Page 9 of Jane Deyre
“Thanks for the lift, Ward.”
“I’d prefer if you call me Mr. Rochester.”
I flinch. Is he Edwina’s son? I do the math in my head. He looks to be in his early thirties; thirty-five at most. From what I recall reading about Edwina, she’s about seventy. Maybe older, as actresses always lie about their age. It’s possible, though I don’t recall her having a son. Maybe it’s just a coincidence they share the same last name? Or he’s related in a different way?
I say his name silently in my head.Mr. Rochester.Yet another formality. It almost sounds British.
“Where to?” His words come out in two harsh syllables.
I give him my address and watch him program it into his phone’s GPS while I fumble to buckle myself in with my costumed hand.
“Seriously?” His voice rises decibels. “That’s all the way by the frigging airport. I honestly don’t have time for this shit.”
Nice to meet you too.“Oh, and by the way, my name is Jane. Jane Deyre. And if you really don’t want to take me to my place, it’s not a problem. I’m perfectly capable of taking the bus.” I unbuckle my seat belt, which is a hell of a lot easier than buckling it. One jab of the red button and the latch pops.
My mysterious driver shoots me a perturbed look. “What are you doing?”
“Duh. I’m getting out of the car.” I reach for the door handle. “I know when I’m not wanted.” That’s an understatement. I’ve spent almost my entire life being unwanted. Going from one foster home to the next. From bad to worse with each successive one.
I crank the handle and shove the heavy door open. As I stick one foot out, I feel a firm grip around my left upper arm. So firm it hurts right through my padded costume. I let out a yelp.
“You’re going nowhere, Jane Deyre. Get your big blue ass back in the car.”
“Let go of me.” I try to wriggle my arm free, but it’s futile. My strength is no match for his.
“Great! Not only do I have a kid who talks back to me, but I now have a nanny that does as well.”
I process his words. Wait! This is Adele’s father? Does this mean he’s Edwina’s godson?
“You’re Adele’s father?” I stammer, giving in to his command.
“Yeah. Lucky me.”
As gorgeous as he is, he doesn’t look anything like Adele. Whereas she is fair and golden, he is dark and swarthy with his jet-black hair, thick obsidian brows, and olive complexion. Exquisite little Adele must look like her mother, who’s undoubtedly a great beauty. My companion looks like the type who only goes after tall, lanky, supermodel blondes. I am petite, rather thin, a bit pale, and have mousy brown hair. (Confession: it’s not quite auburn.) The only thing blond about me is my fake Smurfette hair.
“So, does that make you my boss?” I ask, struggling to re-buckle my seat belt. It was hard enough the first time and now it’s even harder—virtually impossible—because of what I’ve just learned. And because of the unwanted effect this man is having on me. Beneath my suffocating, padded costume, my heart’s beating double time and I’m sweating buckets despite the air-conditioning.
The engine on, he throws the car into drive and answers my question. “Technically, I am though my godmother insists on paying you.”
So, he’s her godson, but I’m still not sure why they share the same last name. Can your aunt also be your godmother? I don’t have much experience with familial relationships.
He pulls out of the driveway, the tires crunching against the gravel. “I can’t argue with Edwina. As fragile as she is, she’s a force to be reckoned with. And technically anyone living under Thornhill’s roof is under her command. Well, except for Adele, who has a mind of her own and can get away with anything.”
I thought I hit it off well with Adele, but what her father’s just said about her makes me wonder. Am I taking on more than I can handle? A cantankerous, spoiled five-year-old? An equally, if not more, cantankerous, arrogant father? And a dragon lady superior who breathes fire from her nose?
As we wait for the towering gate to open, he casts his eyes down and sees me still struggling to fasten my seat belt. With a quick flick of his wrist, he fastens it for me. His large, deft hand brushes my abdomen and I feel a bolt of hot tingles shoot to my toes. I say nothing.
The gate swings open and we pull out of the property.
“If my daughter ever gets to be too much, let me know,” he says as we zip down the windy road. “She’s had a difficult year.”
With that he turns on the radio, playing the soundtrack to Edwina’s Oscar-winning movie,Miracle in the Rain. The eponymous opening credits song won one of the film’s many Academy Awards. I reel off the name of the composer—Charles Zazlow. And softly sing along.
He says nothing. Turning toward him, I see his eyebrow lift. I can’t help admiring his profile. His stubbled jawline strong, his chin slightly clefted, his nose manly and straight. And he has beautiful ears, perfectly shaped and just the right size. This man is a sex god. And given this crazy expensive car, he must also be a billionaire. A hedge fund manager or Silicone Valley entrepreneur.
Before I can say another word (as if anything intelligent will come out of my mouth), he turns up the sound, signaling he doesn’t want to converse further with me.
Fine.