CHAPTER SEVEN – HAYLEY
I met the driver outside the meeting-point. The hotel looked scary: ultra-modern and super-stylish and the kind of place that made me uncomfortable. I was glad I was still dressed in my smart clothes from my meeting with Beckett.
“Miss Morris?”
“Yes,” I said, swallowing around the lump in my throat. “That’s me.”
“Very good.”
I slid through the door he opened for me and sat on the leather seat. I looked around. The car itself was more luxurious than anything I’d experienced before; an E class Mercedes, with all the classic trimmings. I sat on the seat uncomfortably until the driver got in and we headed into the traffic.
“Lots of traffic, Fridays,” he commented, grumbling.
“Yes,” I agreed.
Luckily, he wasn’t the chatting sort, as I felt drained and confused enough as it was. I leaned back on the seat and closed my eyes. In my pocket was a toothbrush. I had a nightie in my big handbag, along with my purse and passports. Nothing else.
We drove for what seemed a long time, until we climbed a hill and appeared on the skyline. We were heading toward an elegant palisade fence, historic and lovely. We entered the gates.
I stared. This was it? The place where I was actually, really going to be staying? Wow!
“Are we…”
“About three seconds, Miss Morris,” the driver said, grinning. “Be patient.”
So, this was it. My home for the next month or so. However long I was needed on this job. I stared.
The house rose up ahead of me. I guessed it had been built in the late nineteenth century, round about the time that Pasadena was becoming famous as a resort town. It was like a confection of sunlight and gracious plaster; all domes and fine windows with lacy molding around the edges. It was like a palace.
I stared at the driver. “Is this…”
He grinned at me. “Welcome to the Sand Castle.”
I laughed. That already seemed typical of Beckett. Making a pun about his own name was just what I’d expect him to do. The driver got out and opened my door. I slid out, looking around me at the rose gardens, the tall conifers, the grass.
“Thank you,” I said. I wondered if I needed to pay him something, but he fortunately alleviated my embarrassment by waving as he got back in.
“Have a nice day,” he called out of the window.
I nodded. “Thanks! You too.”
I turned and looked up at the house. Walked up the sweeping flight of marble steps to the door. Lifted the knocker.
“Good afternoon, Miss. Morris.”
I was looking into Beckett’s face. I was so surprised I stepped back a little. He grinned.
“Mr. Sand. I…” I licked my lips, then my words dried in my throat.
“Welcome to my home.”
“Th…thank you,” I managed.
“I trust your ride wasn’t unpleasant. Come. Let me show you your suite of rooms.”
I blinked. “Suite of…”
He laughed. “I suppose we live on a decadent scale here, Miss. Morris. The Victorians built too many rooms, and now I’m living with their excesses. Not my fault, I’m afraid. Well, come with me. I want you to have all the comforts you need while you are here.”
I followed him up the gracious staircase that curved down to the entrance hall, and into the upper hallway. We turned right.
“Here are the guest rooms,” he explained. “I’ve put you in the east wing…nice and warm in the mornings and you can watch the sunrise.”
I followed his brisk steps down the hallway, taking time to appreciate the tiling underfoot. It was all so beautiful! I stared at it, amazed.
He showed me into a vast bedroom. It was painted cream, and the bed was a double bed covered with a luxurious quilt. I sat down and discovered it was silky. Satin? No way!
I looked around. The furniture was modern and plain, but all excellent quality. A row of built-in cupboards, a beautiful dressing table. An elegant chair covered with the same silky fabric. Someone—a maid, I supposed—had put a bowl of roses of the same silky cream color as the coverlet on the dressing-table, arranged with ferns, creamy carnations and gypsophila.
The door opposite the bed led into an ultra-modern bathroom, all black and white with chrome taps. The windows alone were old-fashioned, and looked out onto a profusion of green lawns, conifers and elegant flowerbeds full of flowers.
“Is this really for me?” I asked.
He laughed. “You are a guest here. It’s the least I can provide. There is a dressing-room next door,” he added, opening a door I hadn’t noticed beside the cupboards.
This was a lovely room. Where the main bedroom was stark and modern, this room was decorated in a more nineteenth-century way, the furniture Victorian style and lovely, with everything flower-patterned, gracious and pretty. I sighed.
“You might never get me out of here,” I commented, looking around. I noticed something. On a chest in the corner was a dress. I frowned.
“For you,” he commented. “To wear to the theater this evening.”
I gulped. “The theater? That dress?” It was gray silk, elegant, revealing and very expensive-looking.
“We’re going to a play. An opening for a new musical by the Furious theater company,” he explained. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you…I know how you feel about the public eye. It’s a very high-profile debut. I thought we could make our appearance there together.”
He wasn’t looking at me as he spoke, but focusing on the window beyond me, eyes darting about. He seemed hesitant and uncertain, and my own reluctance dissolved. I looked into his eyes with a level gaze. Very firmly, I said his name.
“Beckett. That would be lovely. Thank you. Thank you for thinking of the dress, and making me so welcome and…everything.” I sighed.
He smiled. He had a lovely smile. Hesitant, reluctant, it crept across his face fleetingly; a real smile that lit those green eyes and made them sparkle like polished emeralds. I swallowed hard. “I’m glad you’re okay with that,” he said.
At this moment it was very difficult to remember that I couldn’t just take a step forward and hold him in my arms and kiss those perfectly-formed lips.
I cleared my throat. “Well,” I said, “if we’re going to the theater, do I have time to settle in a while?”
He laughed. “The play starts at six-thirty. If it’s…say…quarter to three now,” he said, consulting his watch, “then we still have three and a half hours. So please, make yourself at home. I have to meet with my Tokyo executives—over Skype, that is—so I’ll be upstairs in my study. If you need anything, press the button and Mrs. Delange will help you. She’s my housekeeper. Very nice woman, not scary in the slightest.”
“Thank you,” I said again. Licked my dry lips. This was all so foreign. So scary.
He laughed. “Don’t look like you’re about to be shot…you’re making me feel nervous!”
I apologized. “Sorry. It’s just all so new.”
“You’ll get used to it. It’s a wonderful house. A refuge from the public eye. Please, explore everything. The place is at your disposal. I’m on the third floor…second last room on the right. The Skype-conference should finish at about six pm. It’s about eleven am there, after all.””
I laughed. “You have this stuff at your fingertips,” I said, impressed by him.
“It took a while to get used to it,” he admitted. “Now, please, get comfortable. Try on the dress too. If it doesn’t fit, we need to fix it before six this evening.”
I gulped. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll get dressed in it now. When you’re off Skyping.”
Did I imagine it, or did his color deepen a little? He looked from the dress to me and back again, and there was a strange expression in his eyes. I shivered, though it was not because it was scary. Not at all.
“Right,” he said shortly. “See you at six. We can meet in the dining-room. Mrs. Delange will show you the way. And please call her to say if the dress fits. She’s on edge to get it done.”
I laughed. “I think I like the sound of her.”
“You will. She’s a great person.”
We looked at each other, both smiling. It suddenly occurred to me how odd it was to be in this ultra-feminine space with him opposite me. I felt shy and lovely at once. I swallowed.
He flushed, and it seemed it had just occurred to him too. He coughed self-consciously. “Okay,” he said awkwardly. “See you in three hours.”
“See you,” I said.
He walked out. I waited until I couldn’t hear feet on tile anymore, then shut the door.
I collapsed back onto the bed. Looked up at the ceiling. A sigh escaped me.
I can’t really be here. This can’t really be happening.
I walked slowly to the dressing table and sat down. Looked in the polished oval mirror at my face. Hair slightly disheveled from lying down, lips parted, eyes enormous, I looked quite scared. I was.
I feel like I’m in some weird dream. It’s like a fairytale, or Disney. But it’s got me in it.
I laughed. Disney Princess I wasn’t. Though, in my eyes, Beckett Sand wouldn’t have been out of place in a fairytale. Handsome, considerate, proper…he had all the princely virtues. I laughed again.
Crazy or not, there are some basic principles that seem to apply even in dreams. Like, when you’re stressed, take a bath.
I tiptoed into the bathroom. White tiles whispered under my bare feet. A fan hummed almost-silently. The scent of some vanilla-scented soap wafted to my nose. I sighed.
Ten minutes later I was soaking in a hot bath, looking up at the ceiling, the scent of roses drifting from the water, my muscles relaxing in the delicious warmth.
I felt my eyes closing, and realized that if I stayed in here for too long, I would actually fall asleep. I shook myself firmly. I needed to try on that dress. I stayed in the water for another twenty minutes. After all, I couldn’t waste it now, could I? And then, wrapped in scented, soft, and fluffy towels, went through to the boudoir next door.
I lifted the dress. Looked at it. It was silver-gray, the bodice low-cut, the design figure-hugging. It had a skirt that came down to just over the knee. It was classic and elegant and silky-soft. I glanced at the shaping and was sure it would fit almost perfectly.
It did.
I loved the way it felt on my body, the lining smooth and soft and slipping against my skin. The slippery feel made it feel, well, sexy. I felt a heat in my loins and laughed at myself.
You are doing a job and it doesn’t involve anything like that.
I slipped through to the bedroom.
The mirror showed me a compact woman with brown hair and big brown eyes. Her body was curvaceous in ways I would never have imagined mine to be. I was surprised. The dress clung over my breasts, narrowing in at my waist and clinging again over my hips. The tube-shaped skirt was a perfect conformation to my body, and the fit on the bodice was perfect.
Whoever made this was skilled beyond imagining. It must have cost a small fortune.
I sighed. How he had managed to get a dress that fitted me so well, I had no idea. How had he guessed my measurements so exactly?
The thought of him assessing me like that made heat flood my cheeks. It was such a delicious thought that I felt my whole body tighten, tingling as I imagined his eyes on my curves. I laughed.
“Come on, Hayley. Stop it.”
I said it aloud to the apparition in the mirror, but she looked too flushed and excited to take much notice. I laughed.
Well, I have to tell the housekeeper it fits.
I slipped the dress down over my body and dressed quickly. My old clothes felt odd on my body. I wondered what I would be wearing during the rest of my stay.
First things first, I told myself. Ring the housekeeper.
I did that. Two minutes later, someone knocked on my door.
“Yes?”
I opened it. A small compact woman with a strong face and wise dark eyes looked up at me.
“Hello?” I said uncertainly. “I’m Hayley Morris. I was told you needed to know if, well, the dress fits?” I said lamely. I laughed.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Chantelle deLange. And good that the dress fits. I’ll call the couturier and tell them they can quit sweatin’ now.”
I laughed. She was chuckling too. I liked her instantly. Beckett was right; she was a lovely person Sunny, friendly and full of fun.
“Good,” I replied honestly. “I’m glad. What time is dinner?”
She made a face. “Depends,” she said at length. “When Mister Beckett’s in, it’s usually six-thirty or seven. But tonight, you’re going out for dinner. I don’t know.”
“Oh,” I said. “Thanks.” I was quite hungry, actually, since I hadn’t had anything for lunch. I wondered how things worked here. I had an idea. “Could you give me a tour of the house? Just so I know where to find things?”
“Oh! Sure,” she nodded, smiling. “I’ll show you all the things you need. Follow me.”
The whirlwind tour of the house followed. I found myself getting number and number, quite overwhelmed with everything. From the high, decorated ceilings to the long staircases, to libraries and billiard rooms, I felt completely at sea. When we reached the kitchen, I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Whew,” I said, smiling.
“Confusing, isn’t it?” she agreed. “Thought we’d never run out of house, first time I saw it.” She laughed. I laughed too.
“It’s enormous,” I said, nodding. I looked around the kitchen. Ultra-modern, black and white and stylish, it nonetheless had a homely feeling. I guessed Mrs. Delange had this as her sole domain more or less. I saw a loaf on the sideboard and my stomach rumbled. “Can I have coffee?” I asked cautiously.
She blanched. “Of course! I’m losing my memory…must be gettin’ old or something,” she grumbled. “Mr. Beckett said we’d have something round three thirty, and it’s bang on time. Good you reminded me. Now. I’d better take these plates upstairs…we’ll set it out in the drawing room. Up you go, Miss Morris.”
I felt confused., not sure I’d get back to the drawing-room without a guide. Luckily, she seemed to understand my concern.
“Come on,” she said, smiling. “Follow me.”
Mrs. Delange went first, carrying a tray of eats, followed by another woman who carried a coffee-set: cups, a pot, saucers…all old-world and charming, but modern at the same time. If this was Beckett’s taste, I liked it.
In the drawing-room, which again had the same mixture of history and modernity, I sat down at the table where Mrs. Delange and her assistant left the tea. I helped myself to a small cookie and some coffee. The cookie was deliciously crumbly and sweet, the coffee strong and dark. I leaned back on the chair and sighed.
I felt as if I had arrived in a heaven of sorts. A scary sort of heaven, with unexpected things lurking around every door. But a heaven, nonetheless. At that moment, sitting at the table, a cup of coffee in my hand and a plate of eats at my elbow, a garden of meticulous care and magnificent size spread out below the window, fragrant with roses, I felt as if my life was perfect.
While I sat drinking my coffee, I couldn’t help the fact that my mind strayed to thoughts of Beckett. Having seen him for longer, and from a closer distance, I couldn’t help noticing what an absolutely stunning man he was.
I closed my eyes, trying to make a mental picture of what he might look like under those wonderfully-tailored designer suits he had. I could see he had broad shoulders and the outline of his chest promised abs underneath that immaculate shirt. His legs were long and well-proportioned, and his hands were corded with muscle.
I think he must look stunning underneath that suit.
I giggled, feeling my face flush.
Miss Morris, you are a shocking individual, I hope you know that.
Again, the reprimand was in his tone, and that made me smile. I imagined what he would think if he could read my thoughts. I was sure they would shock him. After all, I was just his make-believe wife. The thought made me feel suddenly sad, and I put aside my coffee-cup, feeling as if a cold wind blue through the window onto my lightly-clad body. I couldn’t help wishing it was for real.