Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 129944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
“Will there be anything else, sir?” I asked in my most condescending Miss Albright accent. Dear Miss Albright. I distinctly remember as a child wishing a tornado would take her away after seeing the Wizard of Oz for the first time. Now I couldn’t be more grateful for all the relentless grammar and diction lessons she drilled into me.
He blinked at first, a touch of surprise in his expression. Then his eyes narrowed. “No.”
I should cut off my tongue. I turned to leave.
“Actually, there is something.” The chill in his voice stopped me dead in my tracks. I don’t know how I managed to remain composed as I faced him. It felt like a heavy metal band was playing a concert inside my chest.
“Have you been crawling around my house, in the middle of the night?” Adding in a velvet soft voice, “Like a thief.”
He may as well have lit a bonfire under my feet because my entire body instantly went up in flames. It took a minute for me to remember how to make my throat work again. “No, sir.”
“Good,” he replied, then he turned his back to me like I ceased to exist.
My nerves were so fried afterwards that my teeth chattered all the way back to the kitchen.
* * *
The first few days I lived in a gastronomic fog, indulging in all the food I could stuff into my tiny stomach. The Scottish salmon fillet was cooked to perfection. I licked the sauce Veloute off my thumb and caught Giovanni, one of the gardeners, watching me. He quickly diverted his gaze as a stain of embarrassment spread on his cheeks. Across from me, Mrs. Arnaud prepared a dinner tray for François, a part time driver and full time caretaker of Mr. Horn’s fleet of expensive cars. There was a weary tightness around her eyes.
“Mrs. Arnaud, let me do that please. You must be exhausted.”
“Thank you, chérie.”
Outside, a cool wind caressed my skin. A blade of orange, the remains of daylight, cut the horizon in two while the edge of the sky dissolved into darkness. François was often busy tending to the cars around dinner time so we took turns bringing him his food. He was drying a black Mercedes SUV when he spotted me crossing the gravel driveway.
In his late thirties, he wasn’t by any means classically handsome. But there was a devilish sparkle in his hazel eyes, evidence of a wicked sense of humor and an easygoing personality, which made him attractive. He was medium height and cycling fit. I had seen him ride off a couple of times at dawn; his determined body bent over the handlebars, his legs pumping furiously beneath him.
He straightened and his warm eyes flickered over me, never staying in one place for more than an impersonal study. An inviting smile tipped up the corners of his mouth. After wiping his hands clean, he walked towards me. “Merci, mademoiselle.” His French accent was smooth and soft. As he took the tray from me, our fingers tangled. A quick flash of heat appeared in his eyes, and his smile widened just a touch. Normally that would’ve made my pulse hum nervously. And yet something about him felt safe, unthreatening.
“You’re welcome. I hope I brought enough.”
He was working up to something. I could read it in his lively expression, in the way he impatiently ran a hand through his wavy brown hair. He was nervous. “Would you care to join me in a glass of wine?”
I was considering how to gently decline when the bright xenon headlights of a sleek, black sports car came around the corner of the house, straight towards us. It pulled up next to the Mercedes and the purring of the engine cut off. Spontaneously, my whole body went rigid. Much like what happens to a gazelle on the plains of the Serengeti when it realizes it’s too late to run from the salivating lion crouching only a foot away.
He stepped out of the car and gracefully unfolded his body until he stood tall. The impeccable fit of his bespoke, grey three-piece suit outlined the extraordinary width of his shoulders, his French blue shirt accenting his golden skin. His tie had been discarded and the top buttons of his shirt were undone.
My eyes fell on the exposed skin at the base of his throat, and a film of sweat broke out on the back of my neck. Having this reaction to him of all people was an unbearable annoyance––not to mention, a serious inconvenience.
Placing his forearm on the roof of the car, he rapped two knuckles while his alert eyes skipped from François, to me. Some obscure, dark emotion crossed his face. I had no idea what it meant. Then again, everything about this man was a total mystery to me.