2. Chapter 2
2
HIM
“A bout the other night, boy,” Louisa’s father boomed at me from the kitchen doorway.
He had been scarce all weekend, so scarce that I had actually begun to hope that Lucky Sevens magic had kicked in again and he was none the wiser to Corey’s and my little bonding moment at the party. But now, as I heard his voice float in from the doorway as I leaned over the kitchen counter, that familiar marching-to-my-doom feeling surfaced. Still, I shoved it down, turned around, and slapped on a poker face, aiming to treat him like a pissed-off grizzly bear and refusing to let him sense my fear.
After all, I’d narrowly talked my way out of certain doom in Louisa’s bedroom, when she’d almost discovered everything. And yeah, sure, luck never held forever. In my life, luck rarely held out at all. But that’s why I had to be good, too. And good was something I could control.
That morning, the housekeeper had informed me that Friday’s party necessitated a kitchen deep-cleaning, which for me, meant both scouring the cast-iron grates and using a toothbrush to apply baking soda over all eight burners. So after I’d left Louisa’s room, I’d spent my afternoon on that, but what was it now, then? Had her dad figured out the bottle was missing? Had I missed a shard, and now someone was gushing blood all over the pool deck? Or maybe Corey had changed his mind and decided to claim I had attacked him after all because he just hadn’t had enough fun with me the other night and because this motherfucker really was the gift that kept on giving?
I swept some hair out of my eyes, lowered my gaze, and clasped one hand over the other, trying to conceal the blister. However, my problem right now was that the housekeeper had insisted I use some kind of industrial-strength cleaning agent that might as well have been made of pure saltpeter, given how it had steeped slowly and stealthily into the open wound and was currently stinging so intensely I was blinking away tears from the corners of my eyes.
“First of all,” Wainwright-Phillips began, “it should go without saying that you are forbidden to speak out of turn the way you did in front of my guests. I’m sure you can appreciate that it was only because of Mr. Langer’s intervention that I didn’t punish you then and there.”
“I’m so sorry, sir. I know it was wrong of me. It won’t happen again,” I recited automatically. Can’t beat the old standbys. I thought I’d nailed it, but this guy really had a way of drawing out the suspense. As the pain devoured more of my hand, I cursed the fact that I’d had to leave the aloe in its usual hiding spot in the garden.
“For now, I’ll take you at your word that it won’t. If it does, you can be assured you won’t escape the consequences.”
“Yes, sir.” Was that it? Please?
“And one more thing. As I believe you know from the other night …” He coughed as if the memory of his tipsy little performance in the garden with Max Langer was best memory-holed. “The gardener’s gone, and he won’t be back.” Before I could say anything, he forged ahead. “My wife has never been fond of him—nor the other slaves, for that matter—and somebody offered more than a generous price to take him off my hands,” he was still explaining. “And even though I may need you to take on some of his former duties outdoors, I won’t expect you to take on all of them. I know your skills are best suited elsewhere. On that note, I know I said I would reward you for tutoring my daughter, and I intend to stick to that. By all accounts, it’s going well, and since her exam is coming up, I was wondering what suggestions you might have to make it easier on you as you go down to the wire.”
Really? Help me help you? That was what this was about? For a second, I wondered whether my master, having apparently regained some of his zest for life since the deal with Langer, had been hitting The 40 Habits of Highly Influential Tycoons or some equally cheesy self-improvement tome. It also could be a trick, but we’d been down this road before, and he hadn’t shown any inclination for that kind of underhanded, sociopathic shit. So far.
“Well, sir, there is one thing,” I said, cursing myself for hesitating, though it wasn’t like I got asked things like this on a regular basis—or ever. “It helps if my brain is rested, and with having to be awake at night, well—” I bit my lip. Something told me that adding I end up sleeping in your daughter’s bed probably wouldn’t help my case.
“Say no more,” he replied in a benevolent tone. “Starting tonight, I’ll have you share it with the maid. You’ll get late evenings. She’ll get early mornings. Does that sound fair?”
Well, not to her, but I wasn’t about to bring that up now—especially since she’d begged off on the kitchen cleaning a half-hour ago, though we were supposed to be doing it together. I suspected she might be starting to loathe me, which wasn’t necessarily a negative development. “Thank you, sir.”
He reached out a hand, but it froze in mid-air.
Startled, I raised my eyes slightly. He had been about to do something—hug me? Slap me? Pinch my cheek? Pat me on the head? I was blindsided by what free people did to me sometimes just because they could. None of it would surprise me.
Instead, he drew back and coughed awkwardly into his hand as if that had been his intention all along. “You’ve done well, boy. I’m pleased.”
About what, it wasn’t exactly clear. The tutoring? The rockets? The dynamic, proactive, paradigm-shifting way I’d been scouring those cast-iron grates a minute ago?
This guy had no idea how to praise me. That was certain. Few people did. Most accepted the notion that slaves, with their inferior, more primitive natures, didn’t respond to praise, only punishment. Wainwright-Phillips was clearly of that old school. Did this mean that maybe, like his daughter, he was evolving? No. He was in business with Langer, so that was impossible. But still.
“And I think it’s safe to say the engineers at Orbital Dynamics are, too. Mr. Killeen, perhaps, not so much.”
Yes. There it was. He was smiling. Well, this conversation certainly had its share of pleasant surprises. Now please let it be over.
“You know—” he began thoughtfully, but stopped. The thought would remain unexpressed. “Well, carry on.” He swept out of the room.
Turning with relief, I ran cold water over my hand, yawned, and glanced at the clock for the millionth time. Well then, only eight more hours until I could sleep, instead of twelve. Small mercies.
HER
Quite honestly, his skill in time management was an understatement. He always insisted I review the chapters first; he would quiz me on the parts he didn’t think I was solid enough on yet and drill me until he was satisfied. And given how he’d been taught, it wasn’t surprising that sometimes it took a lot to satisfy him.
“You’re worse than Mrs. Atchinson, my second-grade teacher,” I said, throwing my pencil down on the desk in frustration when he asked me to practice what felt like the fiftieth elimination reaction. “She made me stay after class and write out the times tables in words ‘to help me learn.’ God, I hated her.”
“Hey, I’m sure poor Mrs. Atchinson would have rather been sucking on your neck, too,” he replied. “But like me, she knew how to put her own needs aside for the good of her students.”
The mental image caused me to stifle a thoroughly revolted laugh in my hands. This time, it was my turn to yawn, stretch, and rise from my chair.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“What does it look like? I’m quitting. You’ve completely worn me out.”
“Okay, I’ll go.” He rose from the chair and pointed with his thumb toward the door, and I wasn’t sure whether he was putting his acting skills to use again or whether he actually did, on some level, think I wanted him to leave.
“Slow learner,” I said, the mattress squeaking as I bounced to my knees. “You practice innuendo like it’s a scientific discipline, and then you don’t recognize an open invitation when you hear one?” I grabbed his hand and yanked him toward the bed, rewarded by his surprised smile as he tumbled after me.
He settled himself on one pale pink pillow, his golden hair spilling across it, radiant in the afternoon sunlight. He raised his right arm above his head and I didn’t hesitate to take the invitation, nestling myself cozily into the empty space beside the long, hard muscle of his torso as he reached that hand around in front to entwine with mine. I adjusted the comforter and pulled it over us, then turned so we were nose to nose. To my delight, a sweet, spontaneous kiss greeted me.
“Besides,” I teased, “I know how much you love these sheets.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, settling his other hand behind his head and thoughtfully gazing at the ceiling. “It’s definitely the sheets,” he said lightly before sighing and letting his amber eyes fixate on something in the distance, always a sign the gears in his head had begun to turn. And this time, I suspected it had nothing to do with science.
“Daddy told me that with the gardener gone, you’re going to get stuck filling in for him,” I murmured into his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to—”
“Lou, it’s fine,” he cut me off with a laugh. “Hell, I’ve kind of missed working in the dirt all day. Just like old times.”
My heart clenched at the reminder of his past, even though I now knew that whatever was troubling him, it wasn’t that.
“He says he’s looking at hiring a service for the gardens,” I said. “They send a team of slaves over to do the work.”
“Well, here’s hoping.”
“Any idea yet where he went?”
“Not a clue. The housekeeper doesn’t know, either. I asked everyone.” It was clear he didn’t think he’d seen the last of him.
“Do you really think Langer bought him? He doesn’t own slaves. He doesn’t want to own slaves. That’s kind of his whole thing.”
“So he says,” he said darkly. “Look, if he can hold my sister and a bunch of other girls captive without anyone knowing, no doubt he can also figure out how to buy one toothless gardener without anyone knowing.”
Now it was my turn to stare at the ceiling. “Still, the guy’s gone. And you know what they say about gift horses.”
“I was never big on horse-related aphorisms.”
“Well, then I’ll try to rein them in.” His look was priceless, and I collapsed into sheepish giggles. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.”
“Yeah, well, you should have, especially because that’s an allusion, not an aphorism.” My work was done, though—his smile had returned. “Am I going to have to tickle you until you learn the difference?”
A squeal was the only answer I had time to give.