I swing the doors open, and Lilah gasps. She wasn't expecting the windows, floor to ceiling on every side of the room. The glass behind my desk slopes to make it easier to look down into the atrium.
Everything is glass or acrylic. My desk is glass, the frames of the chairs are a clear polycarbonate.
"Are those safe to sit in?" she asks.
"They’re made of a clear composite, as strong as steel. Perfectly safe. The floor is the same material. Would you like to see a magic trick?"
Lilah glances at me, wary. "Magic trick?"
I slip my hand in my pocket and press my finger into the button on my key fob, and the floor turns transparent.
Lilah shrieks and almost throws herself on top of me. I catch her, bursting out in an involuntary laugh as she wraps her arms around my shoulders and grips my hips with her thighs. I have to snap my arms up to catch her.
"What the hell?" she shrieks.
I look down through the now-clear floor to the atrium below.
"A little trick to scare the new hires," I reassure her, patting her back as she lowers her feet to the floor.
She looks down, panting. "How?"
"The floor is the same material as the chairs, sandwiched in layers. Between the composite material is a reactive chemical that turns opaque when electricity is applied."
"Like a calculator," she says, her voice turned breathless.
"Yes, that's right. Same principle, but it's a different material."
She continues to stare down, flinching when her stocking feet slip. I press the button, and she visibly relaxes.
"Please never do that again," she says, pressing a hand to her chest. “I think my heart skipped a beat.”
I tear my eyes from her, cursing myself. I know why I did that. I can still taste her delicious scent, feel the soft brush of her hair, the warm weight of her in my arms. I should be ashamed.
As I watch her adjust her glasses and hair I wonder, why?
I snatch her portfolio from the floor and move to offer it to her, but instead zip it open.
"Hey!" she starts.
"Bit of an artist, are we?"
That's an understatement, I realize, as I free a charcoal drawing of a mill, the old kind with a water wheel situated along a stream.
"It's a hobby." She offers, smirking. "It beats working."
I snort. "Why don't you have a seat, and we'll get started for real."
She slips into a guest chair. I lean back in my own, hands folded over my lap.
Can't be too careful.
Lilah
Is he…?
It has to be my imagination, which has been active ever since I set eyes on him. This is different. I was always nervous around him, but it was the typical nervousness I always felt in the presence of one of my father's associates—he was far from the only one, even if he was the only one that stuck out in my memory. The only young and handsome one, the only one a teenage girl might moon over.
I could swear he's been looking at me. When I was standing outside I felt his gaze like fingers walking up my back. My legs. My throat. At once I regretted leaving the top two buttons on my top undone, and regretted not undoing another one or two more.
I know, objectively, that men look at me. Being undressed by eyes usually brings mild disgust. This is intriguing, exciting, and stirs something down low in my stomach I had no idea was there until it woke up.
He's sizing me up, I think.
He lays my portfolio, which he sort of stole, on his desk. I'm more than a little annoyed about my art. I've always been prickly about it. Dad called it a waste of time, and I had to beg and plead for art supplies until he started giving me an allowance. Being self-taught, whenever I finish something I can see nothing but the imperfections. Sloppy technique, bad perspective. It hurts for Aiden to look at it. I feel even more exposed than usual when someone looks at my art.
I can hear my father’s voice snarling from the back of my skull. “What a waste of time. Drawing’s useless. You need a drawing, you pay someone for it. You’ve got better things to do.”
Dad most certainly never had them hung on the fridge. The fridge at home is a dull monolith of stainless steel, as imposing and bland as the rest of the kitchen, with nary a magnet in sight.
Aiden undoes the top button on his shirt and loosens his tie, spreading it open. It's not warm in here, at least not to me, but he looks like the silk was suddenly choking him.
With forced composure he says, "This is always the first interview question. Tell me why I should hire you?"
I draw a complete blank, and my throat might as well be a blob of half-cured cement.
"I have a great deal of experience for someone my age," I choke out, repeating the same memorized flotsam the career services desk drilled into me every week all semester long. "As you can see from my resume, I have several volunteering—"
"I don't care what you've done. I care what you can do. So what do you do?"
"I can write a mean paper on the Civil War," I say, trying to recover. What am I supposed to say? I just finished my freshman year. I have lots of experience with earth science and English 202?
He smirks. "I know you think this is a joke, but I don't, Lilah."
His voice is firm and serious.
"Most of my experience is working with children," I offer with a shrug. "I did volunteer work with underprivileged students when I was in high school, and this year I spent my Saturdays at a literacy program."
"Ever see yourself making a career out of that?"
"Maybe.”
"So you're here for an internship position. What am I going to do with you?"
That prickle comes back. I must be imagining the edge in his voice when he says that. It's a silly little hint of fantasy; it must be. If my father had any idea Aiden might think like that about me, he'd have shipped me off to a summer workshop in Tibet.
Boys are pretty much off limits, and I pretty much don't mind.
Aiden is no boy though, is he? His eyes are sharp, like a hand teasing my cheek for an answer. I wonder what it would be like if he touched me. How would it feel if his fingers brushed my chin while he undid my blouse?
I quirk my eyebrow.
Let's play hardball.
"You want the truth? I don't know. I'm here because if I wasn't, I'd be looking for something to do in Dad's company, or hanging around the house, or who knows what? The problem is I'd be there, and that's not what he wants."
Aiden rocks in his chair, studying me. "So why not take summer classes?"
"They have breaks," I offer. "I think the goal here is that I spend less than twenty-four hours at home before I'm shipped back off to school."
He sits up and looks at me over his desk. "I'm used to applicants throwing themselves all over me to demonstrate how enthusiastic they are for any spot in the company."
"You're very famous for being a good place to work. I guess."
"You guess?"
I glance at him. "I read the packet Dad gave me."
He must have sensed the bitterness in my voice. He grunts. “Did you now?”
“Skimmed it. Like reading, but with less comprehension.”
He smirks. “You’re a snarky one, aren’t you? I have a use in mind for you."
"However you use me, I'll do the best I can," I say.
We stare at each other as I process what I just said, fighting the creeping heat on my neck and cheeks. I look away and snort. "This is the worst interview ever."
"Pretty much," he says with a smirk. "What were you expecting?"
"Weird riddles. The interviews here are supposed to be incredibly hard."
"Oh, I can ask a few of those. Why are manhole covers round?"
I chew my lip for a moment. "So they don't fall in?"
He laughs. "Right."
I blink. "Seriously? That's it?"
"What else would it be?"
"I don't know. Conserve materials? A circular cover would be smaller than—"
He raises his hand. "A good answer, but it's not the reason."
"Let's cut the crap," I say.
He blinks, and a hint of a smile ghosts across his lips. "All right."
"You already knew what you were going to do with me before I got here. What is it?"
He sits up and folds his hands in his lap again. "I have two children, both boys, aged twelve and eight."
My mouth falls open. My teeth click as I force it closed again. "You want me to babysit?"
He bursts out laughing. "I'd suggest you put something on your resume like governess, or tutor."
"Or nanny," I say, bitter.
"I could always ship you back where you came from. Why is Roland so adamant you spend the summer away? He never told me."
I shuffle uncomfortably in my seat, strangely reluctant to tell him. "My grades were below expectations."
“How far below?”
“I got a B+ in American Politics 110. 3.8 average. The plus doesn’t count for the numbers.”
Aiden observes me for a moment, rocking in his chair. "I'm going to have Maria bring you another pair of shoes and get you oriented in your new position."
He has a funny way of looking at me every time the word position escapes his lips. He's already on his feet, striding around the desk as I stand. His presence is much larger than his body. As he stands beside me I feel swallowed up, and I keep telling myself he's not undressing me with his eyes, and even if he were, it means nothing.
The moment lasts a little too long. I stand, a challenge forming on my lips, only for the words to fade away when the door opens behind me. His assistant enters, carrying a pair of plain white sneakers in her hand. I take them and crouch to do up the laces.
When I rise I catch the way she looks at him almost longingly, but she might not as well not even be in the room. His eyes are drawn to me the way the moon is drawn to the earth. There's a distant look on his face until he realizes I'm looking at him, and he comes into focus again, suppressing whatever it was he was thinking. He steps past Maria, and her eyes track him, boring into the back of his head. She gazes at me, and she ices over, radiating cold.
"I follow a schedule, and I like things tight."
I watch his expression for any hint of a smirk or a wink, but his face remains neutral.
He’s not hitting on you, silly girl. Get over yourself.
"So when should I expect you?"
"Six o'clock," he says. "You should be settled in by then. You'll be joining me for dinner."
It doesn't sound like a request. Something about that leaves me bristling even as it strokes the back of my neck. He thinks he can order me around that way? Or am I protesting too much?
I'm just standing here, I realize, and scurry into the weapons collection outside. A grimacing samurai's demon mask stares me down. Maria catches up a moment later, after a whispered conversation with her boss.
"I'll be taking you to Aiden's city apartment," she tells me.
Glowering, she turns and stomps off, expecting me to follow.
Chapter Two
Lilah
When Maria said city apartment, this isn't what I pictured. A pair of bellmen take my bags from the trunk of her car and rush them inside and up a grand staircase to an elevator. Everything around me speaks of understated elegance, a major departure from the borderline obnoxious fixation on gilt and marble in my father's hotels. I feel like I'm stepping into an old-world estate.
"Aiden reserves the top two floors for his city residence," Maria informs me as we ride up. "The rest are rental units. This is a lovely building. It’s a privilege to live here."
"Oh, you live here too?"
"No," she says, a hint of bitterness in her voice. She recovers with a nervous tick of her lips and goes back into tour-guide mode. "This area of the city is quite desirable. Since you're new here, you're not to go out unescorted until you get a feel for the town."
I make no comment on this to Maria and just ride the elevator up.
It opens onto a private hallway, chic without being obnoxious. Maria has a key and ushers me inside.
"Where are the kids now?"
"This is the last week of school. They'll be arriving home in about an hour or so. You'll have the place to yourself until then. I’ll show you where you’re staying."
I can't help but let out a whistle. Apartment isn't the right word for a place like this. It's like a mansion crouched on top of a building. The front door opens onto a broad formal sitting room, with modernist Italian leather ringed around a fireplace. One wall is bookcases floor to ceiling on one side. The other leads to an open dining and area and kitchen, all a chef's dream.
"This way," Maria says.
A staircase leads to the second floor. I gasp at the rooftop pool, shimmering in the afternoon light. The upper floor rings it, the bedrooms each with their own doors out onto the courtyard. There's a small garden and patch of grass on the far side.
I drift towards it, but Maria stops me with a sharp word.
"This way. I have work to do. I can’t spend all day giving you a tour."
I glance at her back as she walks ahead of me, wondering what I did to have her snap at me. I should say something. I start to, my mouth opening, but I click my teeth shut when she turns back to motion me into my new home away from home.
I half expect I’ll be stuffing myself into a closet-sized servant's quarters, but the bedroom I'm offered is as expansive as an apartment unto itself. I step inside, and the bellmen follow a moment later, leaving my suitcases near the door before departing with a tug on the brims of their caps.
On one side, there's the door out onto the courtyard. A warm breeze floods in, ruffling my hair as I pass. On the other side, I recoil from floor-to-ceiling windows, fighting the urge to look down into the canyons between the buildings. I pull the drapes and return to the bed.
"You'll want to be ready when the children arrive. You'll know when they're here. I'd change into something more comfortable, and less…expensive."
I blink a few times. I have the distinct impression she almost said something else before she caught herself. "You're not the first nanny. I think the average tenure is nine days."
Well, that's reassuring.
Maria eyes me up and down and purses her lips as if to say something, but whatever it is, she changes her mind first.
"I wish you the best of luck,” she says icily.
After she departs, I'm left to look around my room. There's a big, comfy bed, and the furnishings are elegant and tasteful with a soft, minimalist theme to them. I have my own TV and everything I'd need.
It still feels like a hotel room. I'm tempted to tape one of my drawings up to the wall to give the place something of a human touch and kill the expensive-furniture-catalog feel.
She said they’d arrive after four. I check my watch. It's two-thirty. That gives me some time. I might as well look around.
The courtyard is pleasant. Out here the air is warm, unlike the sweltering streets below, and the trees and grass in the garden give it a pleasant scent, though there's a harsh hint of chemical smell from the chlorine in the pool.
The kid's rooms are typical young boy's bedrooms, complete with toys and a racing-car bed in the younger one's. It puts a little smile on my face for whatever reason.
Hunger churns in my stomach, and I realize I'm not quite sure when I ate last, so I head down to the kitchen. That's interesting. Dad has a personal chef and a staff. He’d probably burn the building down if he tried to boil water. If I wanted anything good—anything not prescribed by my dietician—I had to sneak cooking it myself, so I at least know the basics. This kitchen reminds me of the one in the house he rented for me off campus. Functional and lived-in. There are a couple of cups in the sink, and when I hunt down a loaf of bread for a sandwich, I find it half gone.
After I eat I wash everything up and look over the bookshelves. Aiden is an eclectic reader, or wants everyone to think he is. He has quite a collection here.
Some are even behind glass.
The opening door startles me, and I spin on my heels, realizing I never bothered to change. I untuck my blouse and toss away my jacket, and let my hair down and reshape it into a loose ponytail bound at the nape of my neck.
Two boys, about fourteen and twelve, walk into the living room in navy blue uniforms, backpacks slung on their shoulders. Both are the spitting image of their father.
The older one looks at me and says, "Who the hell are you?"
I put my hands on my hips. "Excuse me?"
"I said, who the hell are you?" he demands, louder.
"That's no way to talk to an adult, and watch your language. I'm Lil… Miss Greymane. I'm your new…baby… Governess."
They both stare at me.
"That's not a real name," the younger one says. "You made that up."
I roll my eyes.
"Not the first time I've heard that."
"Why are you in our house?"
"I'm going to watch you this summer."
"Watch us do what?" the older one says.
I fold my arms. "I’m going to keep you out of trouble. It’s a figure of speech.”
"We don't need you," he says, grabbing his younger brother's arm. "Let's go."
I step in front of him and fold my arms across my chest. "I told you my name. Introduce yourselves."
"I'm Jason, this is Tim. Now get out of the way."
"I'll move when I'm good and ready. You both need to change and wash up for dinner."
"Wash up?" the older one, Jason, snorts. "For dinner? Dinner with who?"
"Your father said he'd be home around six."
They both roll their eyes. "And you believed him?" Jason laughs.
"Go on, go. Do you have homework? We can work on that while we wait."
Jason almost hisses at me. "Like I'd need your help."
I step over to him and snatch his book bag off his shoulder. He tugs on it like a puppy with a rag.
Until I let go. He falls on his backside and yelps. I open the bag, pull out the folders, and flip through them.
Man of the House Page 2