When the kids arrived a half hour after Julia and Douglas, she and Veronika dealt with them, their bags, their homework, their dinner and then put them to bed. Douglas emerged only during bedtime, looking in on Ruby, who had already been in bed for an hour and was sleeping, and taking care of Willie while Julia tucked Lizzie into bed, all the way down her sides, like she’d been doing since the first night she arrived.
“Are you okay, Auntie Jewel?” Lizzie asked to Julia’s surprise.
Julia’s first response was to kiss the girl on the cheek and smooth her dark hair back, smiling into her sad, worried eyes. She’d underestimated her niece, no doubt in her sensitive state she was sensing Julia’s agitation.
Julia decided to be honest. Honesty, Patricia always told Julia and Gavin, was the best policy.
“No, Lizzie-babe, but I will be. Don’t you worry about it though, go to sleep.”
Julia kissed her niece again and left the room with the unfortunate timing of joining Douglas at the head of the stairs.
“Is it time for our chat?” she asked with studied politeness as they walked down together.
“I’ve a call to make,” he responded.
“That’s okay,” she said airily, as if she had all the time in the world, “I’ll wait.”
She went directly to her rooms, looked in the mirror and ran her fingers through her hair. She found herself wishing she had a stash of liquor for some liquid courage and then shook the thought off.
This was a good thing, she told herself, they had years of this ahead of them and they needed some ground rules.
She sat in the turret, went back over her notes and she waited.
Then she waited some more.
She supposed he would come and get her when he was ready but, after thirty minutes, she heard nothing. And with each passing minute, her anger increased.
This was his house, of course, but did this mean she had to wait for his bidding, like Mrs. K or Veronika? Was this to be her life?
Not bloody likely.
Angrily, she grabbed her notes and headed to his study.
The door was open and she walked straight in without knocking. He was on the phone again, sitting behind his desk and at her arrival he lifted his dark-eyed gaze to her.
She had to steel herself against the gaze and just how perfectly he fit in the richly-appointed, masculine room. It, too, had an enormous fireplace that took up most of one wall, beside it an ornate cabinet sat, topped with intricately cut, crystal decanters filled with liquor surrounded by sturdy, cut-crystal glasses that were built to be held in a man’s hand. The opposite wall was lined with bookshelves and filled with books, liberally interspersed with (most likely priceless) objects d’art. An enormous, comfortable couch faced the fireplace, covered in a rich, tan suede and flanked by two matching wide-seated armchairs. In the centre of this was a heavily carved, rectangular table, its wood buffed to a dazzling shine. Two more chairs faced his desk and there was an ancient standing globe in the corner beside the floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the garden. The highly-polished wood floors were covered with deep-pile, patterned carpets that screamed money.
As she stood there, Julia wondered for a moment what to do. She knew she was being rude but she’d had enough of working to Douglas’s schedule. She came to England on a Tuesday, Monique gone, he arrived well into the night, offered no help, no direction and then he left on Wednesday not to return for days. No phone calls, e-mails, nothing. He planned her weekend for her without asking her thoughts on the matter. And it was Sunday night, for goodness sake, who worked late on Sunday night?
Her options flitted through her mind. Sit comfortably on the couch and appear like she had all night to wait while he rudely did exactly what he wanted? Make herself a drink? Make him one? Sit in one of the two chairs that faced his enormous, aptly-described baronial desk and stare at him pointedly?
She liked the idea of him not being able to ignore her, which she knew he could and would do. Instead of sitting in a chair, she walked to the front of the desk, positioning herself right across from him and she twisted her hip slightly to rest it against the edge. She bent her head to read the notes in one hand while the long fingernails of the other tapped impatiently on the surface of the desk. She would have whistled if she could carry a tune but she thought that might be overdoing it.
“Something’s come up.” She heard Douglas say and when she looked down to him, he was leaning back in his chair watching her, his eyes inscrutable, “No. I’ll call you.”
Without saying good-bye, he replaced the receiver.
“I gather you want something?” he asked.
“Yes… you.” His right eyebrow rose arrogantly and her stomach lurched. “That is… to talk to you,” she finished.
She could have kicked herself. Not a great start.
He rose and walked around the desk.
“Would you like a drink?” he inquired.
“Yes.” She so very much wanted a drink, she wanted to shout it (but she did not).