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A Nanny for Christmas

Page 8

by Sara Craven

It was nearly eleven o'clock. Morning coffee at the cafe had begun almost an hour ago, and she wasn't there.

  It must have been those damned tablets, she thought as she hurriedly threw back the covers and swung her feet to the floor. But it was the first time she'd ever been late, and Mrs Preston would surely understand.

  In the bathroom doorway, she paused with a yelp of dismay. She'd left her uniform on the floor in the bathroom last night, but it wasn't there now. Someone— presumably Carrie—had removed it.

  Well, she'd simply have to find Carrie and get her things back, or she wouldn't be at work in time to serve lunches.

  Trying not to trip on the hem of the robe, she went out of the room and trod down the stairs. But she could hear no sound, no sign of life, just as if the sleep she'd woken from had been enchanted and the house was still caught in the spell.

  Then, 'Good morning.' Dominic Ashton had appeared silently in his study doorway, and was standing, looking up at her, hands on hips.

  'Oh.' Phoebe's hand went to her throat, pulling the edges of the robe together. 'I—I was looking for Carrie, actually.'

  'She's gone out. I think she planned to be back before you woke.' He gave her a faint smile. 'The robe suits you. And, in case you were wondering, it's new. I've never worn it.'

  'Oh,' was all Phoebe could think of to say, aware that she was blushing.

  'Did you sleep well?' he asked.

  She bit her lip. 'Rather too well,' she answered, constrained. 'I'm late for work.'

  'Actually you're not. I telephoned earlier and explained that you wouldn't be in. Mrs Preston was most sympathetic, and said it would give Debbie a chance to get back in harness.'

  The colour in her face deepened angrily. 'You had no business saying anything of the kind. I have my living to earn.'

  'Not, I suspect, at the Clover Tea Rooms,' he said calmly. 'But we'll discuss that later. In the meantime, Carrie would want me to offer you breakfast.'

  'I'm not hungry,' she snapped.

  'Truly?' His smile widened. 'You look to me as if you're ready to take a bite out of something.'

  'I'm merely looking for my clothes.'

  'Carrie washed them. They won't be dry yet.'

  'Oh, no,' Phoebe wailed. 'Then what on earth am I supposed to do?'

  'Relax and have some breakfast,' he suggested lazily. 'A day off will do you no harm.'

  'Not if I'm out of work at the end of it,' she said resentfully.

  'Don't be a pessimist. Your prospects are far better than that.' He paused. 'Tara sends her love, by the way, and says she'll see you after school.'

  'Unlikely,' Phoebe said curtly. 'As soon as I get my clothes back, I'm out of here.'

  There was a silence, then he asked slowly, 'What are you so afraid of?'

  She lifted her chin. 'I'm not scared at all. I—I just feel I've trespassed on your hospitality long enough.'

  'Don't tell lies, Phoebe,' he said amiably. 'You're bad at it. Now, come along to the kitchen and I'll make you some coffee.'

  She longed to tell him to keep his coffee, but just the thought of it made her mouth water, so she trailed after him to the rear of the house.

  The kitchen was a big room, its windows overlooking a small orchard, the trees stripped and bare now. But it contrived to be cosy, with a dark green Aga taking pride of place. The big wooden dresser and fitted cupboards had clearly been around for a long time, but the appliances were all up to the minute.

  Phoebe sat at a long, scrubbed table and watched him prepare the percolator. He was obviously very much at home, whistling softly under his breath as he worked.

  He opened the refrigerator, sending her a quizzical look. 'Bacon,' he suggested. 'Scrambled eggs—toast?'

  For a moment she hesitated, then nodded, with a stilted, 'Thank you.'

  The plate he eventually placed in front of her smelled like ambrosia. The bacon was crisp, the eggs creamy and the toast had been cut into fingers. He poured coffee for them both, and sat opposite her.

  'You're quite right, of course,' he said, watching her tuck in. 'This is a shameless attempt to curry favour with you.'

  Phoebe took an unguarded swallow and nearly choked.

  'You really don't play fair, do you?' she said, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her robe.

  'I tend to apply my own rules.' The grey eyes were intent. 'Think about it, Phoebe. Your home has been destroyed, and your job has probably reached its end. So, where will you go when you leave here? And what are you planning to do?'

  'I don't know.' Phoebe finished the last delicious crumb and put down her knife and fork. 'But they're my problems, and I'll manage somehow.'

  'And you'd rather rot in hell than accept a helping hand from me.'

  She looked down at the table. 'That's not true. You gave me a roof last night. I'm—grateful.'

  'Then do something for me in return. My offer still stands- I need you to look after Tara. When she found you'd slept here, she was ecstatic.'

  Phoebe bit her lip. 'She left her teddy bear on the bed for me.'

  'As a welcome present. She's convinced herself that you're here for the duration. Can you really let that prickly pride of yours get in the way? Cindy let her down badly. Are you going to do the same?'

  'That's the worst form of emotional blackmail.'

  'Not quite.' The grey eyes were glinting with amusement, and something more disturbing, which made her feel oddly weak. 'I need to keep something in reserve.'

  He paused. 'I told Tara that if you came with me to collect her from school this afternoon, it meant you were staying.'

  He collected the dirty crockery and loaded it into the dishwasher.

  'I have to go out now,' he tossed at her over his shoulder. 'But feel free to wander about—get the feel of the place—and we'll talk later.'

  'Mr Ashton,' she began.

  'Dominic,' he reminded her, pausing in the doorway. His gaze met hers, held it compellingly.

  He said quietly, 'It's about six weeks of your life, Phoebe, for a child who needs you. Would it really cost you so much?'

  He went, and a moment later Phoebe heard the front door slam behind him.

  He was so sure he'd won, she thought furiously. That he'd offered the only viable solution to their mutual problems.

  Oh, if she just had her clothes back, she'd be out of here and on the next train to—anywhere, she thought, grinding her teeth.

  Or she would if there wasn't Tara to consider. That was the stumbling block, she realised ruefully. Through no fault of her own she was no longer a totally free agent, and she knew it.

  She wandered into the drawing room, and stood staring absently through the window. Clouds scudded across the grey sky, and the trees were bending in the bleak wind. It was a cold world out there, and the house seemed to be wrapping itself round her like a cloak. Offering her a protection that was difficult to reject.

  Difficult—but not impossible.

  All she had to do was tell him the truth, she thought. Remind him of the naked, drunken girl he'd found on his bed six years before, and he'd be rid of her so fast her feet wouldn't touch the ground.

  That was the obvious course to take. If she really wanted to leave...

  She stopped right there—aware her breathing had quickened. She found she was remembering suddenly the closeness of his arms around her. The way her skin had seemed to bloom under his touch. The warm and unequivocal eroticism of last night's dreaming.

  She moved restlessly, feeling her nipples hardening involuntarily under the tantalising brush of the silk against her naked flesh. Imagining his hands moving on her—not simply with kindness, but with desire.

  Her whole body shivered, languidly, expectantly.

  She raised suddenly heavy lids and saw herself reflected in the window pane. Saw the drowsy, shadowed eyes, the heated flush along her cheekbones, the soft, vulnerable mouth. The face of a stranger, she thought dazedly. A stranger who'd lost touch with reality.

  Six weeks of her life
was what he'd asked for, and was all that he wanted. No more, no less.

  'Would it really cost you so much?' he'd challenged her.

  It Could do, she thought. It could cost altogether more than I can afford to pay.

  Because it had suddenly and unwillingly occurred to her that the price of those six weeks could be her heart and soul.

  She was still standing like a statue, trying to come to terms with her moment of truth and failing utterly, when Carrie returned.

  'I've brought you some things, my dear.' Carrie dumped the chainstore bags she was carrying onto one of the sofas. 'I don't suppose they're your taste, but they'll tide you over until you can choose for yourself.'

  Peeping into the bags, Phoebe found an assortment of underwear, two pairs of black leggings and a couple of sweaters patterned in jewel colours to wear with them. There was also a swirl of a skirt, checked in grey and pink, and a pink woollen blouse. Another bag revealed socks, tights and some neat black ankle boots. And Carrie had bought basic toiletries too, including a brush and comb.

  'But I didn't expect all this!' Phoebe exclaimed almost in dismay.

  'Well, you can't drip around in that robe any longer. It doesn't look right.' Carrie loaded the bags into her arms and gave her a gentle push. 'Go and get dressed, and I'll start showing you where everything is.'

  'But I'm not staying,' Phoebe said quickly, and then, when she saw the look of open disappointment on the older woman's face, she amended quickly, 'At least—I haven't decided yet—but I don't think...'

  'Sometimes,' Carrie said severely, 'people think so much they end up in total confusion.' She paused. 'But if you want to know what I think, then you're just what Miss Tara needs.' She gave Phoebe's strained face a long look. 'And maybe she's what you need, too. It hasn't been all fun just recently for you—admit it.'

  No, Phoebe thought as she went upstairs. But that doesn't justify a thing.

  She dressed swiftly in leggings and a sweater, combing her hair so that it curved round her face.

  She was embarrassed by the care the other woman had clearly taken to choose clothing that would suit her. It had been a long time since she'd possessed anything half as attractive. But how was she going to pay for it? she wondered, biting her lip.

  She received an approving nod when she returned downstairs, and was then swept inexorably into a detailed tour of the house.

  Phoebe found she was becoming interested, more or less in spite of herself. Apart from the drawing room, which had been crammed with people, she hadn't seen a great deal of the house on her first visit. But, to her relief, Carrie drew the line at showing her the master bedroom, merely pointing out its closed door in passing.

  Up in the nursery area, Phoebe was instructed about the care of Tara's clothes and toys, and shown where everything was kept.

  'You won't have to do any actual cleaning. Mrs Watson from the village comes three times a week for that. But you'll be expected to keep these rooms tidy,' Carrie told her. 'Miss Tara's not a great one for putting things away, so you'll have to be firm.'

  It doesn't matter, Phoebe wanted to yell, because I'm not staying. I've decided, once and for all, that I don't dare. Because, heaven help me, I can't trust myself.

  In reality, she said nothing. Just smiled rather wanly and nodded.

  Lunch was home-made broth with crusty bread, and fresh fruit to follow. In spite of her emotional turmoil, Phoebe ate everything that was put before her.

  She was shown how to operate the dishwasher and the washing machine. Then, under Carrie's critical eye, she dealt with a basket of ironing deftly and neatly, and replaced a missing button on a small dress.

  'My, the days are drawing in.' Carrie shook her head as she .looked out of the window. 'It'll be quite dark soon, and I've left a few things on the line in the orchard. Bring them in for me, there's a good girl.'

  The strong wind had twisted most of the garments round the washing line, and it nipped at Phoebe as she struggled to free them.

  Above its shrill whine, she heard Dominic quietly say, 'Phoebe.'

  She dropped the final pair of Tara's woollen tights into the clothes basket and turned slowly to face him. She hadn't heard his approach over the damp grass, but, even before he'd spoken, she'd felt a sharp ripple of awareness—was conscious that her mouth had already begun to curve into a smile, which she had to hastily wipe away.

  He was standing a few yards away from her. Even in the fading light, she could see that the dark face looked strained. That his tall figure was tensed—against what? The possibility of rejection?

  But that was ridiculous, she thought. He was still the arrogant Dominic Ashton. Still the Dark Lord of a dream that could so easily develop into yet another nightmare.

  A man to avoid. To evade. And soon.

  He said simply, 'I'm going to collect Tara from school. Will you come with me?'

  And against every instinct, against all reason, Phoebe heard herself say, 'Yes.'

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  DOMINIC didn't speak. But for a moment Phoebe thought he was going to step forward—reach for her in some way—and every nerve in her body was suddenly tense and tingling.

  She swallowed, clutching the basket of clothes as if it were a shield. Because if he touched her she didn't know what she would do. How she would react. And the realisation frightened her, sent her mind spinning.

  It was as if she was joined to him by some intense, mutual need that she had never thought to experience, and that she couldn't begin to understand.

  He hadn't moved a muscle, but all the same she felt— taken. Stamped for ever by some mark of possession.

  Then, as if the invisible cord between them had been slashed with a knife, she was just as suddenly free again, her legs shaking under her, her heart thudding against her ribcage.

  He said laconically, 'Get your coat. I'll see you on the front drive in five minutes.' And he turned and went, leaving her staring after him.

  After she'd left the clothes basket in the kitchen, explained to Carrie where she was going and fetched her jacket from her room, she had an excuse to be breathless when she joined him on the drive.

  He was waiting beside the little Peugeot she'd last seen in the car park beside the market.

  'You'll have the use of this while you work for me.' He handed her the keys. 'Let's see what you can do.'

  'You want me to drive?' Phoebe gasped.

  'You told me you had a licence. I need to check your general competency if you're going to be driving my daughter.'

  'Yes—yes, I see.' She slid behind the wheel, waiting nervously while he took his place beside her. 'It's been a while...'

  'Then take your time.'

  To her relief, the engine responded immediately, and she moved smoothly away.

  'Where exactly are we going?' she asked as she threaded her way through the lanes. She was glad she had to concentrate so hard on what she was doing. It helped divert her attention from Dominic's physical proximity to her in the confined space of the car.

  'To Westcombe Park School first, and then into Westcombe itself, where Tara has her piano lesson. Her teacher lives in Derwent Street.'

  'Of course.' Phoebe nodded. 'That's just a few doors away from the tea rooms.'

  'And probably why Cindy thought she could risk leaving Tara to fend for herself,' he returned flatly.

  'Yes—but there was no real harm done.'

  He said drily, 'I wish I could agree.'

  There was a brief silence, then he continued. 'May I say, by the way, how much I approve of the transformation?'

  Phoebe felt her face warm slightly. She said stiltedly, 'I—I have to talk to you about that.'

  'That has an ominous sound,' he said lightly. 'Don't you like Carrie's choice for you?'

  'That's not the point. I—I don't want anyone else buying my clothes.'

  'But your own stuff went up in flames,' Dominic pointed out reasonably. 'And I really couldn't allow you to spend the rest of your life in
my robe, however beguiling you looked,' he added silkily.

  A remark Phoebe considered it safer to ignore. 'All the same,' she said stubbornly, 'I wish you hadn't done it. It will take me ages to repay you.'

  'Consider it part of the job,' he said dismissively. 'Uniform supplied.'

  'This is nothing like a uniform, and you know it.' Phoebe swallowed. 'Please let me have the receipts, and I'll pay for the things as and when I can.'

  'Please don't sound as if you'll be going round with a begging bowl,' he said caustically. 'I saw the fire officer today, and he confirmed that the cause of the fire was the faulty wiring, so you probably have a claim against your landlord.'

  'I doubt if he'll see it that way.'

  'He may not have a choice.' Dominic paused. 'And there is, of course, the question of your salary. We haven't really discussed that yet.'

  He mentioned a sum that nearly caused her to stall the car.

  'But you can't possibly pay me that much,' she protested. 'I'm not even qualified.'

  He said slowly, 'It's what I was paying Cindy. And you have a warm heart and a sense of responsibility— both attributes that she signally lacked. I think you're worth it. That's on top of your board and lodging, of course,' he added, almost as an afterthought.

  'Oh, this is ridiculous,' she said heatedly.

  'I quite agree. We're going to end up in the ditch.'

  'Oh, hell.' Phoebe hurriedly righted her steering. 'You know what I mean.'

  'Yes, I do,' he said slowly. 'And I'm wondering why you have such a low sense of self-esteem.'

  She bit her lip until she tasted blood. 'I—wasn't aware I had.'

  'Another fib,' he said gently. 'You don't trust me enough to tell me the truth. But I can wait.'

  You'll wait a long time, she thought wildly. What would you say, I wonder, if I told you that it was all because of you—and only you? Maybe, on the day I leave for ever...

  Westcombe Park School was a big square building in red brick. Lights blazed from the windows, and the road outside was busy with Land Rovers and Jeeps while the drivers—mostly women in Barbours and Puffa jackets— called greetings to each other.

  Phoebe parked the car neatly and got out, feeling very much an outsider, although she spotted a few girls of her own age who were probably nannies too.

 

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