CHAPTER THREE
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 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 high 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 afterwards—Wednesday was their afternoon off. The games of hide-and-seek grew more elaborate, and I found myself perpetually “on,” actually challenged. Of Jack there was no sign. 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 towards 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, 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 towards 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 was hiccuping 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 convinced 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 criticise 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 flowered, 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. All the 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.
“I should go,” I said again. This time, he made no move to stop me. I walked quietly across the lawn, leaving Alexander Carring and two small children standing there behind me. When I reached the house, I turned round.
Alexander had crossed the lawn and he was crouched beside Jack. The boy looked marginally less terrified, and Camille looked tense with hope. I bit my lip.
I hope everything works out between them.
Whatever happened, I was left with a tumult of my own feelings to address.
And I didn't know where to start. I didn't understand what I felt about this tall, cold authority that had just blasted into my life. All I knew was that I probably never would.
And I knew that deep inside I wanted him. I was wondering with a flicker of hope that sent chills down my body if he maybe, just maybe, didn't feel that way too.