know this leads to the kitchen?”

  Shit.

  “It doesn’t?” I ask him, doing my best to stay composed. “I’m pretty sure I saw someone come out of here with food.”

  He doesn’t look convinced.

  “Come now. I’m just going to look around. I promise I won’t take a bite.”

  He doesn’t move, eyeing me like a hawk.

  I straighten my shoulders. “Mr. Lestair didn’t say any part of the house was off limits.”

  He still doesn’t budge, like a statue guarding some holy gates. I resist the urge to tap my foot.

  Come on.

  Finally, he moves out of the way.

  “I guess not. Please help yourself.”

  I smile as I inwardly sigh in relief. “Thank you… What was your name again?”

  “Jackson.”

  Right. “Thank you, Jackson. I hope your evening will not be so boring.”

  His grin returns. “And I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  I go into the kitchen, which isn’t as bustling as I expected, and pick up an apple. Then I slip into the gardens, crawling in and out of the shadows until I get close to the gate. I wait until the gates open so a car can leave, crouching so the guy in the booth doesn’t see me. Once outside, I hide behind a bush, holding my breath until the gates close.

  When they do, I heave another sigh of relief.

  Finally, I’m out. For a moment, I glance at the mansion with all its bright lights and loud music, with all its tragic memories and with all its hopes and promises for the future.

  This was where my dreams began and where they all ended.

  Goodbye, Savannah Brown.

  From now on, I’ll just have to go back to being myself, to being a nobody – plain old Sabrina James.

  I look away from the mansion, peering into the darkness and the uncertainty ahead of me. Now what do I do?

  I don’t know. I haven’t thought this far. Still, there’s only one way to go – away. As far away from here as possible.

  I take off my mask and start running through the darkness, uttering a silent plea as the wind blows through my hair.

  Please… someone… help me…

  Someone…

  Wanted: Perfect Nanny

  Three months later…

  Randall

  “Well, someone has to do something. I’ve given you the funds for your research. Now give me results.”

  I tap the screen of my phone to end the call then set the device down on the carpeted floor beside my mat so I can continue with my dumb bell crunches. Rather, I start them over, having been interrupted by that call in the middle of my routine.

  One… Two…

  I should have stuck to being a weightlifter, a gym buff, a personal fitness trainer. I should have contented myself with my bench press and my weights. But no. I decided to go into business, to start my own company, to build my own gyms across the country and train my own trainers, to develop my own fitness equipment, supplements and clothing line.

  I decided to build a fitness empire.

  Thirteen… Fourteen…

  Six years ago, just two years after it was established, my company made it to the F
orbes Fortune 500 list. The next year, my son David and I moved out of our two-bedroom apartment in San Antonio to our 5,000-square-foot property here in Bel Air, which is just one of the few properties I’ve purchased. Since then, I’ve bought other things, too, and made a couple of investments. Thanks to the company, I can confidently say he and I are set for our lifetimes.

  Twenty-four… Twenty-five…

  Unfortunately, being at the head of a company also comes with a lot of tasks and responsibilities. There are countless meetings to sit through and endless papers to sign. There are social functions to attend and interviews to give. Most importantly, there are strategies to devise and implement to ensure continuous profit, crises to avert and negotiations to make, which usually end in hard decisions, like the one I just made.

  Most days, I can’t keep track of everything I have to do, which is why I’m glad I have Tess, my secretary.

  “So, I take it that matter’s been taken care of?” she asks from the side of the room.

  “Yep. You can cross it off the list.”

  Thirty-seven… Thirty-eight…

  “Good.”

  I hear the tip of her pen moving across the paper. In this modern day and age, she still uses notepads and index cards. Still, she’s been nothing short of efficient, so I have no complaints.

  Forty-one… Forty-two…

  “So, what do I have left?” I ask her.

  “The lunch meeting with Mr. Martin, and then your monthly video conference with the shareholders at four. Also, Advertising should be sending over the newest ad for the clothing line within the day so you should take a look at it.”

  Forty-nine… Fifty.

  I set down my dumb bells at the end of my routine then take a moment to catch my breath before getting off my mat and reaching for my towel.

  “Wow. It seems like I’ve got another busy Saturday.”

  “Also, the representative from that childcare agency I told you about is dropping by this morning,” Tess adds.

  “This morning?” I wipe the sweat trickling down my forehead and the sides of my face.

  Shit. I forgot about that.

  “Yes, this morning,” Tess confirms, handing me my bottle of water as I approach her. “She said she’ll drop by between nine and ten.”

  I glance at the clock as I take a sip of water. It’s already 8:42, which means I don’t have much time before she comes.

  “I can reschedule if you like,” Tess offers. “Your schedule for tomorrow seems lighter.”

  “No.” I give her back the bottle. “I need that new nanny ASAP. I just have to head to the shower right now. Anything else?”

  “Do you want me to turn the shower on for you?”

  “Very funny, Tess.” I walk out of my gym.

  Sometimes it feels like she’s my nanny instead of my secretary. It must be because she has two kids of her own.

  “There is one more thing, sir,” Tess says. “The Rockets Party. That’s tomorrow evening.”

  I frown. Another party? Didn’t I just go to one the other night?

  “Will you be going? If I recall, you and the new team owner took your MBAs together.”

  “I know.” Even so, I’m not sure if it’s a good enough reason for me to go.

  “Well?”

  I head up the stairs. “I’ll think about it.”

  ***

  I think about it in the shower, staring at the dark blue tiles on the floor as I let the cool water glide over each muscle of my body, washing away the soap and any trace of the morning’s rigorous workout with it.

  Like I said, attending parties are part of a CEO’s responsibilities. These aren’t just any parties, though. They’re not all fun and games. Usually, these parties offer a chance to size up the competition and gather information about them even while strengthening ties with allies and finding prospective new ones. In business, one can never have too many allies.

  They’re also a way to get exposure, to get yourself on the newspaper, magazine, website or TV even. It’s not for fame. The rich and powerful have no need for fame. It’s just for image. People want to put a face to the company, to know that the leaders of the companies they buy from are humans just like them that they can aspire to. Of course, you have to project a positive image so your company will have one as well.

  I’ve already established my image, though – a weightlifting, single dad working hard to provide for his only son – and right now, I’m well ahead of the competition, so I don’t really need to go. As for the new team owner—yes, I know him, but we aren’t friends. We had a class or two together, that’s all. I haven’t been in touch with him since, and I definitely don’t owe him anything.

  There’s another reason why I don’t want to go – the women. Nothing attracts women more than a well-muscled, billionaire widower with a son. Given the fact that the whole Rockets team is going to be there, I’m sure there will be plenty of women, too.

  It’s not that I don’t like women. I’ve slept with a few since Dinah died, and I do plan on marrying again. I just don’t like women who look at me like I’m a gold nugget or a mouth-watering pile of muscle that they want a chunk of. I want a woman who can see me for who I really am and accept all of me, a woman I can laugh with, be silly with, have fun with and, of course, a woman who can love David as her own child.

  I sigh. Maybe I’m asking for too much. Maybe there is no such woman.

  I turn off the shower, drying myself off before wrapping the towel around my waist and stepping into my walk-in closet. Seconds later, I emerge in a pair of dark jeans and an olive-green shirt – nothing too fancy, just something casual and comfortable.

  As I put on my Omega watch, I hear a knock on the door.

  “Mr. Brewster?”

  It’s Tess again.

  “Yes?”

  “Carol Fisher from Stargazers Child Services is here to see you.”

  8:58, huh? Well, she’s early.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I glance at the mirror, combing my hair before sitting on the edge of the bed to put on my leather shoes.

  Stargazers Child Services. Never heard of it. Then again, I’ve never heard of any of the previous childcare agencies, either. I just hope that this one is good and that they have someone who can look after my son.

  Hopefully, someone who can stick around longer than the others.

  I leave the room and find Tess waiting just outside.

  “She’s waiting in the library,” she informs me.

  I nod and walk downstairs with her, parting ways at the bottom – she to the office, me to the library.

  I don’t have much time to read anymore except on long flights, but I find that a library is a relaxing place. It’s also a good place to receive guests since they are inclined to be less tense than they would be in my office, plus the books can be a good conversation starter and can give a good glimpse of the guest’s character.

  Carol Fisher, for example, is going through the pages of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice: A classic. Probably means she’s a little old-fashioned and well-educated. Actually, she reminds me of a librarian with her brown hair tied in a bun on her nape, her gray cardigan and her black-rimmed glasses. It’s also a Regency novel, so she must be a bit of a romantic. The ring on her finger suggests she’s already found her Mr. Darcy, though.

  Noticing my presence, she quickly closes the book and puts on a smile. “Mr. Brewster?”

  I nod, extending my hand. “You must be Carol Fisher.”

  “Yes.” She shakes my hand. “From Stargazers Child Services. Here’s my card.”

  I look at the dark blue piece of paper in my hand which has Carol’s name, the company name, her phone number and email address written in silver right next to the picture of a lone stargazer flower.

  “I came up with the name myself,” she tells me. “The stargazers are not just for the flower, which I love, but for the children entrusted to us. I believe that each child must be given time to en
joy looking at the stars and also encouraged to reach for them.”

  “Admirable. It seems like you really care for the children.” I put the card in my pocket.

  “Of course we do,” Mrs. Fisher says proudly.

  I gesture to a chair. “Please sit.”

  She returns the book that’s still in her hand and sits down.

  “Would you like some coffee?” I ask.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Tea?”

  Mrs. Fisher grins but shakes her head. “No, thank you. Shall we get right down to business? I’ve been told you’re a busy man.”

  “Yes,” I admit, taking a seat as well. “I’d appreciate that.”

  “First, let me begin by telling you more about our agency.” She pushes the bridge of her glasses up her nose. “At Stargazers, we cater to privileged families, families who insist on two things – impeccable service and the highest level of discretion. We pride ourselves on providing both. Our full-time nannies are not just expertly trained but also extremely professional. This means that you can be assured that the nanny you hire will not tell anyone she is working for you or share information about where you live or any other personal details, not even with family members or friends.”

  I look at her in surprise. “Really?”

  “Yes. That is one of our three golden rules. The other two are that a nanny must always behave like a proper lady – no flirting with the client and definitely no sleeping with the client…”

  I raise an eyebrow. Well, that’s a relief.

  “And that she must never steal anything, not even a coaster. Any violation of these three rules will result in immediate termination not just of the current contract but from the company.”

  “I see. You seem very strict.”

  Truth be told, she reminds me of a piano tutor I once had, swift to punish at the slightest mistake. She and Tess should get along well.

  “Should there be any complaints,” Mrs. Fisher continues, “anything at all, we will withdraw the nanny immediately and replace her with a more satisfactory one. We guarantee complete satisfaction. Otherwise, we would not be worthy of the trust of our privileged clients.”

  I sit back and touch my chin. “And what if the nanny is the one who wants to leave?”