CATHY WILLIAMS - Too Scared To Love

Roberta had seen enough of workaholics in her job to know that they rarely noticed their surroundings. They were invariably middle-aged men, their faces creased with lines of stress, who only seemed to come alive when discussing their work.

She was about to stick her suitcase into the wardrobe when a girl’s voice said from behind her, ‘So you’re the au pair grandmother insisted on importing.’

Roberta spun around. This was certainly not the child she had imagined. Long, black hair fanned out around a face that was sullen and suspicious.

‘Yes, I’m Roberta Greene and you must be Emily,’ she said, rapidly realising that this girl definitely did not while away her spare time adding female touches to the house.

‘Who else?’ She strolled into the room and sat on the bed, idly fingering the remnants of clothes to be stored away and staring openly at Roberta.

‘I’m sorry, I would have looked in on you but your housekeeper told me that you were asleep. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.’ Roberta smiled.

‘No, it’s not.’ Green eyes narrowed on her with biting dislike. ‘Not for me, anyway.’

‘Then why,’ Roberta continued in the same polite voice, ‘did you agree to having an au pair?’

‘It was you,’ Emily responded sourly, ‘or my vile relations in New Hampshire. I wanted to go to Europe with Grandmother, but she refused. I suppose she thought that the next best thing was a European au pair.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘Or maybe she just thought that once you were over here it would be more difficult for you to leave.’

‘More difficult for me to leave?’ Roberta repeated warily.

‘Sure. The last two au pairs I’ve had didn’t last a week, never mind four.’

This, Roberta thought, removing her clothes from within Emily’s reach, was not what I had expected.

‘What did you do to them?’ she asked mildly. ‘Frogs under the pillows? Buckets of water in strategic positions?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Emily’s face flushed. ‘I’m not a child!’

‘Aren’t you? Silly me, I thought you were fourteen. The interviewer at the agency must have got it wrong.’

‘Very funny,’ Emily snapped, but there was reluctant interest in her eyes now. ‘Is that a British sense of humour? I suppose you think you’re clever, do you?’

‘Not at all!’ She sighed and looked calmly at the girl. ‘Look, we’re going to be together for the next few weeks. Why don’t we call a truce and try to be friends?’

‘Friends?’ Emily sniggered. ‘I may be stuck with you, but that certainly doesn’t mean that I intend to become friendly with you.’ She stood up, and pulled her dressing-gown tightly around her angular frame.

Her little hands were clenched around her, and Roberta saw that the knuckles were white. Much as she wanted to pose a threat, Roberta could see that underneath she was little more than a defensive child. A product of her upbringing.

She felt a surprising twinge of anger directed against the child’s father. Couldn’t these sort of people see the effect that their obsession with work had on those closest to them?

Emily was still scowling at her, and she glanced at her watch. ‘Perhaps you’d better be off to bed now. We can continue this discussion in the morning.’

‘Don’t worry. That’s precisely where I intend going. I just thought that I’d come and check you out myself.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Emily.’

The sentence was scarcely out of her mouth before the girl had flounced outside, slamming the door shut behind her.

Oh, lord, Roberta thought, sitting on the bed, this is definitely a far cry from a spoilt toddler who could be appeased with ice-cream in the park and trips to the zoo.

She tried to remember what the interviewer had said about Emily. Very little, from what she could recall, apart from the barest of facts. That she was fourteen, and lived with her father and her grandmother, and that she was between schools.

And Roberta had asked very few questions. She had been so keen to get the job that she had accepted what she had been told rather than miss the opportunity to leave England by appearing too inquisitive and choosy.

For instance, where was the mother? Were Emily’s parents divorced, perhaps?

She was beginning to get a headache from thinking about it, and on the spur of the moment she hurried downstairs, tentatively making her way towards the kitchen.

Like the rest of the house, it was sumptuously fitted out. The counters were a mixture of frosted oak and multi-coloured granite, and overhead a hanging shelf supported a range of plants which trailed downwards.

She poured herself a glass of milk and settled at the round kitchen table to drink it, mulling over in her head what other surprises lay in store for her.

Perhaps a few vicious Dobermanns that the interviewer had also failed to mention? She grinned to herself, feeling decidedly better now that there was something in her stomach.

It suddenly struck her that she had not given any thought to her own problems ever since she had stepped foot into the house. Maybe a difficult teenager was just the tonic she needed, she thought. Not that Emily was difficult. Probably just unhappy. She glanced around her and thought how lonely it must be for a young girl to be surrounded by such vastness, a vacuum which surely an ageing grandmother and a father who was absent most of the time found impossible to fill.

She carefully washed her glass and was heading back to the bedroom when the front door opened. Or, rather, it was pushed open forcefully, and the sight of a man framed by the blackness outside, the biting wind blowing his black coat around him, made Roberta’s blood freeze in her veins.

She had never been confronted by a more alarming sight. The sheer height and power of the man startled her, and it wasn’t helped by the expression of aggression on his face as his eyes raked over her mercilessly.

He slammed the door behind him without taking his eyes off her and slipped off his coat to reveal a superbly tailored grey suit, which somehow did nothing to lessen the impression of savage power that had initially struck her.

Roberta remained standing where she was, glued to the spot, too terrified and fascinated by the vision in front of her to move a muscle.

Then he spoke, and it struck her that his voice somehow matched the rest of him. Deep but hard, with a hint of menace behind it.

‘Is this some kind of joke?’ he asked grimly, striding towards her.

Roberta cringed back, her eyes wide, her self-control for once deserting her. Alarm had replaced reason and her mouth was half parted in fear.

Her brain had somehow started functioning again, though, enough for her to recognise after the initial shock that this must be Emily’s father. The same dark, almost black, hair, the same peculiar shade of green eyes, but his features were harsh and arrogant. It was a striking face, one that forced you to look at it, and which, once seen, was never forgotten.

‘I asked you a question,’ he bit out. He was close to her now, towering above her. With a swift movement, he reached out and grasped her by her arm, shaking her out of her immobility. ‘Who the hell are you? Some friend of Emily’s? Is this my daughter’s idea of a sick joke?’

Anger suddenly replaced fear and Roberta’s lips compressed tightly. ‘You’re hurting me,’ she said icily, but, instead of that having the desired effect, he shook her again, sending her hair flying around her face.

He’s mad, she thought with a jolt of panic. I’ve managed to land myself a job looking after a wayward teenager with an insane father. Why else would he be behaving in such a bizarre fashion?

‘If you don’t let me go at once, I’m going to scream,’ she said unsteadily, staring up into his ferocious green eyes.