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Guy must be sensitive about his scars. I get it. “Sure. He doesn’t wander about much, I take it.”
“Aside from his office and the gym, not much, no.”
“There’s a gym here?”
“And a pool, as well as an indoor track. The Master was quite an athlete in his youth. You’re welcome to use them, if you wish.”
Jesus, it must take a crew just to keep up the daily cleaning here. I’d’ve hated getting assigned this place back when I worked for the cleaning company.
The elevator comes to a stop on floor number two and opens directly into what appears to be a parlor, with an antique-looking settee upholstered in a black satiny material that has my palms itching to touch. The entire wall to the left is one giant glass curio cabinet filled with what I’m guessing are porcelain dolls. Hundreds of them. In the light through the window ahead, I can see their beady eyes staring forward through the glass, where each appears to be propped on some kind of stand.
Creepy.
As I step into the room, another cold rush of air dances over my skin, and the abandonment of this place becomes palpable.
“Mrs. Blackthorne has one of the most expensive and coveted porcelain and bisque doll collections in the world.”
“She’s been collecting them for a while, then?”
“Since she was a little girl. Please have a seat on the couch. I’ll fetch her.” With his parting words, he wanders off through a doorway, and I don’t yet bother to sit. I’ll do nothing but fidget, which will only bring my wracked-out nerves to my attention.
Eyes sca
“She’ll be out in a moment.” Rand starts toward the elevator doors, and I spin around.
“Wait. You’re leaving?”
Pausing, he turns to face me, a smile widening his lips. “The fewer triggers, the better. Besides, she tends to do much better in a one-on-one situation. Her nurse is flitting about somewhere, so you’re not entirely alone. If you need anything, there’s an intercom on the wall. One of the staff can fetch me.”
After all he’s told me about the woman, I feel like he’s leaving me with Norman Bates’s mother. “Okay.”
“You’ll be fine. She seems to be in an unusually good mood.”
That’s a relief. “Thank you, Rand.”
With a sharp nod, he resumes his exit, smiling again when the elevator doors close, but just before they seal, I catch the dramatic change in his expression that morphs from pleasant to distressed.
The phone call, maybe?
Shrugging it off, I lean into the cabinet, staring down at one particular doll that looks so lifelike, given the detail in her dark green irises, the waves of red hair cascading over her shoulder. It’s unca
“Shauna. Princess of Blarney Castle.” The voice from behind draws my attention toward an older, but no less elegant, woman than the doll in the case. Graying hair betrays the silky texture of her skin, and though she must be near the age of sixty, her lithe form and regal stance don’t give the impression she’s in much need of assistance. Only the cane she leans slightly against gives any indication of physical deficiencies. “Certainly not the most expensive one I’ve purchased, but I appreciate the fire in her eyes.”
Fire is definitely how I’d describe my mother, though her flame has dimmed over the last decade to a dullness just short of death.
“She’s beautiful.”
“She is.” The woman’s eyes dip to my outfit and back to me, the disapproval hidden behind a slight smile. “You must be my new babysitter.”
“Just … a companion.”
“Companion is just an adult word for babysitter.” Again her eyes appraise me. “You’re a local girl.”
“It’s obvious, I guess.”
“No proper teenage girl would choose to wear fishing mucks.”
Cheeks burning with embarrassment, I swallow back the catty sarcasm I’ve always reserved for the pretentious bitches I grew up with, the ones who had a problem with my clothes. The fact is, they’re Aunt Midge’s old shoes. The only pair I own that don’t have as many holes as my jeans. “I’ll be sure to get a better pair.”
“I’ll have Rand get in touch with Amy to have you outfitted for the job.”
I have no idea who Amy is, or how much of this is going to be taken out of my pay, but it sounds well beyond what I can afford. “I … um. I didn’t realize there was a specific wardrobe requirement.” My comment isn’t meant to sound snarky, but somehow that’s how it comes out. To me, anyway.
“You’ll be attending some important engagements with me. I’ll not have you looking like you crawled onto port.”
This woman doesn’t seem in need of medical assistance, or companionship, though she could benefit from some ma
“Are you going to sit there, admiring dolls all day, or make yourself useful?”
Blinking out of my thoughts, I stare back at her. “I’m sorry, I think I may have misunderstood my purpose here.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
“I just mean, I was under the impression you needed more … assistance. You seem perfectly capable to me.”
Her eyes narrow, before softening to amusement, as she hobbles across the room toward where a teapot and cups are set out on a small table. “Tea?”
Rand’s words from before come to mind, and though I hate tea as much as I do an overcooked plate of crab legs, I nod. I’m damn well determined to find some common ground with this woman, even if it leaves a bitter flavor on my tongue.
After pouring the tea into a porcelain cup that looks like an adult version of the set Aunt Midge bought me for my tenth birthday, Mrs. Blackthorne hands it off to me. It’s an amber colored tea with a slight sweet scent, and I let the warmth of the cup leach into my ice cold hands.
“What do I call you?”
Nice, I forgot to mention my name. “I’m sorry, I should’ve told you earlier. I’m Isa. Izzy, if you prefer.”
“I never bothered to ask. Isa. As in Isabelle?” She lowers herself to the seat across from me, setting the cane off to the side, and lifts the teacup to her lips.
“Isadora.”
There’s only a slight tremble in her hand, as she sips the drink and sets the teacup tittering against the saucer on the table in front of her. “Shame. I love the name Isabelle.”
Shame. The only kind thing my mother ever did for me was naming me after my grandmother.
“Have you met Lucian yet?” Her question interrupts my thoughts.
“No. Rand says I probably won’t have much contact with him.”
“It’s probably just as well. He’s not much for socializing these days.”
“He likes his privacy. I respect that.”
“Do you?” For the third time, her gaze slips to my outfit, which I’m guessing, in this alternate existence, would be like a fisherman rolling up to port in a three-piece suit back home.