Authors: Kristen Ashley
“We’ll talk
tonight,” he said, leaving her to think that he had thought better
of what he was about to say… or do. Thankfully, he removed his hand
and she exited the car with all haste, practically running into the
house (after a brief struggle with the impossibly heavy front
doors) and straight to her rooms.
Tonight they
would talk about their “arrangement”.
This was good,
she told herself. They had to get some things settled.
No,
she
had to get
some things settled. She had to get herself sorted, get some rest,
get her thoughts together and get her body under control and find
out where the rest of her life was taking her.
One place she
was determined it wasn’t going to take her and that was into some
ill-advised fling with the man she was forced to live with for the
next however-many years.
No matter how
damned handsome he was.
Or how
beautiful his smile.
She changed
from her lovely outfit into a pair of faded jeans and an equally
faded, tight-fitting black t-shirt that said, “Harry’s Chocolate
Shop – Home of the Great Indoorsman” in yellow printing which
promoted a popular bar at Purdue University where she and Gavin
went to school. They were comfortable clothes and reminded her of
home.
She donned
them like armour.
To prepare
herself, she gathered her notes and wrote more, reading through
them carefully.
When the kids
arrived a half hour after Julia and Douglas, she and Veronika dealt
with them, their bags, their homework, their dinner and then put
them to bed. Douglas emerged only during bedtime, looking in on
Ruby, who had already been in bed for an hour and was sleeping, and
taking care of Willie while Julia tucked Lizzie into bed, all the
way down her sides, like she’d been doing since the first night she
arrived.
“Are you okay,
Auntie Jewel?” Lizzie asked to Julia’s surprise.
Julia’s first
response was to kiss the girl on the cheek and smooth her dark hair
back, smiling into her sad, worried eyes. She’d underestimated her
niece, no doubt in her sensitive state she was sensing Julia’s
agitation.
Julia decided
to be honest. Honesty, Patricia always told Julia and Gavin, was
the best policy.
“No,
Lizzie-babe, but I will be. Don’t you worry about it though, go to
sleep.”
Julia kissed
her niece again and left the room with the unfortunate timing of
joining Douglas at the head of the stairs.
“Is it time
for our chat?” she asked with studied politeness as they walked
down together.
“I’ve a call
to make,” he responded.
“That’s okay,”
she said airily, as if she had all the time in the world, “I’ll
wait.”
She went
directly to her rooms, looked in the mirror and ran her fingers
through her hair. She found herself wishing she had a stash of
liquor for some liquid courage and then shook the thought off.
This was a
good thing, she told herself, they had years of this ahead of them
and they needed some ground rules.
She sat in the
turret, went back over her notes and she waited.
Then she
waited some more.
She supposed
he would come and get her when he was ready but, after thirty
minutes, she heard nothing. And with each passing minute, her anger
increased.
This was his
house, of course, but did this mean she had to wait for his
bidding, like Mrs. K or Veronika? Was this to be her life?
Not bloody
likely.
Angrily, she
grabbed her notes and headed to his study.
The door was
open and she walked straight in without knocking. He was on the
phone again, sitting behind his desk and at her arrival he lifted
his dark-eyed gaze to her.
She had to
steel herself against the gaze and just how perfectly he fit in the
richly-appointed, masculine room. It, too, had an enormous
fireplace that took up most of one wall, beside it an ornate
cabinet sat, topped with intricately cut, crystal decanters filled
with liquor surrounded by sturdy, cut-crystal glasses that were
built to be held in a man’s hand. The opposite wall was lined with
bookshelves and filled with books, liberally interspersed with
(most likely priceless) objects d’art. An enormous, comfortable
couch faced the fireplace, covered in a rich, tan suede and flanked
by two matching wide-seated armchairs. In the centre of this was a
heavily carved, rectangular table, its wood buffed to a dazzling
shine. Two more chairs faced his desk and there was an ancient
standing globe in the corner beside the floor-to-ceiling windows
that faced the garden. The highly-polished wood floors were covered
with deep-pile, patterned carpets that screamed money.
As she stood
there, Julia wondered for a moment what to do. She knew she was
being rude but she’d had enough of working to Douglas’s schedule.
She came to England on a Tuesday, Monique gone, he arrived well
into the night, offered no help, no direction and then he left on
Wednesday not to return for days. No phone calls, e-mails, nothing.
He planned her weekend for her without asking her thoughts on the
matter. And it was Sunday night, for goodness sake, who worked late
on Sunday night?
Her options
flitted through her mind. Sit comfortably on the couch and appear
like she had all night to wait while he rudely did exactly what he
wanted? Make herself a drink? Make him one? Sit in one of the two
chairs that faced his enormous, aptly-described baronial desk and
stare at him pointedly?
She liked the
idea of him not being able to ignore her, which she knew he could
and would do. Instead of sitting in a chair, she walked to the
front of the desk, positioning herself right across from him and
she twisted her hip slightly to rest it against the edge. She bent
her head to read the notes in one hand while the long fingernails
of the other tapped impatiently on the surface of the desk. She
would have whistled if she could carry a tune but she thought that
might be overdoing it.
“Something’s
come up.” She heard Douglas say and when she looked down to him, he
was leaning back in his chair watching her, his eyes inscrutable,
“No. I’ll call you.”
Without saying
good-bye, he replaced the receiver.
“I gather you
want something?” he asked.
“Yes… you.”
His right eyebrow rose arrogantly and her stomach lurched. “That
is… to talk to you,” she finished.
She could have
kicked herself. Not a great start.
He rose and
walked around the desk.
“Would you
like a drink?” he inquired.
“Yes.” She so
very much wanted a drink, she wanted to shout it (but she did
not).
“Whisky?”
What she
really would like was a shot or two of tequila but she doubted any
of the unquestionably invaluable crystal decanters held anything as
common as tequila.
“That’ll do,”
Julia replied.
He poured the
drinks and brought one to her. After he handed her the glass, he
took a sip from his and shoved his other hand in his pocket,
rocking back on his heels.
“Would you
like to start? Or shall I?” he asked politely.
She watched
him carefully. As far as she could tell, in the last week he’d
spent approximately two hours in the company of the children. What
he had to say she could not imagine and curiosity almost made her
let him go first.
Instead, she
took a sip, winced as the fiery liquid went down and said, “I’d
like to start, if you don’t mind.”
“Be my guest,”
he said and motioned courteously to the couch.
She sat,
thinking he, too, would sit, but he stayed standing. She realised
her mistake immediately as she’d have to look up at him. She hid it
by pretending she didn’t care. She casually pulled her legs up on
the couch, tucked them beside her as if this was a cosy little
arrangement and she was as comfortable as if she was ensconced in
front of the television in Patricia’s living room.
He again put
his hand in his pocket and surveyed her and she had the distinct
feeling she wasn’t fooling him, not one bit.
“I have a
list,” she announced.
“I can see
that.” His voice was carefully controlled but she had the
impression that he wasn’t biting back anger but rather hiding
amusement. She shot a sharp glance at him but his face was just as
blank as his voice was controlled.
With no
further ado, she launched into it. The children’s food, their
schedules, their boarding school, the time they were allowed on the
computer or in front of the television, the unnatural quiet they
had to observe.
She had a few
things to say about Monique as well, but she did so carefully. She
made no accusations but instead made it perfectly clear who,
exactly, had been chosen to raise the children and how that was
going to carry on from this point forward.
She also
informed him that she needed to settle in, for herself and for the
children. She needed a bank account, a job, a means of making money
and continuing her contribution to her pension for the time when
she was back home, alone and facing the wrong side of middle age
(although she didn’t share that last bit). She explained her
concerns about health insurance, the urgency of getting a driver’s
license, a car and an open-ended visa and work permit.
She also told
him she’d like to contribute financially to the house and the
children’s expenses and asked him to assess a monthly figure she
could pay and they would discuss it.
When she
finished, she was very proud of herself. She had been succinct,
logical and controlled. For his part, he listened patiently and
without interruption.
He walked back
to the drinks cabinet and poured himself another whisky. She took a
cautious sip of hers that had heretofore gone forgotten.
He turned back
from the drinks cabinet, leaned his thigh against its edge and
regarded her.
She regarded
him right back.
Moments
passed.
Finally, she
could stand it no more.
“Well?” she
asked, her tone more sharp than she would have liked and she
berated herself for allowing him to shake her control. She needed
that control, for a variety of reasons.
“Julia, the
children go to boarding school because it’s far superior to
anything the government could offer them. They take lessons because
they should have accomplishments outside of school. That won’t
change.”
“Douglas
–”
He
lifted a hand to stop her interruption and she shut her mouth only
because he’d let her speak her piece uninterrupted. She should give
him the same opportunity and
then
let him have it if she didn’t agree.
“As for their
food, what lessons they have and how many, their schedules,
television…” he trailed off, obviously beyond these petty details,
“I leave that in your capable hands.”
She
immediately felt relief flooding through her; he wasn’t going to
argue with her.
“And how will
Monique feel about this? Will you talk to her?” she asked.
“I’ll control
Mother,” he answered in a tone so implacable, Julia almost felt
sorry for Monique. “As for your job, visa, license, I’ll get Sam on
it. And I’ll ask her to clear my schedule so I can take you to the
bank and get you an account.”
“Thank you,”
she said and she meant it. She was so relieved, if she could trust
herself and her crazy emotions, she would have given him a hug and
a big, sloppy kiss. “Speaking of Sam, she’s already helped a great
deal, she’s been a godsend. She got me a phone, a computer…” Julia
sifted through her lists and quoted to him how much she figured she
owed him. “I’ll need to pay you back right away. Can Sam help me
arrange a transfer to your account?”
“Don’t be
absurd,” he replied in a way that would make Einstein feel
ridiculous for presenting his theory of relativity.
“You can’t buy
me computers and –” Julia started.
“Even
suggesting you’ll pay me is insulting,” Douglas cut in. “You gave
up your entire life to be here, the least I can do is make it
convenient and comfortable for you.”
That shut her
mouth. She didn’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed. It was a
lovely sentiment but she most certainly didn’t want to feel
indebted to him.
He seemed not
to notice her warring emotions and carried on. “As for a car,
you’ll take one from the garage. I use the Jag, Mother the MG,
Carter the Bentley. You can have one of the others and, if you
don’t like them, just tell Sam what you want and she’ll arrange for
it to be delivered.”
Julia’s mouth
dropped open.
He’d
have
a
car
delivered?
That was too
much, any thoughts of lovely sentiments went out the window and her
relief was chased away as quickly as it came.
Before
she could say a word, he continued. “And we won’t even discuss a
monthly…” he hesitated then went on, “
payment
for living here.” He said the word “payment” like
it tasted vile. “That idea is even more absurd than the
other.”
“But I can’t
–” Julia started again.
He threw his
whisky back and put the glass down with a thud, effectively
interrupting her.
“I can provide
for my family, Julia,” he announced inflexibly and while she was
trying to wrap her mind around the extraordinary fact that he
thought she was family, he continued. “I’m uncertain why my sister
trusted me with a task for which I have no skills or desire, but
the one thing I can do is provide for you and the children. And on
that point, there will be no discussion.”
He told her
there will be no discussion as if that was the end of the
discussion just because he said so.