The Housekeeper's Daughter

by Palmer, Dee

  “I was always yours.” His voice is barely audible, low and filled with torment. My heart jacks in my chest. It’s so very desperate to hear those words that I want to tear it out with my bare hands. I smile with as much insincerity as I can muster and ask.

  “How is Misty?” He reels in his seat like I have spit in his face; even from this distance my words were a direct and surprising hit.

  “I don’t know.” He dips his eyes, for the first time breaking the contact and shifting with obvious awkwardness.

  “Open marriage?” I tip my head with playful curiosity. Not that I’m particularly interested, though I do like that this is causing him some considerable discomfort.

  “Divorced?” I probe, poking my finger in the sore spot and relishing the recoil. I have to shake myself again. None of this matters.

  “You know what? I really don’t care.” I sniff.

  “I don’t believe that.” His derisive tone matches the accusatory quirk of his pale brow.

  “That’s because you have an ego the size of Jupiter, but trust me, Atticus, now you’re just somebody that I used to know.” I sing the lyric that should be a perfect fit for my situation, but, unnervingly, it sounds hollow to my own ears.

  “Cute, now sing me another, how about “Money for Nothing”, “Guilt”. No, make that “Wicked Game”, perhaps?”

  He’s quick with his list of suitable comebacks, but I’m losing what little fire I have. I can feel his nearness affecting me, and he was always so good at getting me to engage, even when I really didn’t want to. Now it’s no different, except this time, I can’t risk engaging on any level; there’s just too much at stake.

  “Let’s just get this next twelve months over with, so I can get back to my boyfriend,” I reply, my tone a forced attempt to indicate that I’m bored with this conversation. I turn away from him, but he slides up the bench and lays his hand on my knee. I twist sharply at the contact. It feels like a high voltage jolt of electricity, and he removes his hand at my glare, but the damage is done. Shit, this is bad.

  “You said he wasn’t your boyfriend.”

  “He wasn’t, but I think that kiss changed things, don’t you?” I try and shuffle farther away, only I am already squished as far from him as I can get. He’s just so damn close, all I can feel is him. He might not be touching me, but there’s not a cell in my body that doesn’t feel him.

  “You think one kiss would change things? Interesting.” His eyes darken, and I can see his fingers tap out a pattern on his thigh, restless, for what I can’t quite figure. Mercurial is the best fit for his gaze, which dramatically changes from a ‘destroy the bitch’ scowl, to a ‘devour the bitch’ incendiary stare.

  “It wasn’t just a kiss though, was it? It was the kiss.” I drag my tongue over my bottom lip and can feel the tingle as fresh as if Logan’s lips were still pressed to mine.

  “Would one kiss change us, princess?” His voice drops to a low rumble, and he sounds like he’s growling out the words. I can feel the hairs on my neck stand at attention. I just pray my prickly exterior is giving none of this away. The last thing he needs is more ammunition in his arsenal. I’m barely hanging on as it is. I clip out in my best curt tone.

  “There is no us, Cass.”

  “There is only us, Tia.” His retort is instant and sounds very much like a threat. I try and hide the effort it takes to swallow the thick feeling in my throat. He leans forward, his tall body looming perilously close, and instead of holding my ground, I panic and slide like water off the bench and scrabble to the other end of the car. He chuckles, a deep and throaty sound that helps me to regain my focus and a little of my anger. At this precise moment, I grab it like a lifeline.

  “You know, Atticus, if I had your money, I would hand it over immediately, just so you could stop all this bullshit,” I snap, straightening myself and pulling my satchel across my lap as some sort of barrier. His eyes follow the movement and crease with amusement. I don’t know who I hate more right now—me for underestimating this whole reunion and not hiding my feelings, or him for just being him. I fix my eyes on his and steel myself to not blink.

  Him, it’s definitely him I hate more. “If you cared for me you never would’ve left me to rot. You showed your true self, Cass, and you bleed the Kruse family colours through and through. If you think pretending there is something inextricable between us…some soul deep connection you think I’m still yearning for, then you’re an idiot and a bigger arsehole than I pegged you for. And don’t misunderstand me, I think you’re the fucking king when it comes to arseholes.”

  “You got one thing right, princess, I’m the fucking king, and I want my fucking crown jewels back,” he states, deadly serious and with no emotion. His tone is perfectly calm, and his eyes are dark, deep pools of icy emptiness. I shiver and pull my satchel a little closer, my heart hammering so loudly in my chest, I swear it’s the only thing one can hear in the silence of the car. He holds my gaze with such intensity, I know I’m dancing with the devil once more, balanced on a precipice. He broke me, betrayed me, but I can’t escape the fact that when I look at him, I see the boy I loved with all my heart, soul deep and so sure… and I wasn’t expecting that.

  “This topic of conversation will never get boring, because the truth rarely does. I don’t have your money.” I ignore my troubling thoughts and repeat the sentence for the hundredth time.

  “You’re lying.”

  “Fine, I’m lying, but I still don’t have your money,” I quip.

  “Now, we’re getting somewhere.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes, in the space of this short journey you’ve admitted you’re a liar, and that one kiss will change everything. Just imagine what I will coax from you in the coming months.” He drags his bottom lip in between his teeth, and I want to shiver again. The sound of the stubble scratching sends a ripple of goosebumps across my skin. I clench my jaw tight and turn my head away, not trusting what will come out of my mouth next. It’s bad enough I can’t hide my physical reactions; the last thing I need is to let my unfiltered mouth off its leash.

  “Probably wise not to answer, princess, I’d be pretty disappointed if you don’t at the very least give me a challenge.” He laughs, and I snap my head around to face him. I fire him a look that I wish could flay the skin from his bones like I’m silently willing. He has managed to push nearly all my buttons in the space of one car ride. Still, this journey has at least made one thing very clear. I need to keep my distance.

  We cross the Thames over Blackfriars Bridge, and I peek up at the newly completed building, sleek and futuristic, juxtaposed next to the tired and dated Coat and Badge pub right on the water’s edge. The limo pulls into the basement car park, and my heart kicks up a gear.

  This is really happening.

  Atticus goes to lift my case from the car but holds his hands up in surrender when I snap,

  “Touch me or anything of mine, and I’ll end you,” I practically snarl and bare my teeth. Since indifference didn’t work, attack seems to be my go-to tactic at keeping distance.

  “Whoa! Nice over-reaction there, Tia. I was just going to carry your case because it looks heavy. I wasn’t exactly sticking the tip inside somewhere not welcome, now, was I?” His tone is light and joking, his brows wiggle playfully, and I feel the urge to snicker. Shit.

  “I’d like to see you try.” I try to keep the hostility in my tone, but it fails because my mouth is being pulled in an involuntary grin. Double shit.

  “Later. Let me show you to your room first. There’s plenty of time for fun…twelve months, in fact.” He is out of the car before I can retort, not that I think I could do any more damage than I already have, so much for hostile captive. That remark and his utter arrogance has kind of left me speechless. I watch him stride off, his heavy footsteps echoing off the concrete cave of the underground car park.

  “Would you like me to take that up for you, Miss?” That voice is so deep, it sounds like it’s
been put through one of those Darth Vader voice changers. I jump and spin round, half expecting to see James Earl Jones.

  “Shit! Sorry, what? Oh, no, I’m fine. I didn’t actually see you there.” The man in question pulls together bushy, dark, and angry looking brows. He must be six feet tall and almost as wide. The seams on his chauffeur uniform are stretched to breaking with the size of bulk and muscle underneath, yet he was silent the whole time and standing right behind me. I place my hand on my heart, because it’s hammering like a jackrabbit, and I’m not sure if it’s from the fright of this stealthy giant or my most recent encounter with Cass. Who am I kidding? “You’re really quiet for such a big guy.”

  “It’s my job to stay in the shadows.” A slow grimace spreads across his face, and I have to stop myself from stepping away. He’s all kinds of terrifying, and I don’t think he’s even trying. In fact, I think the opposite. I force a friendly smile to try and encourage this softer side.

  “Seen and not heard, hmm?” I ask in a light engaging tone; however, he stares back, searching my face and making me tremble for all the wrong reasons. My smile freezes on my face.

  “You better move; Mr Kruse doesn’t like to be kept waiting. You can’t go up without him.” He nods in the direction of the fading footsteps. “It’s the forty-first floor, and the penthouse has the private lift, so you can’t use it unless you are with him.” I snort, and I know he isn’t joking. Judging by the scowl he is boring right through me, if he has a sense of humour, it must be buried so deep inside the mountain of muscle it’s just never going to see the light of day, at least not on my watch.

  “Oh trust me, I’m in no rush.” His brow arches high, and the break in his impassive expression makes me bold enough I venture another question. “What’s your name?” Steely silence and narrow eyes are my answer, but I persevere. I know I’m on my own here, and I have a feeling I need to start making friends regardless of how impossible a task.

  “I’m Tia.”

  “Oh, I know who you are.” He snaps his jaw tight and I’m not sure how he could look scarier, but the flash of anger in his eyes brings a thick lump to my throat that won’t budge no matter how much I swallow. I manage to choke out a shocked whisper.

  “You do?”

  “That was inappropriate.” He instantly stiffens, his eyes wide and flicking over to where Cass had disappeared.

  “It was intriguing, but not inappropriate. So he’s mentioned me, then?” I shake my head and try to probe for more.

  “Would you like me to take the case?” It’s like some invisible steel doors have just slammed between us. His face is implacable, and I know this conversation is now dead. Shame.

  “No, it’s okay. Thanks anyway.” I give a light shrug and let out a heavy breath. “You know, I feel a little nervous,” I mutter, and I only realise I’ve said it out loud when he responds.

  “That would make both of you, then.”

  The elevator doors close, and the silence is oppressive. I hate this. She looks so small in her oversized sweater, his sweater. My mind flashes with that kiss. I grind my teeth. I tighten my fists. And my chest heaves with the need to draw in a calming breath. I have no idea what he is to her, but he was definitely staking his claim, as clear as cocking his fucking leg. Her face is fixed forward, and her slight frame is rigid. Her long glossy hair is pulled away from her face, and her skin looks so damn soft, I have to wonder what her reaction would be if I just stroked her cheek with the back of my knuckle. My white-knuckle grip loosens with the thought, and my fingers twitch to sate the desperate craving of just one touch. I suppress a hollow laugh as my mind races forward to how that would play out. She’d probably break my fucking fingers off.

  Honestly, I don’t blame her. I fucked up on a biblical scale. I know this, and I will make sure in the next months I do everything in my power to make amends. I’ve never been afraid of a challenge, and this is a mother of a fucking mess, but I will do whatever it takes. I may not have orchestrated her incarceration, but still I’m ashamed to admit I unwittingly played an integral part.

  I will unpick all the pieces, break her down, and get to the truth. I have to, if I am ever to have a hope of rebuilding us. That is something I knew I wanted more than any amount of money the moment I saw her in that interrogation cell, but I need the whole truth.

  She was mine once, and I haven’t had a happy moment since the day I let her go. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t have a choice. I doubt it will make a difference, but if I get the chance, I’d like to tell my side of the sorry tale.

  I didn’t realise how much that mistake haunted me until I saw her name on the report from my head of security last month. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in five years, and seeing her name, it hit me why. Regret runs so deep in my veins, it chokes any chance of peace.

  This is my second chance.

  Still, complicated doesn’t begin to describe this situation. I don’t know what her game is, but I don’t think for a moment her working at my company headquarters is just a job to her. I believe it was very much a means to an end, and whether I have doubts about her actual involvement in the disappearing money or not, I need to find out what that ‘end’ is.

  The lift opens, and I stretch my arm to allow her to exit first. She rolls her eyes like my ingrained manners offend her, although when I think, it’s more likely everything I do will offend her. I’m okay with that. I have time to change her mind, and I feel from the narrow-eyed scowl she is currently levelling at me, I am going to need every minute of the next twelve months.

  The lift opens directly into the large marble lobby of my apartment. Two separate habitable units used to make up this floor. I had them converted into one sizeable apartment, affording the best possible 360 view of the city. The floor-to-ceiling glass walls offer uninterrupted vistas everywhere you look. It’s impressive, even if I do say so myself. Tia’s footsteps falter as she rounds the corner, and I turn just in time to see her snap her jaw shut. Her wide eyes take in the spectacle that is London as the sun goes down. A million twinkling lights reflect on the calm Thames. Tower Bridge is in the distance, and all the other iconic buildings span the horizon from the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, along the riverbank and all the way back toward the Houses of Parliament.

  “You like?”

  “I like the view.”

  “Right.” I ignore the not so subtle inference in the answer. “The kitchen is over there, help yourself to anything, and this is the main living room. There is a smaller one through there, as well as my office which has fingerprint access, so don’t go getting any ideas.” I point down the corridor that leads to one side of the kitchen.

  “Oh, the trust runs deep, I see.” Her tone is thick with sarcasm, but not as hostile as before. I’ll take that as an improvement.

  “I’ll trust you when you trust me,” I retort with all seriousness.

  “Oh, when hell freezes over, then,” she snorts.

  “Perhaps a little sooner, shall we?” I sniff with a light laugh and see the first quirk of her lips at my attempt to ease the tension. She follows me down the long corridor leading off of the main living room, which is effectively the second apartment, and where the master bedroom and the guest rooms are located. Opening one of the double doors to the first room, I once again urge her to lead the way. She fails to hide her smile this time, and however fleeting the glance, I feel the warmth like a burst of lava in my chest. It’s gone a little too quickly, and the afterglow just makes me crave more, so much more. I find myself standing right beside her when I state the bloody obvious.

  “This is your room.”

  “Right.” She gives a sharp nod, but I can’t get a read on her. Her face is impassive, and I wait for any other reaction. Even if her words weren’t clipped, her posture is like stone. She’s giving nothing away, and I know this room is drop dead stunning. It has the same view as mine, and is only just a tiny bit smaller.

  “I had an easel set up in the corner over th
ere.” I point to the far side of the room and her eyes follow my finger. Her nose wrinkles, and a deep line troubles her brow.

  “Why?”

  “I want you to be comfortable and not bored. I assumed from the stolen supplies you still paint.” I keep my tone level. I don’t want to rile her any more than she already is. I can feel the animosity rolling off her in waves. I know it may take time, but I want her to make this her home. I need her to relax, break down her barriers, and trust me. However I look at it this, I know it’s going to be a Herculean task to end all of his labours. Still, it’s essential, because I know she’s lying about something, and given her motivation, if not her history, I can’t rule out that it could very well be about my missing money.

  I have to tread carefully.

  I move past her, my arm brushing against hers. She jolts, and I feel it too. I felt it the first time I laid eyes on her. Even after everything and all this time, what is firing between the two of us is just as raw, just as pure and potent. I’m counting on it being the same for her. That sliver of hope depends on the feeling I have, that those barriers she’s erected are akin to the little boy’s thumb in the dike.

  “See, all you will need is here, and I can send out for more supplies.” I open several of the drawers next to the easel that is fully stocked with everything she could possibly need.

  “You think I’m going to paint while I’m here?” Her tone is just as incredulous as her expression.

  “You always found it a great outlet, and if you don’t trust yourself to express yourself with words, I don’t want you bottling anything up. I want—”

  She responds with a short sharp acrid laugh. “You think I will have trouble expressing myself, hmm?”

  “You did attempt, albeit unsuccessfully, the silent treatment in the car. I just thought this would help. You don’t have to paint. Really, it makes no difference to me.” I stop talking when she drops her bag heavily and strides past me to the easel. She opens the top drawer and picks out something, a pencil or maybe a pastel chalk. No, it’s too dark and squeaks against the paper, charcoal. She starts to sketch. A few quick sure strokes and then she drops the stick and rubs her hands down the front of her jeans. A stark middle finger is flipping me the bird from the pristine white drawing pad.