by Aria Ford
“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.
“He didn’t?” I asked. I was not pretending to be surprised. I really did think he would have thought to tell them something. Even if it was just, “be good for auntie Emma,” or something like that; something my own family would have done. But evidently he hadn’t.
“No,” Camille said. “He just sneaked off.”
“Well,” I said brightly, “maybe he wanted it to be a surprise. We’ll have lots of fun. We’re going to go and play cars. You coming?”
“Not if it’s Jack’s stupid cars,” Camille said, suddenly sulking. “He doesn’t want to let me touch them.”
She was retreating to her corner again and I stood, feeling desperate to reach out to her. “It’s not Jack’s cars,” I said quickly. “We’ve got a better idea. Do you like makeup?” I asked. The room was furnished with a tiny dressing table with its own oval mirror.
“No,” Camille said shortly. “Makeup’s for ladies. I don’t want to be a lady.”
“Oh?” That reply stumped me.
“No.”
“Okay.”
I walked across the carpet, deciding Camille needed time alone.
“Are we going outside?” she asked suddenly as I was halfway across the room.
“Yes.”
“Yay!”
She scrambled to the end of the bed and slipped her feet along the ladder-rungs, jumping down.
I collected Jack from the other end of the hallway. We went outside. The sunlight was dazzling. The lawn was like a carpet of a shade of emerald I have never actually seen outside of the movies. Jack took off across the lawn, arms making an airplane.
“Vrooom….”
I laughed, watching the children transform from hesitant, nervous creatures into happy, playful kids in an instant. They gamboled about on the lawn, and even Camille forgot her sadness temporarily and consented to wrestle with Jack, both of them collapsing in a giggly heap on the lawn.
I laughed with them, then sat down in the shade of a small tree.
“Cars!” Jack came running over to me, face flushed and expectant. I swallowed.
“I need to go and get some things,” I said, suddenly desperate that there would be something to make cars out of. There must be empty toilet-rolls, even in a mansion? Jack looked disappointed.
“It’s okay,” he shrugged, standing up. “You didn’t have to mean it. We’ll play something else.”
I swallowed, seeing how he instantly excused my oversight. I got the feeling his father said he would do things and then forgot them. Again my rage burned.
“We’re doing this!” I said brightly. “I just need a minute. You kids can play until I get back here, right?”
“Yes!”
Camille amazed me by launching herself at Jack. She grabbed his knees in a good approximation of a football tackle, and he, laughing and seemingly more surprised even than I was, collapsed onto his back while the small fury wrestled with his downed body.
I headed quickly inside.
“Paula?”
She appeared after a moment.
“Yes, miss?”
“Paula! Toilet rolls. Empty ones. And bottles. And glue?”
She looked at me blankly, then she nodded. “Making things?” she smiled.
“Yes!” I wanted to kiss her for understanding. “Do you have glue?”
“Try the master’ office,” she advised sagely. “And toilet rolls? We recycle. There’s dozens of inners in the cellar downstairs. I’ll get them.”
“Thanks!” I squeezed her hand then ran for the stairs. “Where’s the office?”
“Upstairs, second room on the right. Careful of the carpet.”
“Okay!”
Finding the office was easy. I walked in on the pristine white carpet and looked round quickly.
I had to be fast, I knew that. But the place made me curious. This was his office. Alexander Carring. His private space. Being in it gave me a delicious tingle down to my toes. I couldn’t help snooping, just a little.
The place was white, with a dark-wood desk and a smart Japanese-style blind over the windows. There was a set of shelves on the far wall and a tall leather office-chair behind it. On the shelves were three photographs, framed in tasteful silvery frames. One was Jack, gap-toothed and about six years old, dressed in a fancy school uniform. One was Camille, curly-haired and perhaps two years old. The third was a woman with blond hair.
I swallowed hard, looking down at the soft white carpet. I was surprised to feel a strange mix of jealousy and inadequacy swamp me. The woman, laughing and beautiful, was every inch the glamorous, stylish siren I wished I could be.
Come on, Emma! You’re here as an au pair. He wouldn’t look at you anyway. Remembering my place, I turned my attention to raiding the drawers.
In the second drawer from the bottom, I found what I wanted. Proper office-glue. Transparent, fluid and the best make. I smiled and pocketed it. As I crossed the hallway and headed out, I suddenly thought that I hadn’t checked whether or not I had left footmarks on his carpet. I was almost entirely sure that I had.
It can’t be helped. Maybe Paula would clean it up.
We got started as soon as I returned with a box of cardboard bits and some glue. Paula had provided scissors.
“Look at my car!” Jack exclaimed. He had found two toilet-roll inners and a box to work from.
“It’s great.”
“I’m also making a car,” Camille explained happily. “I’m making room for people. See?”
I saw she had carefully torn a hole in the box and had folded other cardboard to make something like triangles, laid on their backs.
“That’s very clever,” I said. She grinned up at me. Outside, I noticed, her eyes were blue, like the sky.
“I told Jack that,” she said. I laughed.
Jack pouted. “Mine’s clever,” he said stiffly.
“It is,” I agreed.
Half an hour later, triumphant and grinning, the two kids returned indoors with their creations, whooping and making car-noises. Or at least Jack was. Camille was carrying hers carefully, weaving it through the air almost as if it were a plane. She looked more relaxed than she had all day.
While the kids had lunch, I chatted to Paula, who explained that, even though it was holidays for the kids, they had lessons. Jack in arithmetic, Camille in dance. Sure enough, at one o’clock, exactly, two students turned up. The elder, a girl called Carey, took Jack upstairs to tutor and the younger, a bright-faced girl in her late teens called Millie, took Cammi to another room for her lessons. The lessons at least gave me time to go home and collect my things—some clothes for the next while and my laptop.
My room—when Paula took me to it—was yet another surprise. On the same floor as the rooms of the kids and, presumably, the master of the house. It was a delight. Small and meant for guests this place might be, but it was easily the most sumptuously-appointed place I had been in before.
“I must admit I actually hate this man,” I said, looking at the ceiling. “But I do like his house.”
The rest of the afternoon passed faster than I would have thought, and getting the kids to bed and sleeping also proved easy. At around nine o’clock, exhausted m
yself, I collapsed into the sumptuous, comfy bed.
I found my thoughts straying to Alexander Carring. I was so angry with him for how he had raised the kids. They were well behaved, it was true. But they were like small, frightened automata, not real kids. For all that, I also had to admit, at least to myself, that I was attracted to him. I recalled our meeting just that morning. My hand settled on my abdomen, drifted, and I was surprised to notice a dampness between my legs.
What? I blinked. I giggled. Was thinking about Alexander Carring arousing me? Already? I shook my head.
This man is the father of my charges, I told myself sternly. He is arrogant, unfeeling and self-serving. He is not for you. Yes, he is the sexiest man ever. But don’t. Just don’t.
“Emma,” I said aloud, laughing at myself. “Stay away.”
I couldn’t help imagining what he would be like undressed, how that lean body would gleam in the soft light of the bedroom, the scent of his cologne warm on his skin, the feel of those hard lips on my own. What would he be like in bed? Slow and sexy, or fast and passionate? I giggled, imagining his own hand stroking me, his body pressed on my own. What would I do if it was possible to find out more about him?
It wouldn’t, I thought, as I rolled onto my side, be that hard to resist temptation…he was not attractive enough to overcome his repellant character. Not for me.
I tried not to think about my discovery in the study—the beautiful glamor girl in the picture. I tried not to wonder what had happened or where she was now. I tried not to know, despite myself, that he would never really be attracted to someone as ordinary, as plain and frumpy, as me.
Chapter 3
Emma
My days with the kids went faster than I had expected. And already, I could swear I could see differences. That morning I was informed by Jack that he had dreamed about motor-cars, and he had decided he wanted to be a driver when he grew up. Camille laughed.
“You wouldn’t be a good driver.”
“Why?” Jack asked, voice screechy with rage.
“Your arms aren’t long enough to reach the wheel.”
Jack looked miserable and I grinned at him. “Long arms aren’t needed for driving. I promise. Look at me. I can drive…are my arms that long?” They both giggled.
“What?” I asked innocently.
“Nothing…”
That day, we played outside, games of hide-and-seek and races. We played until lunchtime and then came out and played afterward—Wednesday was their afternoon off. The games of hide-and-seek grew more elaborate, and I found myself perpetually “on,” actually challenged. There was no sign of Jack. It was five o’clock, shadows lengthening, and I was getting the first flutter of distress.
“Jack?”
Camille walked behind me, also looking worried. We had been hunting for ten minutes when we heard it. The roaring of an engine, coming fast across the lawn.
Jack was driving. What he was driving I took a moment to discern. It was small, knee-height and whirred like a grass-cutter. At first I thought it was one, except that it looked just like a miniature car. It was a miniature car, designed perfectly for a tiny rider, complete with the Ferrari badge. Cammi clapped her hands delightedly and ran toward him.
“There it is! You found it!” she shouted excitedly.
“Vroom, vroom!”
Jack was shouting at the top of his lungs, Camille was grinning benevolently, and I had my hands clasped, laughing with joy.
Then, suddenly, a voice rolled across the lawns like a gunshot.
“Jack Carring! Stop. Right. Now.”
I stopped too, terrified for a moment, whirling to face the sound. Camille stood still, and Jack’s face transformed into a mask of fear. He jumped out of the car and ran across the lawn, skidding to his knees in haste. He sat there, lip trembling, fighting not to cry. I struggled not to stare as Alexander Carring marched across the grass toward his small prone son.
“What on earth did you think you were doing?” he hissed, dragging on his arm to make him stand. He cuffed him on the side of the head.
Jack didn’t react to the blow. He scrambled up, looking up at his father, big eyes swimming. “Daddy, I…I…”
He started sobbing. That was too much. I marched over the grass, heedless of how my hair was in disarray, how covered with grass-stains my jeans had become. I was sure I looked horrible, but it matched my rage.
“Mr. Carring,” I said, loud and clear. “Your son didn’t mean to do any harm. If he was not allowed to use that car, shouldn’t you have told me? And there wasn’t any need for hitting. Your son is frightened.”
Jack hiccupped with fear, his thumb in his mouth in the gesture of a much smaller child.
“My son knew very well he did wrong,” Mr. Carring said thinly. “I confiscated that thing for a good reason. Look at the lawn!” He waved a hand despairingly at the green grass, now furrowed, here and there, with small brownish wheel-tracks.
“The lawn!” I exclaimed. “It will grow back. Look at your son.”
We both looked at Jack. Cammi had gone across to comfort him. As we watched, he pushed her away and she walked off, tears running down her cheeks. I watched Alexander Carring as he looked at them. He ran a hand through his hair. Then he turned to me.
“Do you have children?” His voice was arid.
“No,” I retorted, heatedly. “But I was one. And Heaven help me, I’m glad I wasn’t raised the way you’re raising these ones.”
He spun round, glared at me as if I had slapped him. We regarded each other levelly for a moment. Then he cleared his throat.
“You have no right to interfere with my raising of my children,” he said icily. “You are their nanny. Not their mother.” He spat the word. “I know our contract was for a month. But you clearly have no idea of your place. Get off my property.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Now go.”
“Mr. Carring,” I said. I was an arm’s length away from him and I could smell the spicy musk of his aftershave and see a small pulse beating somewhere in his forehead. I drew in a breath and counseled myself to ignore both, and the effect they were beginning to have on me. I tipped my head back to look into his eyes. “We had an agreement. I am here with these children for a month. And I think they are sorely in need of me.”
He jerked as if I had slapped him. His eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your children are great,” I began, suddenly hesitant. “Well behaved, polite, perfect. They are also nothing like normal kids. The last few days have given them some of their childhood back. I will not let you throw me out and end all that because of some personal disagreement between us.”
I was panting when I finished, my rage burning inside me. He glared at me. I glared back, defiantly. I saw something flicker in his eyes. He flicked a tongue across dry, perfect lips. I tensed. Waited for the next words.
“You have no right to criticism my methods. My kids are perfect,” he said quietly. “I…appreciate your concern,” he said sarcastically. “But there is no need for it.”
“Fine,” I said, feeling suddenly bitter. So he had just fired me. So what? I didn’t actually need to stand here arguing with him. “Then I’ll go.” I turned quickly away from him.
He grabbed my wrist. The fingers, pressing on it, were corded with muscle, hard and strong. I could feel the warmth of his skin and, somewhere, a pulse throbbed deep in me. I looked down at my wrist and then up at him.
“You will unhand me.”
He was looking down at me and, as I wrenched my wrist left and right, trying to free it, what was written in his eyes was not anger. Anything but.
“Let me go,” I said, giving my wrist a savage wrench to the right. He didn’t react, didn’t move a muscle. His eyes stayed watching mine and a warmth flickered in them, a warmth that excited me. I twisted my arm. He blinked, as if trying to clear his thoughts.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. He let go and, as abruptly as it had flowere
d, the tension died. I took my wrist back, circling it experimentally, though I was sure there was nothing broken. His grip was almost strong enough for that. “I had no right to…lay hands on you like that. Forgive me.”
He was looking at the ground and he licked his lips again, clearly a nervous habit. I said nothing, and he looked up at me. His eyes were bare of any kind of pretense, and the expression I read in them was a mix of fear, surprise and, somewhere in their depths a spark of longing.
The latter surprised me, more so because it mirrored exactly what I felt. I wanted to grab him, to hold him in my arms, to press that lean, strong, firm body against my own and let him take me, let that wild encounter go to a natural conclusion. But that was my foolish imagination. Fired by the scent of spice and musk, aroused by the depths of his eyes. I was being stupid.
“I should go,” I said, clearing my throat.
“You should,” he said quietly. “We should discuss this when we are both more…rational.” He said it with a quirk of his lips that could have been self-mockery. I nodded.
“Yes,” I agreed. “We’ll do that.”
Neither of us moved. We both looked at each other and, in that moment, our eyes locked. He was the first to look away.
When the pounding speed of my heart returned to normal, I cleared my throat again.