Chapter 12 Harrison
HARRISON
Even if it felt good and comforting at the time, seeing Samantha in my mom’s and sister’s riding clothes, plus on my sister’s horse, was disturbing.
Playing the piano like Mom used to do also gets me thinking. About her, my family, and how much I still miss them all.
The next day, I stay in my apartment and work. All meals are delivered, and I likely have another cloud of depression. It’s workable, so I push through it. I must.
As I work on the now complex business model, I keep running my companies from afar.
I am also likely, and it may not be that healthy, hiding from the world.
Thinking about how much I miss my family and how they were all taken suddenly still gets me down at times.
Thank God, I always bounce back, but it’s heavy. I should probably talk to a shrink, but I’m not that kind of guy.
I am about to send Samantha a note, thanking her for dinner last night but also stating I will remain in my own quarters for the evening. To also ask her to arrange dinner at seven.
As I start to write the message, a chopper streaks low overhead. “Fuck,” I say unhappily.
I walk downstairs, sure we are not expecting anyone. As I descend the last section of the wide marble staircase, Samantha exits the kitchen, and we exchange a look.
I shake my head when the radio we always have around the lobby squawks.
“Sir?” William’s voice kicks in.
“Yes,” I say, lifting it.
“It would appear Miss Elizabeth Verhoven has decided to drop by.”
I hold the bridge of my nose. “Dear God.”
“It gets more, shall we say, complex.”
“Shoot,” I huff.
“Well, she and her pilot appear to have…”
“What?” I bark.
“Bags, Sir.”
Samantha and I share a look.
“Company?” Samantha asks as I cross my arms.
“Like hell.”
“Isn’t she that party heiress of the soap fortune?”
“Something like that,” I growl.
“Dinner for two then?” Samantha asks, hands now on her hips.
“Not if I can help it,” I say before inhaling. “But you may be right, there is a chance the woman will expect food and water.”
Samantha raises her brow. “And her own room?”
She watches me closely, and I walk slowly towards her as the drama unfolds. Before we can say anything else, we hear the creaky wheels of the old Land Rover outside.
“Here we go,” I say.
Before I can reach the door, it opens, and the skinny heiress struts in as if she owns the God-darned place. She is showy, blingy, and in over-the-top clothing with big glasses.
“There you are, darling. I thought I’d drop by because you are dreadful at replying to my calls.”
The heiress freezes on seeing Samantha in her hot yoga clothes.
“Oh. Whom, may I ask, is this?”
The women eye each other up, and I try not to smile.
“Samantha is my new, ummm, world-class chef,” I say before the heiress smiles.
“Ahh, so just the help!”
Jesus.
“Samantha, this is Lady Elizabeth Verhoven.”
Samantha and Elizabeth both nod cooly. Samantha then gives me a look, and I tilt my head before she heads into the kitchen.
“So,” I say, “tell me. How is the family?”
Elizabeth takes my arm, and we walk into the grand hall. The best room for socializing and meals with company.
“Splendid, but Daddy’s gout is playing up. The old fool won’t reduce the fine foods, as you can imagine. Now, how about some champers?”
I inhale deeply and close the doors. So much for a productivity. I mumble to myself, keeping it low, “Dear God, kill me now.”
I lose the next few hours of work time, and I’ll never get them back. Ever. The stuffy, overly-bred woman bores me to tears as she sips old champagne. I play along, drinking sparkling water with a dash of lime.
She has not realized, and she never will. I’m that good.
After an enjoyable and real time with sassy Samantha, time with the plastic heiress is a rude shock to the system.
I am planning to do something drastic to get out of dinner. The thing is, she is still connected. Connected to my businesses.
To take my three existing companies from book values of around ten million each into the billions, I had to take the companies public.
I had to put them on the stock market, thus sell shares to others. I still own most shares, so I still retain the most control. However, her family has shares in the companies. Also, rather a lot.
If I do not play nice and burn a few hours, the wannabe blue blood could throw me a few curve balls.
Asking daddy to dump my shares could cost me hundreds of millions and get me bad press.
Only because of the coming deal and needing stable stock prices, I play along.
As long as she doesn’t expect a servicing against an oil painting, I will dispatch the trollop within the next few hours.
As I put on a dinner jacket hours later, I feel like a complete whore. In saying that, I do want to toss the stuffy fop out on her skinny white arse.
I decide to send Samantha a fast, short note, it will be wise to warn her.
Thanks for yesterday. Thoroughly enjoyable. About tonight. Let’s get the meal over with fast. Only three courses, whatever you advise.
As I straighten my tie, the small bell rings. I walk to the brass pipe and lift her note.
Thanks yes, riding with you has always been memorable.
I shake my head. The strumpet is trouble. Reading on, I squint and look down.
How short would Sir like the meal?
I have no idea what she has in mind, but I like her style.
Short short. And I trust your judgement.
As I check myself in the mirror, I know the pre-dinner drink will burn another hour. The bell rings again, and I sigh. “Dear God, woman.”
I lift and read her note.
You will have the duck. She the fish. Do not change your mind!
I pause, wondering what in hell she is planning. “God help us,” I say before checking my best family cufflinks.
“At least it should be good.”
The overly glammed-up heiress and I sit at opposite ends of the ridiculously long family dinner table, used for dinner parties in the day.
After suggesting we have a less formal dinner at a smaller table, Elizabeth told me to “not act like all the other peasants.”
She said it in jest but said it all the same.
Samantha and I double-blinked as she said it and looked at each other, unseen. She was lowering soup, and I was lowering my expectations of fun.
Course one, the soup, is horrific.
The taste is divine, as with all things Samantha touches, but the blue-blooded witch rambles on about her cousin.
The weasel had inherited some island in Europe. He had then drunk himself into the ground and been thrown in jail. Cocaine-related charges, without a doubt.
I had met him, and he was a complete prick. Best he rots in hell in the Euro-clink!
“Comfort makes one weak,” I mumble, low.
“Sorry, dear?” the thin-lipped rake says down the table.
“Nothing, dear,” I say, wiping my mouth.
As Samantha collects my soup dish, she snort-laughs. I whip her butt with my white starched napkin to keep her in check. I do, however, hit the poor girl on the butt harder than I intended. She gasps, and I mouth, “Sorry.”
As she heads off unseen, the vacuous heiress plays with her liquid soup. She is likely calculating calories, and I rub a temple. “Kill me now.”
I suspected the sassy Samantha would have wreaked havoc by now, but so far, she has been tame.
Five minutes later, she takes Elizabeth’s half-eaten soup and leaves her with a stunning-looking fish meal.
The spoilt tramp does not thank Samantha, who returns with duck á l'orange for me.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Samantha keeps her head low, and then she gives me a look.
My stomach tightens in anticipation, and that is when I know. Know it is game on.
As I try to eat and enjoy the divine dish, the East Coast witch rambles on and on, as if she needs to note her value in society.
The duck is truly incredible, and again, the saucy tease has my mouth coming with saliva.
There is no way in hell Samantha can ever leave my employ. I just need a way to trick her into staying.
Forever.
“Look, Harry, even if you were a terrible rascal of ill repute in the day, you can change. You may well have bedded half of Beverly Hills and the Hamptons, but I think we need to do this,” Elizabeth says.
“And what is that?” I ask, thanking God Samantha is out of earshot.
“Well, we should marry, of course!”
“What?” I ask as sparkling water spurts from my mouth.
I knock a fork off the table as I wipe away the water.
“We have a past.”
“I fucked you on the lawn,” I say, clarifying the wicked deed.
“It was divine.”
It was not, and I had to think of her mother blowing me to come.
“You need to settle down, and so do I, Harrison!”
Samantha returns with a clean fork and smiles, unseen by Elizabeth.
“Look, Elizabeth. Are you not bedding that skinny aristocrat in Argentina with the weird name?” I say. “Also, that feeble prince in Europe? Baron something?”
“Yes, Harrison. I was. But that was last month. And I do like it out here. The Hamptons is becoming a bore.”
As I finish my duck, I consider faking food poisoning. I could fake-vomit with ease, and then put water on my head for sweat.
“We can learn to love, dear.”
I ignore the heiress, and I am starting to sweat naturally. She could derail all my business plans. I then remember the fish that for some reason I was told to ignore.
At the end of the table, the rake places more of it in between her thin lips. She then wipes her skinny lips as if they need it.
The heiress stands and walks my way as if she is sexy. She is not, and she looks like a junkie ex-model, half asleep.
Before I can move, she runs skinny fingers around my neck. I cringe at her weak attempt at flirting. Quickly, I stand rigid. I can now just see into the kitchen, and I can see Samantha leaning against a table.
She is watching me through the swinging door, and we exchange a glance. Our eyes then lock. She can see I am stationary, awkward, and that the heiress is circling me.
“Harry, you need to socialize more. You are becoming rather feral.”
Samantha and I hold the look, and she walks forward and smiles. She knows me, and she knows I need space.
As the rake runs her claw-like fingers around my shoulder, Samantha opens the door with her foot.
She then watches the show with arms crossed and a grin.
I step around the witch and start to play hard to get. Just inside the kitchen and unseen, Samantha watches on, intrigued.
“I’m just unsure my blood is blue enough for you, dear.”
“Oh, I know, I know,” she says. “But what can one do? We will breed, we will secure a horde of nannies, and we will send the children to the right schools. You may shaft a nanny or two. Job well done and all. Then we can get old, circulate socially; we will be frightfully popular.”
The Hampton hyena stifles a dreadful laugh, and I raise a brow. “Let me think on that, will you?”
“Of course, darling. Of course.”
As she walks around me, her eyes darken. I know I’m in trouble, or what some call fucked. That is when she grabs her stomach and winces. “Oh, God!”
“Are you alright, dear?”
The waif staggers, holding her now-sweaty forehead. She is also looking grey. Grey at the gills. “I feel rather nauseous.”
Thank God!
As the heiress doubles over, I go to assist her. I look up to Samantha, and she raises a casual brow. She then tosses a grape and catches it in her mouth.
I try not to smile as she looks at me and bites down. “Perhaps it’s the jet lag. From the Hamptons.”
“Yes, likely,” she says, moaning and distracted.
“Unless you caught another STD from one of those gents.”
“Nonsense,” she says, swatting me away. “That was only once!”
Samantha yawns theatrically through the door, and I shake my head and mouth, “You. Are. Wicked.”
The heiress’ stomach makes a loud sound; it’s the sound of a dying animal.
“Bathroom!” she screams and sprints away.
“Let me show you,” I say, trying to keep up.
“No! Where?” she demands, kicking off her high heels and running away, holding her stomach.
“First on the left!”
The heiress streaks out the door, and another door slams brutally loud. There is then a loud moan as her body purges likely every orifice. I sigh, realizing the worst is over.
Samantha swans out with a spectacular grin. She takes the champagne flute from my hand and knocks it back in one. “You. Sir. Owe me.”
“Ahhh, so you think you’re clever?”
“A bit.”
I follow her to the large arched windows as the stars appear ahead. It is a clear night, and it is now looking up. I turn to her and find her eyes. “Thanks, really.”
“Don’t mention it… Harry, darling.”
We share a look. She said it just like the boring heiress, but in jest. I like it, and it feels right.
She bumps my shoulder with hers and passes my champagne flute back to me.
We look up at the stars in silence, and I have no idea. No idea what to do with her. That’s a lie. I want her to come on my tongue.
Every day.
Forever.