Primrose
“You know, staring at the back of his head isn’t going to make it blow up.”
I snap back to myself and the hum of the private jet’s engine to find Zoe leaning back from her furtive whisper. “Shush!” I glance down at the flaxen head in my lap.
“Please.” Zoe pulls a face. “That child sleeps like the dead. And she snores.”
While Felix chose to sit with his father, Sylvie took the window seat next to me.
After showing me photos of her pony on her tablet, she waxed lyrical about Casa Alegría, the house, telling me it’s her favorite of all the family’s houses because it was named after her mother, Allegra. Which apparently means joy.
I have so many questions, but nanny or not, even I know you can’t interrogate a six-year-old. I’m sure most people would’ve googled this family already, but I’m not a fan of the internet invading people’s privacy.
Anyway, Sylvie must’ve tired herself out by chattering because her head is in my lap, and as Zoe said, she’s currently sleeping like the dead.
“She’s drooling on your jeans.”
“Ah, well.” I slide away a few golden strands from her cheek and look up. Slobber or no slobber, she looks too peaceful to disturb.
How did she get to be such an angel when her father is such a… such a… colossal dickhead? I wonder if he’s rude to everyone. If he uses everyone? He’s the stereotypical rich arsehole and someone should’ve clocked him one before now. Right on his conventionally handsome chin.
There’s still time, I suppose. And given the right motive—
“Rose?”
My stomach drops. Rose is the name I used to sign into that stupid party.
“Or do you prefer Prim? Or Primrose?”
“Rose is fine,” I say, trying not to sound prickly. Prim is who I am to my family and friends. The person I am when I’m not here. Yes, that works for me.
“Great.” She smiles. “So Rose.” She leans in. “Is there a particular reason you’re trying to detonate the bossman’s head?”
My gaze slides to the back of his head again, his hair more salt-and-pepper flecked than Friday night would’ve had me believe.
But that’s not the reason I’m staring. What possible reason could I have for hating on it.
Maybe because he’s a vindictive arsehole who threatened to take my friend to court.
Or because he pretty much blackmailed me into being on this jet.
Or even because the man gave me the orgasm of the decade before shoving me out the door like I was trash.
Hmm. Any or all of the above.
I hate his stinking’ guts.
“Sorry.” I school my face as I forcibly move my attention back her way. “What was that? I must’ve zoned out.” It’s better than admitting I’m trying to manifest his painful demise from my seat two rows behind.
“Yeah, let’s go with that,” she says with a smirk.
“Does he always travel with a full retinue?” I can’t seem to stop myself from asking as I glance around. As well as the family, myself, and Zoe, Jacques is also present.
“I’m not complaining.” She rubs the leather armrest appreciatively.
“It is pretty swish,” I concede. It’s not my first time flying private, but I’ve only done so for family holidays.
In other words, when Leif is paying. But he doesn’t have a bevy of staff.
He doesn’t even have a nanny. Which is just as well, or he’d need a jet the size of a commercial plane given the size of our family.
While I’m loath to admit it, this flight has been a step up from the annual family vacay. M. LDH’s jet is large, and swanky, all cream Nappa leather and mahogany.
Zoe sighs and fluffs her auburn updo. “I could get used to travelling like this, but then I travel coach back to Vancouver, I remember my place.”
I smile. And keep my mouth firmly shut. Money makes people weird. They tend to treat you differently or stiff you with the bill for dinner, as though I’m the one who founded a bank and. not my brother.
“Madeline usually stays in the Paris house as the Mallorca estate has its own caretakers, domestic staff, and security. But the vibe is more relaxed there.”
“And Jacques?”
Zoe’s attention skims by me to where he’s seated in the other aisle. There’s something in that look that I can’t quite make out, though it doesn’t look wholly pleasant. “He always travels with the family. He’s like, concierge, personal assistant, and close contact security all rolled into one.”
“He’s security?” I repeat, surprised.
“Deadly with my hands.”
At the sound of his deep voice, I glance across the aisle. Not that he looks up from his laptop. But I’m pretty sure that wasn’t meant to sound like a threat.
I give a deep sigh. I’m not exactly happy to be here, but the short of the situation is, I capitulated.
I gave in. Bowed to his high and mighty (bleurgh) demands.
In other words, I agreed to stay for the month.
Under sufferance and with loud complaint.
But honestly, I still can’t quite believe that I have.
At the dinner table in Paris, I denied and complained as Sylvie danced around the garden doing her impersonation of Disney’s Snow White, charming the birds.
But he knew he had me.
He’s had me?
He could’ve had me.
Bah! I wouldn’t touch him with Zoe’s fingers after this.
The bottom line is, once Emmy told me about the house she’s buying for her parents, I was stuck. She sounded so proud, and I couldn’t risk ruining her dream. Her big achievement. Especially when her dad is currently recovering from a heart attack.
What kind of friend would that make me? One who’d have to explain how she’d found herself in a sex club being pleasured by her bestie’s boss, no doubt. The merciless Monsieur LDH.
I should’ve jabbed him with that butter knife when I had the chance. I would’ve liked to have heard him squeal a little after watching him sit there, all superiority, cool and composed. Meanwhile, my hair probably curling at the audacity. And probably the humidity. Maybe something else.
“I like the idea of punishing you a little.” That voice, so low and velvety.
It’s sex on the ears. And I really didn’t need to be reminded how good he smells as the scent of his cologne brushed by on the breeze.
It just pinged in my brain, reminding me exactly how he made me feel in that darkened basement. Until I remembered the door again.
Get on board, senses. We gots to remember we hate the man!
I stifle a sigh. At least it’s not going to be a difficult job. Looking after kids is hardly brain surgery. And a month of Emmy’s salary is not to be sniffed at.
“Which leaves me,” Zoe says. My attention jerks back. “I tag along because he likes my food.”
“I’m already a big fan myself.”
She makes an aw, shucks kind of gesture and I find myself still thinking it seems a bit excessive (read: a bit wanky) to take an army of people wherever you go.
“So are you gonna tell me what’s going on with you two?” She gives a meaningful glance toward a certain dark head.
“There is absolutely nothing going on between us,” I reply emphatically.
“Well, I didn’t mean that,” she says with a knowing grin. “But the man is a total snack.”
“With the personality of Attila the Hun, hon.”
“Who?”
“Murderous tendencies? Heads on spikes? Doesn’t matter,” I mutter.
“There’s got to be a reason you’ve been trying to kill him with your eyeballs.” She makes a v of her fingers and points them at her eyes then his head. “Laser beams.”
“I suppose I’m just finding this difficult. Finding him difficult. And by difficult, I mean despotic.”
“Tell us what you really mean,” she says with a soft laugh.
I slide her a glance. “I thought I was being diplomatic.”
“You’ve never worked for the rich before, huh?” Her gaze drifts to the front of the plane. “So easy on the eyes,” she murmurs, “but the personality of a bad trip. At least he cuts a very decent paycheck.”
“Yes, at least.” As if that excuses his character deficits.
“Madeline mentioned you’re Emmy’s best friend.”
I nod. “We’ve been friends forever.”
“I like Emmy. She’s sweet, and so good with the kids.”
“She is genuinely one of the nicest people I know.”
“Well, you must be nice too, stepping in for her like this. Super lucky you were in Paris, though. She said you were going on vacation together?”
I bob my head in agreement.
“It’s good to hear her dad is going to be okay. I guess you must’ve been between gigs yourself,” she adds, barely coming up for breath. “Feel free anytime to tell me to mind my own.” Her grin is wide and unapologetic.
“Between jobs, yes. I have a new one, but I don’t start my until September.”
“Good timing, huh?”
“I’m not usually a nanny,” I admit with a little discomfort. “I’m a doctor. Or I will be come September.” It’s a weird sort of in between period. Like, I have all the qualifications and the title, but until I’m on the ward, I don’t really see myself as a proper doctor. I know it’s silly.
“That it so cool! A doctor in the house. It makes sense why the boss asked you to extend your term.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Especially after what happened with the previous nanny temp.”
“Did something happen?” I only have his version of events, though I do believe him, I think. Regardless, I feel my eyebrows inching the way of my hairline, so I force them back again.
“Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been good. Madeline told me the woman was marched from the premises. Another gold-digger, I guess. Or a fame hound.” She shrugs. “Maybe a journalist.”
“A journalist?”
“The things they’ll do for a good story.”
“But why? What on earth does he do?” I whisper, glancing back at his dark head.
“You’re not big on celebrity culture, huh?”
I shake my head.
“The du Beaumont name is synonymous with luxury goods—has been for more than a hundred years, apparently. The group owns designer brands, champagne houses, hotels, and all kinds of other goodies. That man has his fingers in all kinds of lavish European pies.”
“Oh.”
“Hmm, pie,” she adds. “Didn’t you see the bag after monogrammed bag being loaded into the plane?”
“I’m not into luxury.”
“I like it. I just can’t afford it,” she replies airily.
“Has that happened before, with the nanny and the journalist, whatever. Just because he’s rich?”
“Rich and scandalous.”
The plot thickens. “How’d you mean?”
“Girl, did you not google this family before you started working for them?”
“You can’t believe the stuff you read on the internet,” I say with a shrug.
If half the things written about my brother were true, he’d be suffering from terrible chafe from all the women he’s supposed to have bedded, when the truth is he’s besotted with his wife and bonkers for family life.
But the truth rarely travels as fast as a good tale.
“Well, I’ve heard stories.”
“Stories you won’t repeat.” Both our heads swing right at Jacque’s low interjection. “Right, Zoe?”
“You’re just jealous no one wants you for your money,” Zoe retorts.
“That’s because the ladies want me for my sparkling personality.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night. Alone,” she snipes.
“Primrose is right.” Jacques leans around her to look at me. “The tabloids don’t know shit.”
“But they have all the fun stuff,” she retorts happily. “And—”
Whatever she’s about to say is lost as the captain announces we’re beginning our descent.
Great.