Читать книгу In the Manor with the Millionaire - Cassie Miles, Cassie Miles - Страница 7

Chapter Three

The next morning, the skies outside Madeline’s bedroom window were clear, washed clean by the rain. And she tried to focus on the sunny side. She had a job and a place to live. Working with Duncan provided an interesting challenge. For now, she was safe.

The dark cloud on her emotional horizon was Blake Monroe. A volatile man. She didn’t know why he had changed his mind about hiring her and decided it was best not to ask too many questions. He didn’t seem like the type of man who bothered to explain himself.

Entering the high-ceilinged kitchen, she smiled at Alma, who sat at the table, drinking coffee and keeping company with a morning television chat program on a small flat- screen.

“I’m hired,” Madeline announced. “I can’t thank you enough for telling me about this job.”

“Congrats.” Using the remote, Alma turned down the volume. “How about lending me a hand with breakfast?”

“Sure.”

She turned and confronted a mountain of dirty dishes, glasses, pots and crusted skillets that spread across the countertop like a culinary apocalypse. It appeared that Alma hadn’t wiped a single plate since they’d moved into this house.

How could anyone stand such a mess! Madeline rolled up the sleeves of her daisy-patterned cotton shirt, grabbed an apron that was wadded in the corner of the counter and dug in.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Alma said. “Even as a kid, you were good about cleaning up.”

Maybe even a teensy bit compulsive. “Is that why you thought of me for this job?”

“I don’t mind having a helper.” Alma shuffled toward the butcher-block island and leaned against it. Though she was completely dressed with hair and makeup done, she wore fuzzy pink slippers. “Did you sleep well?”

“Took me a while to get accustomed to the creaks and groans in this old house.” Once during the night, she’d startled awake, certain that someone had been in the room with her. She’d even imagined that she saw the door closing, which made her wonder. “Does Duncan ever sleepwalk?”

“Not as far as I know, but I wouldn’t be surprised by anything that kid does. Or his father, for that matter.”

“Is Blake difficult to work for?”

“A real pain in the rear.”

Yet, he put up with the mess in the kitchen. “How so?”

“In the past year, he went through two other housekeepers and four nannies.”

“Why?”

“His lordship is one of those dark, brooding, artistic types. Real moody. Gets caught up in a project and nothing else matters. He forgets to eat, then blames you for not feeding him.” She patted her sculpted blond curls. “It’s not part of my job description to keep track of his phone calls, and most of the business contacts go through his office in New York. But if I forget a phone call, he blows a gasket.”

“He yells at you?” Madeline was beginning to feel more and more trepidation about this job.

“Never raises his voice,” Alma said. “He growls. Real low. Like an angry lion.”

With Blake’s overgrown dark blond mane and intense hazel eyes, a lion was an apt comparison. As Madeline rinsed glasses and loaded them into the dishwasher, she said, “I looked Blake up on the Internet. He does amazing restorations. There were interior photos of this gorgeous hotel in Paris.”

“Paris.” Alma sighed. “That’s what I expected when I signed on as a housekeeper four months ago. Trips to Europe. Fancy places. Fancy people. La-di-dah.”

“Sounds like a lovely adventure.”

“So far, I’ve been at the brownstone in Manhattan and here—Maine. I mean, Maine? The whole state is about as glamorous as a lumberjack’s plaid shirt.” She paused to sip her coffee. “Let’s hear about you, hon. How’s your big brother, Marty?”

At the mention of her brother’s name, Madeline almost dropped the plate she was scrubbing in the sink. “We’ve kind of lost touch.”

“Good-looking kid. A bit devilish, though. Didn’t he get into some kind of trouble with the law?”

She heard Duncan counting his steps as he came down the hall to the kitchen and assumed his father wasn’t far behind. “I’d rather not talk about Marty.”

“It’s okay.” Alma patted her arm. “I won’t say a word.”

Duncan preceded his father into the kitchen. His clothing was the same as last night: a long-sleeved, striped T-shirt and jeans. At the table, he climbed into his chair and sat, staring straight ahead.

Alma went into action. She measured oat-bran cereal into a clear glass bowl, then measured the milk. She placed them in front of Duncan, then fetched a pre-chilled glass of OJ from the fridge.

Neither she nor Blake said a word.

Madeline assumed this was some sort of ritual and didn’t interfere until Duncan had taken his first bite of cereal. Then she took a seat opposite him and watched as he chewed carefully before swallowing. She smiled. “Good morning, Duncan.”

He said nothing, didn’t acknowledge her presence in any way.

Blake cleared his throat. When she looked at him, he shook his head, warning her not to rock the boat. She rose from her seat and went toward him. Seeing him in the morning light, she noticed the lightly etched crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and the unshaven stubble on his chin. He dragged his fingers through his unruly dark blond hair. His careless grooming and apparent disarray reminded her of an unmade bed that had been torn apart in a night of wild, sexual abandon.

She intended to discuss her plans for Duncan’s lessons. After his interest in the “Casey at the Bat” poem, she’d decided to use baseball as a learning tool. There were other things she needed to ask Blake about, such as her salary, rules of the household and teaching supplies. But being near him left her tongue-tied.

She pushed her glasses up on her nose and said, “Do you have a baseball?”

“I can find one.”

Her cheeks were warm with embarrassment. Seldom was she so inarticulate. “Other supplies? Pencils and paper?”

“Everything you’ll need is in a room at the end of this hallway. It was once a conservatory so there’s a whole wall of windows. Until the renovations are done, we’re using it as a family room. Alma can show you.”

She stammered. “I-is there, um, some kind of schedule?”

He lifted an eyebrow; his expression changed from arrogant to vaguely amused. He stretched out his arm and pointed to the wall beside her. “How’s this?”

Right in front of her nose was a three-foot-by-two-foot poster board with a heading in letters five inches high: Duncan’s Schedule. The entire day was plotted in detail.

“I’ve found,” he said, “that Duncan does best when we stick to a consistent routine.”

She pointed to the slot after breakfast. “Quiet Time in Family Room. What does that mean?”

“Exactly what it says. Duncan likes to spend time by himself, and all his toys are in the family room. Usually he plays computer games.”

The next slot said Lessons. “How do I know where to start?”

“Duncan’s last tutor left a log that detailed her teaching plans and Duncan’s progress. She wasn’t a live-in, and I can’t say that I was happy with her results.” He glanced toward the housekeeper. “Is that coffee hot?”

“Piping.”

He went to the coffeemaker and filled a mug. “Well, Alma, it’s nice to see that you’re finally cleaning up in here.”

“I aim to please,” she said. “Breakfast in your studio?”

“Eggs over easy, wheat toast and bacon.”

With a nod to Madeline, he left the kitchen.

Though his back was turned, she made a “bye-bye” motion with her hand. Oh, good grief. Could she possibly be more of a dork?

Alma chuckled. “Got a little crush on his lordship?”

“Of course not.”

“He’s a handsome thing. And he’s even taller than you are. Probably six foot two or three.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

She returned to the sink and dug into the stack of dirty dishes with renewed vigor. After she’d cleaned up the kitchen and grabbed an energy bar for breakfast, she trailed Duncan into the family room. He spoke not a word, went directly to his computer and turned it on.

Like the kitchen, this room was a mess. Sunlight gushed through a wall of windows, illuminating a cluttered worktable where Duncan sat at his computer. Though the wall had a neat row of storage bins and shelves, everything had been heaped on the floor—played with and then discarded.

The chaos didn’t make sense. Every hour of Duncan’s day was regimented, but here—in the place where he was supposed to learn—he was surrounded by disarray.

Obviously, she needed to put things in order. One of the earliest lessons taught in grade school was “Putting Things Away.” Getting Duncan to participate in the clean-up would have been good, but she didn’t want to disrupt his schedule. This hour was for quiet time.

While he fiddled with his computer, she picked up a plush blue pony and placed it on the shelf labeled Stuffed Animals. Then another stuffed toy. Blocks in the bin. Crayons back in their box. Trucks and cars on another labeled shelf.

Eventually, she found a place for everything. “All done,” she said. “I’m going out to my car to bring a few things inside.”

He didn’t even glance in her direction. No communication whatsoever. A cone of isolation surrounded him. No one was allowed to touch.

After running up to her bedroom to grab her car keys, she stepped outside into the sunny warmth of a July day. Her beat-up Volkswagen station wagon with the brand- new dent from her collision with Dr. Fisher was parked just outside the front door. When she unlocked the back, she noticed that the flaps on a couple of boxes were open. She hadn’t put them in here like that. Everything had been sealed with tape or had the flaps tucked in. Had someone been tampering with her things? When Blake got her suitcase, did he also search her belongings?

Before she built up a full-blown anger at him about his callous intrusion into her privacy, a more ominous thought occurred. What if it was someone else?

Last night, she’d sensed that someone was in her bedroom. She hadn’t actually seen anyone; it was just a fleeting impression. But what if it were true? Dr. Fisher had said that he’d “always know where to find her.” He owned this house. Surely he had a key. But why would he look through her things?

“Need some help?” Alma called from the doorway.

Madeline slammed the rear door. “I’ll worry about this stuff later. But I need to get the ficus out of the front seat before it wilts.”

She unlocked the passenger-side door and liberated the plant. The ficus itself wasn’t anything special, but the fluted porcelain pot painted with rosebuds was one of her favorite things.

“Heavy,” she muttered as she kicked the car door closed and lurched toward the house, not stopping until she reached her second-floor bedroom where she set the plant near the window. The delicately painted pot looked as though it belonged here—more than she did.

Had someone crept into her room last night? There was no way to prove she’d had an intruder unless she contacted the police and had them take fingerprints. Even then, Dr. Fisher had a right to be in the house; he owned the place. If not Fisher, who? The serial killer. His last victim, Sofia, had looked like her.

Madeline plucked off her glasses and wiped the lenses. She didn’t want to raise an alarm about a prowler unless she had tangible evidence. Tonight, before she went to bed, she’d push the ficus against the door so no one could enter without making a lot of noise.

She hurried down the staircase toward the family room. In the doorway, she came to an abrupt halt. The room she had so carefully cleaned was ransacked. Stuffed animals had been flung in every direction. Books spilled across the floor. The toy trucks and cars looked like a major highway collision. Little Duncan stood in the midst of it, oblivious to her presence.

Either she could laugh or cry. She chose the former, letting out her frustration in a chuckle. Now she knew why the room had been a mess.

Duncan paced toward her. When he held out his hand, she saw that he was wearing latex gloves. In the center of his palm was the white seashell he’d shown her last night.

“Temperance,” she said.

He marched past her into the corridor that led to the front door. His clear intention was to go outside. And how could she stop him? From the information she had on autistic kids, she knew that corporal punishment often led to tantrums. Arguments were futile.

The key, she decided, was to gain his trust. Maybe she could impart a few bits of knowledge along the way.

At the front door, she stepped ahead of him, blocking his way and creating the illusion that she was in control. “We’re going to take a walk. Across the yard to the forest. And we’ll gather pinecones. Six pinecones.”

“Ten,” he said.

“Ten is good.”

Outside, he started counting his steps. “One, two, three…”

“Uno, dos, tres. Those are Spanish numbers.”

He repeated the words back to her. She took him up to ten in Spanish, then started over. At least he was learning something.

Halfway across the grassy stretch leading to the forested area, Blake jogged up beside them.

“It’s such a beautiful day,” she said. “We decided to do our lesson outdoors.”

“Couldn’t stand the mess in the family room?”

“I might be a bit of a neat freak,” she admitted. “Anyway, we’re learning numbers in Spanish.”

He fell into step beside her, and she surreptitiously peeked up at him. Definitely taller than she, he moved with a casual, athletic grace.

Near the woods, Duncan scampered ahead of them.

“It’s good for him to be outside,” Blake said. “Gives him a chance to work on his coordination.”

“His fine motor skills are okay. He didn’t seem to be having any problem with the computer.”

“It’s the big stuff that gives him problems. Running, skipping, playing catch.”

Duncan had entered the trees but was still clearly visible. She glanced over her shoulder at the house. In daylight, the two-story, beige-brick building with four tall chimneys looked elegant and imposing. “What are your plans for the Manor?”

He was taken aback by her question. “How much do you know about historic restoration?”

“Very little. But I looked up some of your other architectural projects on the Web. Many seemed more modern than traditional.”

“That’s one reason why this project appealed to me. I plan to restore the American Federalist style while totally updating with new wiring, plumbing and insulation. I want to go green—make it ecological.”

“Solar panels?”

“Too clumsy,” he said. “The challenge in this project,” he said, “is to maintain the original exterior design and restore the decorative flourishes of the interior. At the same time, I’m planning modern upgrades. Maybe a sauna and gym in the basement.”

As he talked about architecture, she caught a glimpse of a different Blake Monroe—a man who was passionate about his work. Still intense, but focused. And eager to have an adult conversation.

She liked this side of his personality. Liked him a lot.

“SHE SELLS SEASHELLS…” Duncan repeated the rhyme again and again. “Temperance, where are you?”

“Here I am.”

She stood with her back against a tree. He could see her, but his daddy and Madeline couldn’t. And that was good. He didn’t want to share his new friend.

He held out the shell. “You gave me this to warn me about the bad man.”

She bent down and picked up a pinecone. Her shiny golden hair fell across her face. “There is something dangerous in the Manor.”

“What?”

“Perhaps the basement. I cannot enter the Manor.”

“You don’t have to be scared, Temperance. I won’t let anybody hurt you.”

She placed a pinecone into his gloved hand. “You need ten of these. For your teacher.”

He was happy to have a friend who didn’t tease about his gloves. “I’m very brave. Madeline said so.”

“Duncan, you must not forget the danger.”

“Danger,” he repeated.