by Jane Henry
“A man of your stature could get a little—”
“Be quiet, Annabelle.” She halted mid-sentence, and I felt guilty for being curt to her. She was only a pawn, after all. Only an innocent bystander. Irritated with myself, I could not prevent my temper from rising, and before I could stop myself the words tumbled angrily from my mouth. “You would know about smaller homes, wouldn’t you? You practically live in a hovel.”
With that, she yanked her arm away from my hand. I half-expected her to snap at me, but she said nothing, silently fuming as we finally reached the top of the staircase.
I’m sorry. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I could not speak them. Her anger stoked mine, and I grunted at her to follow me.
“This way,” I said, my words a barely understandable half-growl. I pointed in the general direction of the west wing. “You’ll notice this stairway parts in two, and the one across from us leads to the west wing. You are not, under any circumstances, to trespass in that section of the house. The rest of my home is yours to roam at your leisure, but you are not to set foot in that area. Do you understand me?”
I groaned inwardly as her eyes lit with excitement and curiosity, peering at the forbidden doorway. “You’ve already said that.” I wanted to shake her. I wanted to draw her across my knee and bare her, really spank her, punish her for her insolence.
But I had to control my temper.
“ ‘Oh’ does not indicate that you’ve understood and plan on obeying me.”
“Fine,” she said. “I won’t go to your precious west wing. Now will you show me to my room?” she spat out.
The brat.
I would not allow her to anger me further. I would not be baited.
“You will watch your tone of voice with me, young lady,” I warned, narrowing my eyes on her as I continued to walk toward her. She squealed as I nabbed her hand and pulled her closer to me. “You don’t want to push me, Annabelle.”
Her chest heaved, her eyes furious, but I ignored her temper as I led her to the doorway to her room, but when I opened the door, her indignation melted away. Instead, her eyes widened in wonder, her lips parted, and she looked around like a child who’d just entered a candy shop.
“This is my room?” she whispered.
“Yes,” I said, trying to hide the fact that her amazement pleased me.
It was the largest, most well-furnished guest room in my home, and I’d had my staff freshen it up before her arrival. A large, four-poster bed sat in the center of the room, filmy white drapes swirled across the posts. A thick white quilt adorned the king-sized bed, dainty hand-stitched red flowers adorning the edges. Half a dozen fluffy pillows sat at the head of the bed, and a folded pale blue throw blanket lay across the foot. Large bay windows lined the wall opposite the doorway, oval-shaped and adorned with intricate drapes. There was a desk with a chair, and a laptop, pens, and notebooks for her use. A pillow-topped bench lined one window, and in my mind’s eye, I fancied her curled up there, a book in her lap, gazing out the window that overlooked the flower garden below. A heavy wardrobe sat in one corner, empty and ready to be filled, a large walk-in closet to the right, and there was a doorway to her bathroom between the closet and wardrobe. The bathroom had been cleaned until it gleamed, thick Egyptian cotton towels waiting to be used. Her clothing, though, would still have to be acquired.
“Tomorrow morning, you will meet me for breakfast at eight o’clock,” I said. “We will meet with a fashion consultant who will help you pick out a wardrobe suitable for your stay here. And if you’d like, I can arrange for a…hair stylist…or, whatever it is you girls need to come help do your hair.”
I expected her to be excited. I didn’t know the first thing about girl things, and had only been trying to help, but instead, she frowned, her eyes shuttering. She didn’t have a lot of money. Wouldn’t she appreciate my generosity?
“I think I’m all set,” she said. “If you insist on me wearing fancy clothes as part of our arrangement, I’ll do that. But I don’t like breakfast.”
What an ungrateful little brat.
“I didn’t ask if you liked breakfast,” I said, my voice rising. “I told you to meet me for breakfast at eight o’clock. You will join me for breakfast, or you will answer for it.” I stormed to her door and opened it. “I will have the consultant come to meet with you. You may pick as little or as much as you’d like, and you’re welcome to take home everything that belongs to you when the month is up.” I looked over my shoulder, giving her one final, parting glare. “I will see you tomorrow at eight.”
“Fine!”
“Fine!” I shouted back, slamming the door behind me so hard the echo reverberated through the entire floor.
I wanted to hurt her, to punish her. Instead, I stormed away, hoping she felt badly for being so rude and inciting my anger. She’d show up for breakfast, or I’d teach her to mind.
Chapter Seven
Annabelle
I woke the next morning to the chirping of birds outside my window. I did not move at first, my eyes still closed, as I wondered if what had transpired the night before had all been an eerie dream. But when I opened my eyes, I could see filmy white curtains around the wooden posts of my bed, and my heart started to flutter wildly in my chest. Sitting up, I looked around, clutching the blankets to my chest as if I expected him to be lurking in the shadows. He was not there, of course. He might have been bossy and arrogant and even downright scary at times, but I didn’t get the stalker vibe off him. I never would have signed on to do this if I had.
Or would I?
Pushing all niggling thoughts of how stupid I’d been out of my head, I lay down on the bed and tried to clear my mind. I would enjoy living in the lap of luxury. From where I lay, I could see a huge, oval-shaped tub, and a fancy pedestal sink. I longed to take a bubble bath in the enormous tub, to sink under the poofy foam and submerge myself in the fragrant water. The night before, I’d been far too tired to do much more than quickly wash up before slipping into the soft cotton pajama shorts and tops that waited for me on the dresser.
It was almost unsettling how perfect the clothes were for me — white with little pink dots, edged in lace, and super comfortable. They fit me to a T. Four more pairs of PJs similar to this one lay neatly folded in the top drawer.
Today I would pick out my wardrobe, supposedly.
I frowned, pulling the blanket up higher on my chin, though it wasn’t exactly chilly in the room. I thought of our conversation the night before, as he told me I could pick out whatever I’d like to wear. Was I simply being stubborn? For the past eight years, ever since my mother had begun to show symptoms of mental illness, with my father no longer in the picture, my sister and I fended for ourselves. We could hardly make rent and utilities, so we’d relied on thrift store purchases and hand-me-downs from friends to supply our needs. Melody was a master at finding just the right clothing on mark-down day, and we both had what we needed. The mere thought of a stylist and new wardrobe boggled my mind. I could not imagine such luxury. Why had I resisted so vehemently?
I remembered the way he’d looked, his dark eyes furrowed beneath heavy brows, his stubbled chin jutting out as he mocked my home and poverty.
What an asshole.
My phone buzzed on the bedside table, and I glanced at the screen. Melody.
Hey. How are you doing? Mom’s good here. I got a call that someone was coming to check on her this afternoon. I’ll let you know how it goes.
I went to reply to the text, when the time in the upper right-hand corner of the screen arrested my attention. With a gasp, I dropped my phone, tossed the blankets aside, and leapt to my feet.
7:48.
I had twelve minutes to be at breakfast, or…or I didn’t know what would happen. Though part of me flirted with the idea of being late, of showing this…beast that I was not going to be cowed by him, a small part of me wanted this to work. And I’d already played the testing card now, twice. I’d agreed to do what
he told me. He was going to pay me handsomely in return. So when it came down to it, I really had nothing to lose and so much to gain. There would be a time to test his mettle, to show him I was no naturally submissive person who would do his bidding. However, the very first day at breakfast was not one of those times.
I opened the dresser drawers, astonished as they slid so easily along the tracks. My dresser at home was cheap particle board and the drawers needed to be yanked with every bit of my strength just to budge. This was heavy, quality furniture, solid wood, and I took only a second to draw my finger along the edge of the grain, in circles, while inhaling the smell of lemon furniture polish. This dresser alone would likely pay one month’s rent.
What would it be like to know such luxury?
I didn’t allow myself to dwell, as I needed to move. So much for showering before breakfast. The first drawer held a small handful of thankfully modest but pretty panties, white lace in a becoming bikini style, again in my size. Next to that were several other undergarments, a few white laced bras and folded socks. I flushed as my finger edged the pretty satin of the bra.
Had he picked these out?
I shut that drawer and opened the one below it. I hadn’t packed, and hoped there was more waiting for me than pajamas and underwear.
In the second drawer, I found what I was looking for: three simple but elegant summer dresses, one a sky-blue with white accents, white piping around the edges, lightweight and casual. Another was a pretty sage green number with spaghetti straps, and a third a floral pattern of pinks, reds, and white, with an empire waist that would hit just above my knee. Swallowing hard, I shut that drawer and opened the third. A few pairs of jeans lay nestled to one side, some dark-colored and some light, straight legged and bootcut. To the right of those lay a few tops, but I shut the drawer quickly. I did not have time to peruse my “pre-wardrobe” before the fitting, as the clock was ticking. I grabbed my undergarments and the sage green dress, pulled my pajamas off, hurled them in the direction of the bed, and dressed in the sky-blue dress before I ran to the bathroom and tidied up.
I glanced at my still-bare feet. Had he thought of those, too? I skipped out of the bathroom and eyed my worn, plain black flats. They’d look dilapidated and outdated paired with the new dress. Cautiously, I opened the door to my closet, and my jaw dropped open. I could have easily fit my bedroom and Melody’s in my closet alone. The shelves were bare but for half a dozen shoes. I quickly chose a pair of white leather sandals, and slipped them on, not even having enough time to look at the others.
The back of the closet door was a full-length mirror. I appraised myself with a critical eye. The dress fit well as did the shoes, and though my hair looked tidy, my face was barren of make-up. Inhaling deeply, I straightened my shoulders, put everything away, and raced to get my phone.
7:59. No time for make-up.
“Shit,” I swore under my breath, as I ran to the door and yanked it open to reveal a vacant hallway. I knew I had to go down the large staircase to get to the dining hall, and hoped I’d find my way when I reached the bottom. Quickly heading down the stairs, my footsteps silent on the thickly carpeted steps, I made it to the first floor in record time. Once there, I looked around frantically. Where were all the servants that always seemed to be hanging around here? Muttering under my breath, I followed the sound of clinking glass and voices to my right. To the left, I saw the door to his study, the one where we’d made our agreement and he’d…I swallowed, smoothing down the skirt of my dress as I remembered leaning over his desk. I could still feel the sting of his palm.
To the right, thank God, I could see from the doorway a large dining table, and a wooden buffet table laden with dishes and silverware. I raced to the doorway and when I got to the entrance, I slowed down, pretending I hadn’t been running around like a lunatic and I hadn’t just woken twelve minutes ago.
When I entered the room, the voices halted.
“Miss Symphony.”
I turned in the direction of his voice, keeping myself cool, calm, and collected. I nodded to Sawyer Gryffin, who sat at the table with a newspaper and a steaming mug of coffee.
“Good morning,” I said, barely catching myself before I tacked Sir at the end.
No, I would not call the man sir.
I inhaled, and walked to the table, as he lifted the large, steaming cup of coffee to his lips, looking pointedly at his wrist as he did so. Was I a minute late? Would he bend me over this table, just as he’d bent me over his desk? He took a leisurely sip, then placed the cup down in front of his plate. “Thank you for being punctual, Miss Symphony.”
Phew.
“Call me Annabelle,” I said, with as much nonchalance as I could, so as not to betray my shaking hands and pounding heartbeat.
“Very well, Annabelle,” he returned, and it was then that he dropped the pretense of civility, his lips curling into a wicked grin as his eyes met mine. “I believe we’ve already discussed what you may call me.”
I halted, my hand halfway to the chair in front of me. I would not give him the satisfaction of besting me and assumed he’d attempt to hide his kinky, deviant side from whatever staff lingered about.
“Have we, Mister Gryffin? I may call you Sawyer, then?”
His eyes narrowed but he smiled nonetheless. “No, sweetheart. I’d much prefer Daddy.”
Despite his narrowed gaze, despite the fact that he’d pushed my comfort zone so far it had split wide open, my pulse accelerated at his words.
Daddy.
It was so wrong it was hot. Taboo.
Sinful.
Delicious.
“But I’ll only allow you to say that when we’re alone, if you prefer.”
“Right,” I stammered, not meeting his eyes and studiously ignoring his low chuckle as I grabbed the top of one of the heavy chairs and drew it out.
“Go get yourself something to eat, first,” he ordered. I looked up at him. He held half a bagel in one hand while with the other, he smeared cream cheese across the lightly browned surface. His brows raised and he gestured behind him. “We weren’t sure what you liked to eat, so we had a little bit of everything put out. For future reference, it would be good to know what you like.”
I walked toward the buffet behind the dining table, which necessitated having to walk past him, my eyes widening at the enormous display. I’d never been to a breakfast buffet, but this looked like one that I could enjoy.
“You don’t know what I like for breakfast?” I tossed over my shoulder, lifting a heavy ivory plate from the end of the table that was still warm. “Seems you know everything else about me.”
“Don’t be smart with me,” he said, his tone tight. Not wanting him to see me gripping my plate harder, I kept my back to him.
I hadn’t meant to be rude. Well, not that rude. It appeared my sarcasm did not scan under his radar. I did not dwell long on this, though, as my widened eyes took in the large array of food in front of me.
A fancy glass cut bowl on a pedestal housed a variety of cut fruit and berries, strawberries ripe to the core, plump blueberries, and thin slices of red-tinged peaches. My mouth watered at the aromas that wafted in my direction, and I swallowed, scooping a generous portion of fruit salad on one corner of my plate. Next, an array of yogurts sat nestled on ice, and to the left of that, lay steaming trays of spinach quiche, crispy strips of bacon, and thick-cut hash browns fried with onions. To the left of the hot foods were oatmeal and baked goods, mini pastries with little dollops of cream cheese and lemon filling, a platter of bagels, and two pitchers, filled with what looked like freshly-squeezed orange and grapefruit juice.
“Is anyone else coming?” I asked. Why so much food for little old me? And I hated eating in front of people.
“No.” I waited for him to offer more, but he did not. My hand shaking, I served myself a wedge of the spinach quiche and placed it next to my fruit salad, then chose one of the delicious-looking pastries before I turned to the table.
“No oatmeal today?” he asked, quirking a brow at me. I bit my lip to keep my jaw from dropping.
I ate oatmeal for breakfast every single day before I left for the diner.
He knew. And he was attempting to set me off kilter.
“No, thank you,” I said, shaking out the folded napkin that lay on the tablecloth before smoothing it onto my lap. “As you likely know,” I said, meeting his gaze now across the table, “I eat oatmeal every day, because it’s inexpensive and easy to eat before work. I’m never treated to food like this, so it’s a rare privilege.”
He only met my gaze but did not respond, tearing a piece of his bagel with his hands. He chewed it methodically as he watched me. I hated that he watched me, but I was starving. I cleared my throat and finally looked down at my plate. He unnerved me, this man, and I didn’t like feeling so flustered. Focusing on my food, I nabbed a piece of strawberry with my fork and popped it in my mouth. It was sweet and tart, and juicy. I followed that with a bite of the rich, flaky quiche. My stomach growled approvingly. I hadn’t eaten a breakfast like this in years, maybe not ever.
“You tell me whatever you’d like prepared for you, and I’ll see it is done,” he said.
I smiled. “Aren’t you afraid of spoiling me?”
The smile faded from his eyes, and he sobered, his lips turning down, but then he quickly recovered. “No, Annabelle. I am not worried about spoiling you.” He paused and his eyes grew heated. “I thought I demonstrated last night that I’m quite capable of handling spoiled little girls.”
My face heated. I suddenly wished I had a glass of juice next to my place. Honest to God!
I chose not to respond, focusing on my food instead.
“A question for you,” he asked. He picked up his cell phone, hit the power, and when he lifted it, I could see a news clip on the phone in front of me. I almost dropped my fork.
