Illusive Flame

by Girard, Dara

  Janet nodded. “Purely by accident, I assure you. I rarely tend to it.”

  “Now that I’m here, I can do that for you,” she said eager to please.

  “You’ll have plenty to do at the main house. Come along.”

  * * *

  With a snack of Jamaican spiced bun and cheese and chamomile tea in hand, Victoria walked the massive grounds and listened as her aunt described her duties. As the head housekeeper of the Braxton estate, Janet felt privileged that she could offer her niece possible employment.

  “What is he like?” Victoria asked.

  Janet hesitated then said, “Mr. Robert Braxton is an investigator, but he started out as a respected psychologist. He has written award-winning books and lectures all over the world. He is called ‘doctor’ in professional circles.”

  “Yes, but what is he like?”

  Janet moved her shoulders with impatience. “Never mind that. It doesn’t do good worrying about someone you’re suppose to work for. Good or bad, you do your duties and that’s the end of it.”

  Victoria couldn’t help the wicked grin that touched her mouth. “Well, depending on how good or bad he is affects how well I do my duties.”

  Janet’s lips thinned. “I will not have that kind of talk Victoria.”

  She nodded.

  They walked along the gravel drive towards the main house. A row of Bradford pear trees, their white flowers in full bloom, guided their path like spring brides. The path ended at a greenhouse whose wide glass windows shone like polished silver. Inside, lush plants peeked through the windows with their colorful faces. Her aunt Margaret’s little flower shop in Jamaica never had such a variety of blossoms. She had to keep reminding herself she was in America now.

  Victoria gasped when the main house came into view, showing off two white columns, large curved windows gleaming in the sun, and a sweeping balcony that laced the second story like an iron skirt with ivy piercing through like green thread. The house sat among bushes hinting the promise of spring with buds yet to open. A brick path wove its way to the front steps with a preponderance of purple coneflowers, violas and golden marguerites. Brilliant green grass covered the lawn and the rolling hills in the distance. Trees loomed behind the house.

  Victoria toyed with the bird-shaped earrings dangling against her neck with nervous fingers. They were her good-luck charms and the one constant in her life, a gift from her mother. She hoped they would offer her luck now. This is where he lived: A man who had the power to alter her future. She stared at the house, determined. She would not fail; she would convince Mr. Braxton to hire her.

  “You haven’t mentioned a Mrs. Braxton,” she said.

  “There isn’t one.”

  She widened her eyes. “He lives in this big, big house all by himself?”

  “He is divorced, but frequently entertains guests, and his family visits often.”

  “Oh.” It still seemed strange that one man could own so much, but she would not question it. She spotted a golden retriever under a maple his head resting languidly on his paws. She walked towards the animal. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

  “I don’t,” Janet said, appalled at the suggestion. “It belongs to the house or rather Mr. Braxton. He used to always hang ‘round Mr. Braxton until...”

  “Until what?”

  “He now favors the gardener.” She pointed to the greenhouse. “He’s busy right now getting the plants in top shape. In a couple of months, they’ll have the garden show. Mr Braxton should win.”

  “Hmm.” Victoria stared at the dog, wondering why it looked so sad with so much field for it to run about in. She moved towards the dog; it began to growl. “What’s this?”

  Janet kept her distance. “It has a nasty temper that one.”

  “And I’ll have a nasty one too, if you bite me,” she warned the animal. “You’re just in a bad mood because you need some attention.” She slipped him a piece of bun and patted him.

  Janet folded her arms in disapproval. “Are you going to give him your tea as well?”

  “We’ve only just met. That will be another time.” She stroked the dog’s head then stood. “Poor thing. He looks so sad. Perhaps he’s lonely. I’ll have to take care of him.”

  Janet glanced at her watch, choosing not to comment. “It’s time to get to work. You will mop the kitchen floor. Mr. Braxton isn’t home presently and if he sees your work, he might be more likely to hire you. Cook is also out, but if you happen to meet her, be courteous. It does good to stay on her friendly side. She can cook almost anything.”

  Victoria’s face perked up. “Solomon Grundy?”

  Janet sent her a look. “I said almost.”

  * * *

  The kitchen was the size of the first floor of the carriage house. Copper pots hung above a cooking island, mingling with drying herbs that scented the air. Once her aunt left her alone, Victoria ran her hand over the counter. She peeked inside the large steel fridge, marveled at the china dishes lined in the wooden racks, and glanced at the breakfast nook surrounded by large windows that afforded such a grand view of the lawn it looked like a painting.

  She picked up the broom and began to sweep, thinking of how to convince Mr. Braxton to keep her. Unfortunately, she wasn’t the greatest of cooks and making beds, wasn’t a particular talent of hers. She would find something she could do exceptionally well. Perhaps she could polish the furniture in the sitting room or dust the books in the library. She liked books. They’d helped her to escape when life seemed unbearable, and working in there would give her the opportunity to sneak a quick peek at a few.

  An hour later, she leaned against the mop and stared proudly at the gleaming tile floor. Suddenly, an older sandy haired man in trousers and pressed green shirt entered the room. He walked past her then stopped and turned. He stared at her, his soft blue eyes curious. “Hello?”

  She smiled. “Hello.”

  “You’re new here.”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned against the island. “What’s your name?”

  “Victoria.”

  “Janet’s niece?”

  “Yes.”

  He held out his hand. “It’s, a pleasure to have you here.”

  She shook his hand and continued to smile until her cheeks ached. “Thank you.”‘

  His watch beeped. He straightened. “Got to dash.” He glanced at the floor. “Great job.”

  Victoria watched him leave and sighed with relief. She’d impressed Mr. Braxton. He thought she’d done a great job and was nothing like the cold, distant gentleman she’d imagined. She’d have no trouble working for such a man. He suited this beautiful house perfectly.

  The heavy thunder of footsteps soon interrupted her thoughts and cut through the quiet of the house. She pushed the mop and bucket aside as the footsteps approached.

  A man stormed into the kitchen his striking profile marred with irritation. Eyes the color of dark molasses swept through the kitchen with annoyance then briefly landed on her.

  He headed towards the hall. “You’ll have to prepare the rooms,” he said in a voice so deep it seemed to vibrate within her. “You know the ones. It seems Nicholas and Patrice are coming for one of their famous visits. When? I don’t know. But knowing them it will be sooner rather than later. You know how delightful their visits are, so be prepared.”

  She caught her breath as he passed by her. He smelled like the earth and had a scent purely his own. Her eyes drank him in. They slid down his impressive back, which stretched his red chambray shirt, falling to his solid legs clad in worn jeans. Then she glanced down and noticed the large muddy footprints. Her awe turned to outrage.

  “Not one more step,” she said in a quiet voice that shot through the room like a released arrow.

  Her words hit their target. The man spun on his heels and glared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You should not be begging for my pardon. You should be begging for your life.” She placed a hand on her hip. “Is
what kind of man walks through a nice clean floor with shoes not fit for the gutter?”

  His tone grew soft as her voice rose. “Madam,” he said in an ironic tone. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes. A man who obviously can’t fly. So if you wish to walk further you’ll take off your shoes and apologize.”

  “Do you want me to do both at the same time or one after the other?”

  “Whichever you can manage. I don’t expect much.”

  He lifted a challenging black brow. His piercing dark eyes focused fully on her. The remoteness never left them, but something unreadable mingled there. “And who would I be apologizing to?”

  “Ms. Spenser.”

  “Ms. Spenser? You don’t have a first name?”

  “It’s no concern of yours.”

  “Why not?”

  “You won’t be using it.”

  He offered her a quick unflattering glance; taking in her altered uniform and interesting face. “Yes, that’s true.” He turned and walked out, leaving more muddy prints.

  Incensed, she grabbed her mop and followed him down the hall, mindless of the dripping water that followed her. “Do you think I speak for your entertainment?”

  He stopped, glanced up at the ceiling as if gathering patience then slowly turned.

  Victoria took an involuntary step back. From across the room he hadn’t appeared so large or so fierce. She had found his face striking, but on closer inspection that description didn’t seem to fit. Although he had high cheekbones, a sensuous bottom lip and brown eyes surrounded by curling lashes, his attractive features seemed to mask a more predatory nature.

  “You’re lucky I do find you entertaining, Ms. Spenser. I’m a busy man. What do you want?”

  “I expect an apology.”

  “For what?”

  “I just told you.”

  He folded his arms; Victoria tried not to notice how the motion put an extra strain on his shirt. “Refresh my memory. If something’s not important I usually forget about it.”

  She clenched her teeth. “I spent an hour wiping that floor you just mucked up.”

  “Right now you’re making a fine mess of your own.” He nodded to her mop.

  She shoved the mop at him, pleased when it dripped on his shoes. “Good. Then you can do the hallway too, Mr.—”

  He lowered his voice as he gripped the mop. “Braxton.”

  “Mr. Braxton and I...” Her anger froze as his name registered. “Braxton? You’re Mr. Braxton?”

  He began to smile, a smile as genuine as crocodile tears. “Yes.”

  Her insides began to melt. Whether from his smile or his words she was unsure. She swallowed and said his name carefully, hoping she was wrong. “Mr. Robert Braxton?”

  His smile widened.

  “But you can’t be. That other man—”

  “What other man?” He frowned then suddenly nodded. “Oh yes, my white impersonator. He likes to come over every once in a while and confuse the help.” When she stared at him blank, he said, “He’s my assistant, Foster.”

  “Oh.”

  Her temper hovered over a layer of dismay. Here he was. The man who was to hire her, the man she was supposed to impress. Here was the one obstacle that stood between her working here or somewhere in town, and she’d gone after him like a fishwife. If she’d paid more attention, she would have noticed that no hired hand would have had such arrogance surrounding him unless he could afford to be dismissed. He had plenty of arrogance, too, that filled every line of his handsome face and cloaked a body as magnificent as his land.

  Robert watched in reluctant admiration when she quickly tucked away her anger. Actually, he was surprised to find a lot to admire about her. She had a compelling face, though it would not be described as conventional beauty, and more body than he usually liked on a woman, but it was her eyes that caught most of his attention. Her brown eyes flashed with an intelligence that kept him transfixed.

  He tapped his foot, annoyed. He must be more exhausted than he thought if he was responding to a woman this way. He rubbed his tired eyes and took control of his wandering thoughts. “What’s your name again?”

  “Ms. Spenser.”

  “I already have a Spenser. I don’t remember hiring another one.”

  An icy river of fear crept up her spine. She pushed away her pride and boldly met his gaze. “That’s because you haven’t hired me yet.”

  “Yes, I haven’t hired you.” He nodded thoughtfully. “That sounds about right.”

  “But you will.”

  “And why would I hire you?”

  “Because you want to.”

  He moved closer to her and rested his chin on the top of the mop handle. “I think you’ll need to be a little more convincing than that.”

  His intense gaze made her speechless. He was a clever one. She knew no amount of feminine manipulation, no matter how subtle, would go over smoothly. She would have to find something that would appeal completely to his intellect. She raced through her thoughts trying to think of an answer. “Give me three weeks, no pay, and I’ll prove to you that I’m worth the cost.”

  “Three weeks no pay?” He shook his head. “Slavery’s dead, darling.” He lowered his eyes and Victoria breathed a sigh of relief now that she was free of his gaze. “If you can keep your tongue in order, you’re hired.” He looked at her. “Think you can manage that?”

  She nodded.

  He handed her the mop. “I doubt you’ll succeed,” he muttered. “But no one would confuse me with an optimist.”

  She clutched the mop until her palm burned then spun on her heel.

  He grabbed her apron string and pulled her back. “I’m not finished.”

  She counted to five before she looked at him. “Yes?”

  “What are you wearing?” He waved away a reply. “Never mind.” He took out his wallet and handed her a few bills. “Tell your aunt to get you a uniform that fits.”

  She felt her face burn. “I will, sir.”

  He shook his head. “No need for the sir part. Just call me Mr. Braxton.”

  “Yes, Mr. Braxton.”

  “Very good.” He pushed his wallet in his back pocket. “Sorry about the kitchen, but next time try to make the floor shine so I’ll know the difference.” He flashed a quick grin and turned. He raised one hand as he walked away. “Close your mouth, Ms. Spenser. You’ll only say something you’ll regret.”

  Victoria snapped her mouth shut and bit her lip as his pounding footsteps echoed down the hall.

  * * *

  “What did you think?” Foster asked when Robert passed him on the way to the stairs.

  Robert stopped and looked at him.” What did I think of what?”

  “You know.”

  He headed up the stairs. “No, I don’t know.”

  Foster followed him. “The new girl.”

  “I’m letting her stay.” He turned into his bedroom. “And that’s the end of this conversation.” He closed the door.

  Foster sighed disappointed, but not surprised. He knew Braxton kept his life organized. There was his work, his house, and his personal life. The three never mixed. Foster turned to the stairs unable to stop a grin. He had a feeling things were about to get interesting.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Victoria let loose a string of patios as she marched back to the kitchen, creating, in her mind, the most colorful and creative insults regarding his character.

  “We don’t use that kind of language here,” a woman said.

  Victoria spun around and saw a striking brown-skinned woman at the end of the hall. Victoria resisted the temptation to curtsy.

  “My name is Katherine Anderson,” she said in a lovely educated Caribbean lilt.

  “Victoria Spenser.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  She stood a little straighter impressed by the woman’s regal carriage. “Likewise.”

  “I’m from Barbados. So many Americans think I’m from Jamaica that I thought I s
hould make it clear now in case anyone asks you. No, you don’t need to tell me from where you come. I know.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m in charge of personal matters about the house, such as guest and visitors,”

  Victoria frowned confused. “Aren’t they the same thing?”

  “No, and do not make the mistake of confusing the two. One is welcome and the other is not. However, both must be handled with due importance and grace.”

  “I see,” she said, though she did not.

  “It’s important that you present yourself accordingly Never show your dissatisfaction. You work here. That’s what you’re paid to do; that’s all you’re paid to do.” She measured Victoria in one sweeping look. “Just a little advice. Good morning.” She left.

  Victoria’s high opinion of the woman disappeared as she watched her leave. She shook her head amazed.

  She’d met two unpleasant people within five minutes. Victoria muttered unflattering comments about both and shoved open the kitchen doors.

  “What are you upset about?” Janet asked as she checked items off her clipboard. The cook, Dana Meadows, stood at the counter. A hearty middle-aged woman with curly blonde hair and plenty of laugh lines from years of gossip and finding pleasure in the misfortunes of others.

  “She must have met the boss,” Dana said with a smirk.

  And someone else equally unpleasant, she thought. Victoria could find no humor in the situation. “Codeh. Look at my floor.” She gestured to the large footprints.

  Janet frowned. “I am looking at it. Dirty as a prostitute’s knickers. I thought you were cleaning it.”

  “It was beautiful before that Mr. Braxton tromped through it with him big high head. I worked so hard to make it look clean.”

  “He never pays attention to us,” Dana explained, taking food out of the bags. “You’d think everything in this house happened through automation by the amount of notice he gives us. I remember when I was first here I thought I’d impress him with gourmet meals, but he’d give me no more credit than if I’d made macaroni and cheese. One maid tried to get him to notice her so she fainted. He just walked right over her body.” She opened a cupboard and began putting things away. “The young ones always have it the worse. Natalie was a college student working during the summer and ended up falling in love with him, poor girl. She left with a broken heart.”