The Nanny And Her Scrooge

Defeat spiraled through her; he didn’t even want to know how the job had affected her.

He checked his side mirror, then changed lanes, expertly maneuvering around another slower car. “I read your file this afternoon,” he said. “You apparently had a knack for making people believe.”

“Maybe I wanted to. A little Christmas gift to myself this year.”

His gaze flitted over her, but he said nothing. For a mile, they rode in silence.

Nicki was extraordinarily conscious of him. The scent clinging to his cashmere coat. The leather gloves he’d laid between them on the seat. The way he sat so straight, so erect, as he drove.

“Listen,” he said, “I live over there, off of Willow. Do you object to me stopping at home first and changing my clothes?” Nicki knew he was referring to the posh section of Winter Park. “I have to make an obligatory appearance at the Yuletide Gala tonight, at the Ritz Carlton, and I’m already late. I could drop you off on the way.”

Even though she didn’t want to spend any more time with him than necessary, Nicki was curious about where he lived. Besides, there was no sense in going home to an empty apartment any sooner than she had to. “That’s fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“As you said, Mr. Gillette, you’re the one doing me the favor.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “I imagine your insolence didn’t put you in good favor with the elves. That’s probably the real reason you didn’t want to join their ranks.”

“Mr. Gillette—”

“Excuse me,” he cut in, as he smoothly pulled off the expressway and into the right-hand lane. “There is an unwritten rule…”

“Yes?”

“Anyone I invite into my home has to call me Jared.”

Nicki’s breath caught behind her breastbone. “You haven’t invited me into your home.”

He braked at the stop sign, and turned his head to look at traffic before he looked at her. “No. But I’m going to.”

The slow smile that inched onto Jared’s face sapped the remainder of Nicki’s waning strength.

Jared’s palatial home occupied at least a quarter of the block. Nicki glimpsed the front of the sprawling brick mansion when he came in off a side street and passed through the wrought-iron gates. It struck her as odd that the grounds had been exquisitely decorated for Christmas; for some reason, she didn’t think he’d bother.

Garland, with red bows, trimmed the iron fencing. A huge wreath hung over the four-car garage, and flickering candles illuminated every window in the house.

“My,” she murmured, “this is Christmas-card perfect.”

“And none of my doing,” he pointed out darkly. “It’s just another illusion I have to live with, and I promise you it’s quite unlike what you experienced as a Santa Claus in Toyland.”

Nicki didn’t have time to consider the telling statement because he led her inside through the back door and immediately steered her into the family room. She gaped up at the cathedral ceiling, and the second-floor balcony. Dwarfed by the proportions, she offhandedly guessed this one room was larger than her mother’s entire town house.

“My folks built this house, and the floor plan’s a little dated, a little cut up. But the kitchen’s through the butler’s pantry, in there,” he said. “Help yourself.”

Nicki followed the direction he indicated. She waved off his suggestion, figuring she’d get lost if she tried to negotiate one more room.

“Suit yourself,” he said, peeling off his overcoat to throw it over the back of a chair. He hit the light switch, illuminating the fireplace. “Make yourself comfortable, I’ll only be a minute.”

She nodded, “Thank you.”

He took a couple of steps, then paused, fiddling with his cuff links to remove them.

Nicki glanced over at him, transfixed. There was something about a man and his cuff links…the way his fingers worked at removing them, the way he turned back the cuffs, covering the thick bones of his wrists and exposing the dark hairs across the backs of his hands. She looked up, startled to realize he’d caught her watching. An odd, almost bemused expression shadowed his gaze. He slipped the cuff links into his pants’ pocket.

“If you’re still cold, I’ve got an afghan.” He pulled a chenille throw off the leather couch.

Nicki rubbed her arms and tried to protest that she’d be fine, but for an instant she was afraid this unexpected chill of awareness didn’t have a thing to do with the cold. She was acutely conscious she was in his home, alone, with him. The man-woman thing wrought unexpected havoc with her senses.

He shook open the throw for her. “Here. I can see you don’t know how to dress for the weather.” Instead of offering it to her, he moved behind her to slide the afghan over her shoulders.

Heat seeped through the afghan, in all the places his hands had touched. Her heart yammered.

“Actually,” she said, accepting the ends from him, “these are my Florida clothes.”

“Florida?”

“Oh, long story,” she said dismissively, pulling the afghan tighter around her. “And not a particularly interesting one, not when you’re already late.”

He backed away, never taking his eyes off her. “I’ll just be a few minutes. As I said, make yourself comfortable.”

Nicki nodded and turned back into the room. She could hear his distinctive tread behind her on the carpet. When she knew he was out of the room, she walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, and tried to not shiver. Garden lights illuminated a winding path off the deck. At the end of the path was a gazebo where a huge Christmas tree glittered beneath a veil of carefully spaced colored lights.

It was obvious that everything had been professionally decorated. She chuckled, in spite of herself, wondering how it must be to be Jared Gillette and have everyone provide you with a Christmas.

Turning from the window, she nearly bumped into the grand piano.

“Wow…” she whispered, trailing a hand over the gold ribbon and greenery on the top. Interspersed in the arrangement were framed photos of a wide-eyed cherub with a pouty mouth, a flirtatious brow, and a riot of long, blond hair. Nicki reached over to carefully extract a photo. This child was a darling…and she’d seen her fair share of kids the past few weeks.

She didn’t think Jared was married. Maybe a niece? Cousin? Family friend, or godchild?

Carefully placing the photo back, she strolled to the other side of the room and tarried at the fireplace mantel. Black-and-white snapshots of a younger Jared and his friends scattered the length. All were framed, many were inscribed.

She sniffed. Obviously there was a different side of Jared Gillette than she was familiar with. These snapshots made the man actually seem human.

She was about to turn away when something caught her eye. A tiny pair of baby shoes, obviously worn, the white leather creased, the toes scuffed and the laces a bit dirty. She couldn’t help it, she picked up one shoe and found an inscription in black felt-tip marker on the sole. J.G.’s 1st pair of shoes.

Jared Gillette was actually this little once? He hadn’t always been a larger-than-life tyrant?

Smiling to herself, Nicki straightened the loops on one of the bows and carefully set the shoe aside. She wandered further down the mantel and discovered a grass-stained baseball encased in a plastic cover. 1st Home Run, Little League, Jared G., Age 11. Next to it, a wooden car along with a tiny plastic trophy, also housed in a plastic case, were identified with a gold plate. 1st Place, Pinewood Derby, Winter Park Cub Scout Pack #47. Further along, there was a brown-speckled rock, an autographed Indiana University baseball schedule, and a silver baby spoon.

Nicki stood back, surveying the collection of odds and ends. Jared Gillette, she thought, this is your life. You may be a hard-nosed businessman, but you definitely have another, much more curious, dimension.

Next to the mantel were two exquisitely framed water-colors. She stood for a moment, studying them.

“Like them?” Jared asked, coming up behind her. “This was my mom’s retreat and she had only her favorite family things in here. I keep telling myself I should dump the personal stuff and stick to only a few good pieces of art.”

Nicki whirled, ashamed to be caught looking. “They’re…” The words died in her throat. The image he presented took her breath away. He was wearing a midnight-black tuxedo. He’d replaced the scarlet business tie with a crisp, formal black bow tie. His pleated dress shirt sported black studs for buttons and there were heavy gold links at his shirt cuffs. He fiddled with one link, adjusting it beneath his jacket sleeve.