I shook my head. Weakly, I argued, “I don’t want to get your car wet.”
“I don’t give a fuck-all about the car. Get in!”
It was futile arguing with him. I would only get “more wet” and stood a very good chance of being struck by lighting. Quickly yanking the door open, I jumped in and the window sealed shut.
The icy mask did nothing to conceal the pent up emotion blazing in his eyes. “What would you have done? Walk home in the dark? In the middle of a thunderstorm?” He nearly growled out the words.
“I’m ruining your beautiful car.” That was an understatement. I sat there a bedraggled, soaked lump, my clothes plastered to me indecently, dripping all over the fine leather upholstery.
He reached into the back seat and grabbed a clean white dress shirt. “Here,” he said, handing it to me. It was perfect and beautiful and probably cost a fortune. “Take it,” he insisted.
I had heard that implacable tone before. He was thoroughly intimidating when he was like this, and I was too baffled by his reaction to put up a fuss.
When our fingers touched, he pulled away quickly. I patted my face and throat, soaking the super fine cotton, and caught a trace of his delicious scent still clinging to it. Dear God, this is torture. The craving to bury my nose in it and inhale deeply was almost unendurable. I placed the shirt on my lap.
Visibility being near zero, he drove slowly as the heavens opened up and unleashed the worst of it. The only sound in the small space was his steady breathing coupled with the hiss of the windshield wipers working frantically to keep up with the heavy downpour. There was something perversely reassuring about the sound of his breath. It reached deep into my bones and chased the chill away.
“It wouldn’t be the first time I walked home in the rain,” I mumbled. The answer escaped my lips unintentionally.
“Are you trying to piss me off?” He wouldn’t look at me as he spoke, glared at the road instead and gripped the steering wheel with two hands tight enough to turn his knuckles pale.
“No. I…I don’t really understand why you are…and can you please stop using that language around me,” I demanded, clutching the shirt to my throat as a child would a safety blanket. He turned towards me with a probing glance. The anger dissipated and amusement appeared in his brandy colored eyes. Exhaling slowly, the tension drained out of his shoulders and his grip on the steering wheel relaxed.
“What’s wrong with my language?”
“I don’t care for profanity. It’s the tool of an undisciplined mind.”
His lips quirked. “Who said that?”
“I did.” When I glanced at him again, I found him watching me with an intensity that made me quickly avert my eyes.
We pulled up to the back entrance of the house a short while later. The worst of the storm behind us, only a few scattered showers remained as the sun struggled to break through the wall of steel blue clouds.
He put the car in park, brooding silently, while I sat there perfectly still. My nerves raw. All my senses completely locked on him. Prey in the presence of a predator. Except you want to be caught, the dark, deranged part of my psyche taunted.
I waited for him to say something but he kept staring ahead, his eyebrows pinched together in deep concentration. If we could only find some middle ground and coexist amicably. I tried to bridge the uncomfortable gap between us.
“What does the B stand for? Bossy? Belligerent? Bellicose?”
“Bentley.”
“Oh…I’m sorry about your car. Can it be fixed?”
“Enough about the damn car. Promise me next time you want to go anywhere you’ll get a ride from Theo or one of the guys.”
“If they’re not busy.”
He turned to me with such a withering glare I’m surprised I didn’t turn to stone on the spot. “Let me be perfectly clear. If I find out they let you walk again, they will all be looking for new employment.” The last words were uttered in a deadly calm voice that left no room for doubt.
“Fine,” I replied in a petulant tone. I tugged on the door handle several times without success. My gaze slowly slid back to him in question, trying to gauge what it was that was happening between us, and found his attention still focused forward.
“Are you scared of me?” he asked, his voice so mild I almost didn’t hear him.
“No.” I was much more scared of myself, of the feelings he provoked in me.
“Then why are you desperate to escape?”
I almost laughed. Where…do I…begin? “You mean apart from the fact that every time you speak to me you are either appallingly rude, deeply insulting, or an arrogant jerk?” From his profile, I could tell he was fighting to keep a smile off his face.
“You’re right.”
I finally heard the click of the doors unlocking and pushed mine open. I ran towards the back door, trying to escape an uncomfortable feeling nipping at my heels, and paused in the vestibule to watch him.
He held the white shirt I had used to dry myself with as if it were the shroud of Turin, staring at it with an unfathomable expression. That uncomfortable feeling nipping at my heels parked itself in the pit of my stomach. I was done trying to make any sense of this man’s moods.
As I walked into the kitchen, Mrs. Arnaud caught the sight of me soaking wet and gasped, “Mon Dieu, get changed before you catch a cold.”
“Yes, madame.”
Fifteen minutes later, I was soaking in a hot bath, the water line just below my nose and the scent of white Bulgarian roses drifting up from the steam. Every minute of the day’s events played over and over in my mind while my toe fidgeted with the waterspout. I made a mental list of possible explanations:
One: he saw me as some kind of charity case. That did not sit well with me. My pride huffed and puffed. Two: he didn’t want to see me run over by a car. People do drive aggressively around these parts. He probably didn’t want the bother of having to identify the corpse of one of his wayward employees. I could see him trying to explain it to the police. A handkerchief over his nose as he inspected the remains…
Yes, that’s her. Well what do you expect? The idiot walked to town wearing those ridiculous shoes.
I even contemplated the possibility that he was trying to somehow make amends for his appalling behavior in the past, but quickly discarded the notion. So once again, I was left scratching my head about him, unable to dislodge that haunted look on his face from my mind.
After work the next day, I went to my room to change out of my uniform and a found a sleek, silver object sitting on my desk. There was no note. I stared at it for what seemed like an eternity before touching it.
A brand new Apple laptop.
It had to be from him. There was no other possible explanation, and I wasn’t about to go around asking. I couldn’t keep it, of course. That would imply something, and none of it good. It crossed my mind more than once that this might be some kind of test, because I didn’t trust anything that resembled kindness from him.
Chapter Nine
It was my day off. The sun finally made an appearance in a sky painted cerulean blue and I planned on spending it entirely outdoors. Two days prior, I had taken a bus into the city and got caught in another sudden downpour. Soaked all the way through to my underwear, I didn’t exactly make the best of impressions as I walked from hospital to hospital dropping off the packets that contained my query letters. In any event, all I could do now was hope for the best and wait for a call.
Grabbing my book bag, I headed out to find a soft patch of grass as far away from the manor as possible. Mrs. Arnaud insisted on packing me a basket for lunch, afraid that any lack of attention to my diet would cause her to lose any progress she’d made in her quest to fatten me up. Charlotte found me as I was about to walk outside.
“Prison break tonight. Let’s go listen to some live music.”
I hesitated, not quite feeling like I could let my guard down yet and indulge in some fun. When you’ve been living hand to mo
uth for so many years, old habits are hard to break. “I don’t know, Charlotte. I don’t want to walk home late at night––” She held up a hand, stalling my excuse.
“Theo promised to come pick us up.” Theo being the eighteen year old gardener who was completely infatuated with her. I sighed and smiled. “You might as well agree now, because I’m prepared for any and all arguments,” she added.
That was one of the things I loved most about Charlotte, her inexhaustible enthusiasm for life. It was refreshing. Resigned to my fate, I capitulated, “All right, tonight it is.” She jumped up and down with glee. I couldn’t help but laugh at her unabashed joy, her spontaneity––something I lacked altogether, life shaping me into someone measured and deliberate. “I’ll be by your room at nine,” she yelled as I walked away.
I cut through the garden and marched past the tulip and iris beds. I kept walking until I reached the well-worn path behind the conservatory and the manor was well out of sight, until I came upon a wisteria tree that belonged in a fairytale book. The base of the trunk was knobby and wide, a dark burnt umber color. It twisted around itself and reached up into the warm, blue sky. The branches held long columns of clustered, lavender blooms that hung down like the tumbled curls of a little girl.
With a ridiculous smile on my face, I stepped under the enormous canopy and closed my eyes, the columns of flowers brushing against my head and shoulders. An overwhelming sense of excitement raced through me as I stood under that magical tree. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something big was about to happen.
I kicked off my espadrilles and spread the blanket at the base of the tree. Flopping down, I yanked on the elastic holding my ponytail together and my hair fell silky and straight below by breasts, my scalp happy to be free of it. I needed a haircut. One the many things that had been neglected over the last couple of years; I had been trimming my own hair.
Inside the basket were sandwiches stuffed with full crème Brie and smoked Parma ham, a cluster of red grapes, and a couple of freshly baked madeleines. I popped a grape in my mouth. Bursting, it spilled its sweet treasure on my tongue.
I flipped open my book with every intention of reading a couple of chapters as a refresher. But as I lay down with my knees hitched up and my feet on the ground, a lazy feeling stole over me. The wind whispered a lullaby in my ear and sunlight broke through the canopy of flowers, dappling my face. Swaddled in a deep sense of serenity, I closed my eyes and floated somewhere between fantasy and reality.
I’m not sure if I heard him or felt his presence. In any case, my eyes crept open to find him a few paces away, standing rigid, his face taut with apprehension. Even from afar, I could tell he was struggling with something. My stomach sank with a thud as all hope for a peaceful afternoon fled.
He was wearing a white, v neck t-shirt that outlined the power of his broad shoulders and the width of his chest. However galling, I had to admit his beauty seemed to increase exponentially every time I saw him…and his virility. My newly resurrected libido snuck that one in.
When he stepped forward, I scrambled to sit up and banged my leg against the trunk, flopping around as graceless as a fish out of water. He came close enough that I was forced to look up. Shoring up my defenses, I pressed my back up against the tree and wrapped my arms around my bent legs.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, looking up at the tree, his eyes narrowing at the sunlight peeking through the canopy. His silky hair rustled in the wind and fell over his eye. Deep in the back of my mind, where the dark, shameful part of me lives, I saw myself pushing it aside with my fingers.
“You didn’t. I was only resting my eyes.” I looked away, a flash of heat tickling my neck.
“Is that what you call it?”
He was exceedingly good at obliterating my self-control. Good sense would dictate that I did not get into yet another argument with the man that paid my salary, but why start using good sense now––that train left the station the minute I met him.
“Shouldn’t you be at the office? What are you doing skulking around the property? Or are you so obsessed with provoking me that you walked all the way out here to get your daily quota in.”
The side of his sensual mouth curved up briefly before he trained it back into a firm line. “I do own the property so I’m not sure you can call it skulking. I’m working from home today––and I didn’t have to come all the way out here to provoke you, I could’ve just waited ‘til you came back to the house.”
The silence stretched on; neither one of us hurried to fill it. And yet, instead of it being awkward, it felt…strangely comfortable.
I noticed he was leaning a little more heavily than usual on his cane. He tipped his beautiful face up towards the sun and closed his eyes. There was an extra tightness around them that indicated his injury was causing him pain. An overwhelming urge came over me. I wanted to take his pain away, soothe him.
“Did you leave an Apple laptop in my room? I can’t keep it.” I kept my eyes on my bare flexing toes as I spoke.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s beyond inappropriate. I’m not in the habit of accepting expensive gifts from strangers.” Gathering my hair quickly, I tied it back in a ponytail, readying myself for battle.
“I’m not a stranger, I’m your employer.” His voice was unusually bland. I didn’t let that fool me.
“Or employers.”
“Well that would be stupid.” His anger percolated quickly. “Those books are outdated. You need a computer.”
“You make perfect sense, but I still can’t accept it. It’ll be in your office tonight.” I doubted anyone ever dared to disagree with him, not if they valued their welfare.
His eyes assessed me shrewdly. His jaw tightened and he raked his fingers through his hair. He was working up another argument, as apparent on his face as if he had shouted ‘pistols or rapiers?’ Surprisingly, though, he pivoted and walked away with ground eating strides. Needless to say I was relieved, although unsure if the issue had been settled.
The cane must have sunk into a soft patch of grass because I watched him lose his balance and crumple to the ground. Instinct thrust me forward, towards him. He was clutching his knee when I reached his side. I knelt down closer and discovered his face twisted in pain.
“Should I go to the house and get somebody?”
“No!” he barked out. “Give me a minute.” Reaching into the pocket of his athletic pants, he pulled out a prescription bottle. I snatched it out of his hand and read the label.
“These are very strong. When was the last time you took one?”
His eyes briefly darted away from me, then returned weary and cautious. “Four hours ago.”
“You’re not due for another hour,” I said as gently as possible. Unlike him, I gathered no pleasure seeing him brought low.
He stared at his leg and didn’t respond. When he finally did look up, the mask was gone. His eyes were two deep pools of emotion, allowing me a glimpse of his pain and frustration, beseeching me to understand.
Wordlessly, I walked back to the basket and grabbed a small bottle of Pellegrino. His large hand trembled as he took the bottle from me. I wrapped mine around his, to steady it, and felt him flinch.
Was I that repulsive? I couldn’t even begin to understand this man.
His athletic pants were loose at the bottoms. Before I realized what I was doing, I had reached down and pushed the hem up his calf. He stiffened immediately and gently covered my hand with his own, the warmth of his palm unleashing a swarm of butterflies in my stomach.
“Don’t,” he murmured.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, held his gaze and watched him wrestle with it. “This may help until the pill starts to work.”
He reminded me of a great wounded beast, guarding himself, ready to strike out. No sudden movements. Talk softly. It must have been evidence of how much pain he endured that he let me touch him at all.
He released my hand and my practiced finger
s went to work, moving up his leg until his pants were pushed high up his thigh. I looked up briefly and found his features frozen. He was holding his breath, his eyes wide and focused on me. A light mist of sweat glistened on his forehead. He looked almost––frightened.
The scar was an angry snake wrapped around his leg. My fingers alternated pressure around the kneecap. Massaging, soothing, stimulating. I gently kneaded up and around the knee, to the lower thigh, then down the calf; the scars sometimes smooth, sometimes rough under my fingertips. He flinched a number of times, but then subtly pressed into my touch instead of pulling away.
I inspected the thick scars where the skin grafts pulled over bone and sinew and discovered they didn’t prevent any mobility. The root of the problem must have been elsewhere, where the titanium pins held bones together, I figured.
A few moments later, I glanced again in his direction and found his expression had completely transformed. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep and steady, his nostrils flaring. The groves around his sensual mouth had relaxed. What a sight––even more stunning than when he was neatly groomed and master of himself. A real flesh and blood man, not the unfeeling sculpture he usually resembled.
His dark golden scruff glinted in the sunlight. My gaze fell on the tiny scar at the top of his lip and all I could think was that I wanted to lick it. I spoke purely to distract myself.
“What were you doing walking this far from the house?” I asked, my ears burning in shame. When he didn’t open his eyes, I thought he hadn’t heard me.
“I come out here to think.”
“I’m sorry. You wanted some privacy and you found me hanging around.”
The tension in his muscles had eased, his color was returning. The thick fringe of his lashes fluttered open and revealed slightly dilated pupils. He caught me staring and with quicksilver speed, his expression shifted. The wounded creature transformed into a predator. A full sized tiger.
“Good for me that you were.” It was a sensual murmur that made my scalp prickle, and my throat tighten.
A Million Different Ways (A Horn Novel Book 1) Page 9