by Miley Maine
And I didn’t want this life forever. I wanted to help people. I wanted to help kids without so many luxuries, kids who grew up like I did.
Maybe I’d text my sister, after I was all fixed up. At least she wouldn’t give me a hard time.
After I’d showered and scrubbed every inch of my body and conditioned my hair with the expensive products Mrs. Laurent provided, I chose the red dress. With my dark hair, I could pull off a bold color, or at least, that was what my sister told me a long time ago. The bodice was fitted, and so was the waist of the dress, and then it flared out, like a cocktail dress. I twisted my arm around backward, and I was almost able to get the zipper up all the way. I chose a pair of black sandals with a three-inch heel. That was the tallest I could manage. Before I’d taken this job, I’d only worn heels three times: at my prom, my graduation, and once when I was a bridesmaid in my aunt’s wedding.
Once I got the heels in place, I walked to the mirror, only wobbling a little. I smoothed the dress down with my hands. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it, but the dress was sexy. It clung to my body without being too tight, and the length of the hem showed off my tan legs.
I picked up my phone and took a selfie. This time I sent it immediately to my sister.
As soon as it went through, the phone rang. Before I could say hello, my sister was squealing into the phone. “You look hot as hell! Push those shoulders back! Show off your legs!”
“Ashley! Calm down.”
“No,” she said. “I will not calm down. Quit acting like you don’t have any right to wear that dress.”
My cheeks flushed as red as the dress. I’d always liked looking clean and put-together, but I’d never been comfortable with looking sexy. It just wasn’t me.
My sister wasn’t done. “I’m glad you’re not wearing one of the potato sacks you wore all last summer.”
“I was working at a children’s behavior clinic! I had to be comfortable.”
“Look, you’re in South America, in a glamourous city, living with some filthy rich people. Live. It. Up!” Her voice softened. “I know you’re always practical, and always sensible, because you had to be.”
That was true enough. We had a classic rough childhood story. Our dad left, then went to prison for armed robbery, our mom fell apart, started doing drugs, then started dealing drugs, and I was left to raise my sister. All of that led me to want to be a social worker and help other kids like us, so I tried to find the positives in it, when I could.
“But all that’s over now,” my sister said. “So live a little. For me. Okay?”
Now I felt bad. My sister was the more adventurous of the two of us, but she was stuck at home, going to community college and waiting tables on the weekends at a diner. Her grades hadn’t been as good as mine, so she wasn’t able to get a scholarship. “I will, I promise.”
“Yay. Now, document everything with pictures, and keep me updated! I want every single detail.”
We said goodbye, and with one last look in the mirror, I went to find Mrs. Laurent.
For an hour, I sat in Mrs. Laurent’s opulent bathroom while her stylist blow-dried my hair and curled it into loose waves. Next, she applied makeup. I wasn’t even sure what most of the makeup was called. My sister tried to get me to watch an online tutorial once, but I didn’t have the patience.
Sitting in Mrs. Laurent’s personal bathroom was a little awkward, especially because she hovered nearby the entire time, commenting as the stylist worked. Maybe I was like a doll to her. I wondered what the previous nanny had been like. Gabriel was ten months old, and I’d only been here for a month. I could tell from watching her with him that she probably had a nanny ready to go the minute he was born.
She was a sweet enough mom, and she played with him and snuggled him for several hours a day. She just didn’t do any of the gross stuff, like changing diapers or wiping up the spit, or even feeding him the homemade baby food that the chef made. She also liked dressing him up in cute little outfits. Her favorite was a white top with buttons and a collar and navy shorts. It didn’t look fun for a baby to wear, but he did look adorable in it.
The stylist stepped back and Mrs. Laurent stepped forward. She leaned in close and touched my face. “Kate, you are stunning. See for yourself.” She and the stylists moved away. When I saw myself, I blinked. My hair was shiny. My skin was glowing. I looked more like Mrs. Laurent than myself.
“You have great cheekbones,” the stylist said in Spanish. My eyes looked bigger, and my lashes longer, and my lips fuller.
“Do you like it?” Mrs. Laurent asked.
“Yes,” I said. And I did. I was going to try to follow my little sister’s advice and live a little. I lifted my chin and smiled at my reflection. I pulled my spine up straighter, just like I did at my internship when I was facing a group of rowdy kids. “Actually, I love it.”
The stylist beamed, and Mrs. Laurent did that reserved half-smile that came out every now and then.
Chapter Three
Owen
“Sir, we’re here,” the driver said as we pulled through the gated entrance to Laurent’s villa.
I tugged at my bowtie. “You don’t have to call me Sir,” I told the driver, but he only smiled, because he was used to being around Mr. Laurent and his band of assholes.
Damn rich bastards. They wanted everyone around them to bow and scrape. I’d had plenty of time doing it, and I didn’t mind because it was part of the job which I knew was only for a short time. For this guy, it was the rest of his life.
I needed a break from work because everything was pissing me off. Maybe the food and wine at this dinner would be a good enough distraction from the greedy bastards I’d dealt with all day.
The driver came around and opened the door for me. I knew better than to protest that. I thanked him and stepped into the driveway.
This was definitely a mansion; it had to be worth at least three or four million. The house was huge, and had a slightly modern look to it, with a cream stucco and columns, floor-to-ceiling windows, and bright green grass.
At the door, I was greeted by a butler. Of course. He led me through a flashy-looking foyer and into another room, a room that definitely wasn’t the dining room, because there was no food. There was, however, a bar. I headed immediately to the table where another employee was mixing drinks.
“What can I get for you, Sir?” he asked.
“Scotch, straight.”
He nodded, picked up a bottle, and handed it over.
“Wow,” I said.
“It is Macallan.”
I didn’t know how much that cost, and I didn’t want to find out. At this moment, I was just going to enjoy the perks of blending in with scum like Laurent.
Other people filed into the room, which I heard referred to as a drawing room. I hung back near the bar and sipped my scotch. I still hadn’t seen Laurent; maybe he was waiting to make a grand entrance. From the other room, an actual person was playing live music on a freaking harp.
More people came in, until there were about twelve of us waiting. I recognized a few of them were his clients. I’d sat in on meetings with them. These were the legitimate clients, the ones he could meet in public, the ones he trusted in his home around his wife and child. They were shipping magnates, real estate developers, and the families who’d struck it rich by mining copper in Chuquicamata, in the Northern part of Chile.
Finally, he showed up, dressed in his tuxedo. “Hello, welcome to our home,” he said in his cultured French accent. An equally-fancy looking lady appeared next to him. “Please, let me introduce my wife, Juliette.”
Then we all did a bunch of meeting and greeting, and as I was introduced to each client and guest, I memorized their names and faces, and how they knew Laurent. It was possible some of these people were accomplices.
He led us to the dining room and we all got seated at this giant, ornate table that was already piled with cloth napkins and silverware. I shuffled around until I found my seat �
� a little card actually said Owen Baxley on it. My seat was at the end of the table, with no one across from me, which suited me just fine. Without someone yakking at me, I could listen in better, and concentrate on the way Laurent communicated.
Within moments, servers brought in the first round of food. Unfortunately, Laurent was too far away for me to hear what he was saying, but I watched him, noticing his body language and who he made eye contact with the most.
I kept my ears open, and my eyes on my lettuce covered in goat cheese, or whatever it was, until one of Laurent’s butlers pulled the chair out in the spot across from me.
I glanced up to see a woman holding a baby. My jaw didn’t drop, because I was too well-trained for that, but my heart could have stopped beating in that second and I’d have missed it. The woman was young, a hell of a lot younger than I was, but that didn’t stop me from staring.
Her dark hair fell right above the shoulders. Her green eyes sparkled. Her lips were red, just like the color of her dress. A lady who must have been the housekeeper came in carrying a wooden high chair and stuck it next to me. So much for eavesdropping on the dinner conversation.
The young woman thanked the housekeeper and put the baby in the highchair, then she took her seat, and the butler shifted it forward for her before leaving.
Laurent stood up and got everyone’s attention. “Our lovely nanny has joined us. Her name is Kate, and she is from the United States.” The table burst into a round of “Hello Kate”s. The young lady smiled, a little bashfully and her cheeks turned an adorable shade of pink as she gave the table a little wave. Laurent kept talking. “She has brought my son, Gabriel Alexandre Laurent.”
The lovely Kate looked at the baby and said, “Say hello, Gabriel.”
The baby lifted his chubby hand. “Buh,” he said as the chef brought out a plate with Gabriel’s food and placed it in front of him.
Mrs. Laurent beamed, and Mr. Laurent was clearly pleased to have such a robust son. I turned my eyes back to Kate, who was unfolding her napkin and spreading it over her lap.
She looked at her silverware, clearly trying to make sure she picked the right fork. A small smile flickered across her face as she chose the salad fork.
Then she lifted her eyes.
Her cheeks went pink again, and she ducked her head.
“I’m Owen,” I said.
She placed her fork back down on the table. She extended her right hand across the table and I took her hand in mine. Her hand was delicate, but her handshake was firm. Her green eyes met mine. “I’m Kate,” she responded.
I didn’t want to let go of her, but I forced myself. “So you’re the nanny,”
She looked over at the baby, who was stuffing little bits of cooked carrot into his mouth. “Yes.”
“How long have you been the nanny?” I asked. Kate, as alluring as she was, could be complicit in Laurent’s operation. I’d learned early on not to ever underestimate a potential suspect. Kate had to be around twenty-one or so, give or take a year, and I’d seen kids as young as seventeen and eighteen not only participate in terrorism, but play a very active role.
In my drug-dealing life in Caracas, I’d met a nineteen-year-old who ran a brutal gambling ring. He’d been tiny, probably weighed a-hundred-and-ten pounds, and he’d had two big dimples when he smiled. But he was ruthless in his exploits. If he wanted someone roughed up or taken out, he did it himself, usually with a few people watching. If he wanted someone taken out in secret, his equally tiny twin sister acted as his assassin.
So yeah. Appearances could definitely be deceiving, and I couldn’t let Kate’s blush affect my assessment. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy talking to her. Maybe I’d even get to know her a little. Having someone inside the boss’s house could be a real help, if I could figure out how to play my cards right.
“I’ve only been here a month,” she said, smiling over at the kid. “He’s a really good baby.”
That was great, but I didn’t want to hear about the kid. I wanted to know more about her. “So you’re from the States. You’re a long way from home.”
“In more ways than one,” she said.
“Yeah? How so?”
“I’m from Alabama. I grew up in a small town. The life I lived there seems a million miles away from this one.”
Yeah, because your boss is a crook, who doesn’t mind murdering people for money. “Which town in Alabama?” I’d grown up in Oxford, Mississippi, and I ditched my southern accent as soon as I started working in the field.
“Brooksville, not far from Decatur.”
I nodded. I’d never heard of it, but I’d been to Decatur.
“Are you from the States?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “San Francisco.” I understood a little German, and I was fluent in Spanish, but I wasn’t perfect at it. I couldn’t pass as having grown up anywhere but in an English-speaking country. San Francisco was a big enough city that most Americans wouldn’t have a clue that I didn’t grow up there.
“I haven’t been there yet.”
“You’ll love it,” I said. “How do you know the Laurents?”
“I had a professor who…”
Before she could finish, the baby let out a sharp cry and Kate launched into action. She turned to face the high chair and spoke to the kid. “Hey, buddy. Great job on finishing your carrots.”
He gave her a big toothless grin and picked up a piece of banana, smashing it between his fingers. She smiled back at him. “Are you ready to get up? We can read a book before bed.”
If she was posing as a nanny, then she was doing a damn fine job of it.
The baby picked up his spoon and started gnawing on it.
I wasn’t ready for her to leave. “Looking for an escape route?” I asked.
She spun back to face me. This time the flush spread down her neck and chest. “I...um. I have to make sure Gabriel’s taken care of. I can’t let him cry.”
“So they want him to be seen and not heard.”
“No,” she said. “But this is a business dinner, not social. Keeping Gabriel happy is my job.”
Ah. So she was flustered and trying to defend her bosses. Interesting. I assumed most of the people in Laurent’s household staff would resent his pompous attitude, but maybe she was genuine.
“Well. I do admire people that take their jobs seriously.”
She took a quick look at the baby again, but he was still happy. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t even ask what you did for Mr. Laurent.”
“I’m his corporate accountant,” I replied.
Gabriel started to squirm, and she came and lifted him from his seat. She expertly moved him to the side and made him sit on her lap back in her chair, so he couldn’t reach her wine glass or her plate, even though he kept grabbing for both.
She smoothed her hand over his head. It was an unconscious gesture, one full of affection. It wasn’t often someone her age from Alabama ended up in Chile. Whatever else she might have been up to, she was a good nanny, and she sure as hell wasn’t up for bad-mouthing Laurent with me.
She lifted those green eyes to look at me. This time they sparkled. “I wish I knew what that meant,” she said.
“I doubt you want to hear about that,”
“I really do,” she protested. “I don’t know much about finance, beyond studying poverty statistics in college. All my courses were in social science.”
So she’d been to college, and she’d mentioned a professor before the baby had cried. I still needed to know how she ended up down here, but I couldn’t push too hard, too fast. “I’d rather hear about that.”
“Tell me first,” she said.
“Okay. But if you show too much interest, I might want to lure you away to work in Mr. Laurent’s office with me, instead of here at his house.”
“I doubt that,” she said. “I love school, but I don’t want to do office work. I need to be working with people.”
I happened to agree about
the office work. It sucked. “I do crunch numbers, but I spend most of my time analyzing data, and advising Mr. Laurent on which decisions would be the most profitable. It sounded so lame to even describe such a mind-numbing job out loud.
Accountants were great. I just didn’t want to be one.
Just as I was about to ask her what led her to study social sciences, the baby let out a wail.
She immediately scooped him up. “That’s his tired cry,” she said. “I have to go. It was really nice to meet you, Owen.”
I scooted my chair back to stand as she left. She had Gabriel wave bye to the guests, and then she was gone. She hadn’t even gotten to eat most of her dinner.
I watched her walk away. The dress showed off her slender waist, and her shapely legs.
Turning back to my food, I noticed Laurent staring at me.
Fuck.
I didn’t react, but inside my blood boiled. If Kate was innocent, then she had no business being near a monster like Laurent. And more importantly, I’d let myself get distracted just now.
If Laurent was going to be pissed that I’d flirted with the nanny, then I’d have to do some damage control. Maybe I could still make meeting Kate work out in my favor.
Chapter Four
Kate
I held Gabriel close to my chest as I exited the dining room. Honestly, I was glad for an excuse to leave the table.
I’d expected to get to sit with some adults, and listen to their conversation. I was even prepared to answer questions about myself, or about what I liked about living in Chile so far. That was the most common question the other household staff members had asked me – how did I like living in Chile, and how did it compare to the States. There wasn’t much I could tell them about the United States, unless they wanted to know all about Alabama. And I sure didn’t know much about the average person’s life in Chile, although Amelia told me stories about her life, and occasionally Mateo would point things out to me as we drove through Santiago.
