The Maid's Daughter - S01 E09

Story 3 years ago

The Maid's Daughter - S01 E09

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 9

Devlyn was pushing her. He knew it. And it wasn’t his MO

at all. He’d never had problems getting women. Much of the

time, he had to shoo them away.

But Gillian did something to him. Perhaps it was because

she had known him as a boy, had witnessed and understood

most of the ins and outs of his life. The ups and downs. When

he was with her he experienced a feeling of nostalgia, of

peace.

When her lips moved beneath his, responding hesitantly,

peace was the last thing on his mind. He groaned, deepening

the kiss without conscious thought, plumbing the sweet

depths of her mouth with his tongue, sinking his teeth into

her bottom lip.

The position was awkward, both of them side by side in

hard chairs. And the door was unlocked. All these realities

flitted through his brain, even as his erection hardened painfully.

“Come to my room,” he muttered. “Please.”

Gillian didn’t say anything, perhaps because he wasn’t allowing

her to come up for air. Again and again he kissed her,

his heart pounding and his head swimming. He was reaching

the point of no return when Gillian put a hand on his chest.

“We have to stop, Devlyn. This isn’t the place.”

Even if the words were hoarse, they still had that schoolmarm

tone that for some inexplicable reason turned him on.

“That’s why we’re going to my room. Or hell, yours. I don’t

care.” He cupped one breast in his fingers. Barely a handful.

And yet the rush of tenderness that overwhelmed him only

made him want her more.

She whimpered and pressed nearer, sending a rush of excitement

like a tidal wave through his chest. Gillian wanted

him. No doubt about it. But when he put his hand under her

sweater, feeling the silk of bare skin, she shoved him away.

“Enough.”

It was sufficient to shock him back to his senses. The

sound of voices in the hall made him curse. “I’m sorry. You

make me crazy.”

She cocked her head, straightening her hair with hands that

trembled. “Why? I’ve seen pictures of the women you date…

in society columns, in magazines, online. They’re all tall and

blonde and medically enhanced in the bosom.”

“No one says bosom anymore.”

“Answer me,” she said.

It was the trace of hurt in her eyes that did him in. He

rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip, its plump curve still

damp from his kisses. “Aw, hell, Gillian. You’ve got something

none of them have.”

“What?” The vulnerability in her gaze belied the air of

confidence that he usually saw in her.

He shrugged. “You belong here. You’re part of Wolff

Mountain. And that makes me feel…” He stumbled to a halt,

not even sure what he was talking about.

At that moment, the door opened and Devlyn’s father

walked in. “I wondered where you were. How was the dinner?

Did Horatio jerk you around?”

Devlyn rose, pulling Gillian to her feet as well, hoping he

had his body under control. “He tried. Dad…this is Doreen

Carlyle’s daughter, Gillian. I’m sure you remember her. She

used to spend time here when her mom was working.”

Vincent Wolff was no fool. He stepped forward, hand outstretched.

“Glad to see you, Gillian. I suppose you know that

your mother is a valuable part of our staff.”

“Thank you, sir. It’s nice to see you again.”

Vincent’s gaze went from Gillian to his son and back

again. Devlyn was pretty sure his father realized what he had

interrupted, but he didn’t do anything to embarrass Gillian.

“Did you need something, Dad?”

Vincent nodded. “I do. We need to talk about a labor issue

I just got wind of in France. But it can wait.”

Gillian slid past Devlyn toward the door. “You two go

ahead. It’s been a long day, and I think I’ll go to my room. I

assume it’s the same one.”

Devlyn tried to communicate his displeasure, but she was

looking at his father. “Gillian, I’ll bring you up-to-date on the

school plan in the morning. Nine o’clock sharp.”

She gave him a cool stare, one designed to put him in his

place. “Yes, sir. I’ll be there.”

When the door closed, leaving Devlyn and his father alone,

Vincent Wolff eyed his son with a gaze that revealed little

of what he was thinking. Devlyn turned his back, feigning

nonchalance, and scooped up the childish note as if it were

nothing important. When he had returned it to the safe, he

faced his father once again.

“What’s the deal with Paris? I talked to the head of Human

Resources last week and everything sounded fine.”

“Forget about Paris. I want to know why that girl was here

overnight.”

Devlyn tensed, unused to being on the defensive with his

father. As a rule, they got along really well. “She wrecked her

car. Her mother was out of town. I thought she should stay

until morning in case she had any residual effects.”

“And how does that explain why I saw her suitcase a moment

ago in one of our most beautiful guest suites, the one

that happens to connect with yours?”

“I told you. I hired her. And I thought it would be more

efficient to have her on-site since I’m juggling the Atlanta

office, as well.”

“You told me you were going to move in, not her. I’ve seen

that look in your eyes,” his father said quietly. “Gillian Carlyle

is not one of your high-class, couture-clad socialites. She’s

a bright, levelheaded woman, but she’s no match for you.”

“You don’t understand.”

“So explain it to me.”

“I like her.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

“You’re well beyond needing my approval of your bed

partners, if you ever did. But I’m telling you right now. Don’t

mess with Gillian. All ethical considerations aside, your behavior

could open us up to a lawsuit since her mother is on

staff. It’s too messy. Find someone else to entertain you while

you’re here.”

“Nothing is going on.”

“I saw your face when I opened the door. You want her.

But you can’t have her.”

“That’s between Gillian and me.”

His father sat down in a chair, his face marked with fatigue.

The sudden change in expression alarmed Devlyn. “You

okay, Dad? Is it your heart?”

Vincent closed his eyes and inhaled, holding his breath

for several seconds before releasing the air.

“It’s not my heart. This chorus line of girlfriends you juggle

is never going to change until you face the truth. We need

to talk about your mother, Devvie.”

Devlyn turned to stone, his heart still beating, but every

muscle and sinew in his body rigid with emotional agony.

“No, we don’t. Not today. Not ever.”

“I swear I didn’t know, Devvie. Not until long after she

was gone. I was working crazy hours, making money like a

madman, and I missed what was happening under my nose.

I’m so sorry, son.”

Devlyn’s lungs screamed for air. His legs barely supported

him. Unwittingly, his father had resurrected Devlyn’s own

fears. Devlyn wasn’t worthy of a relationship with a decent

woman like Gillian. He was damaged goods. “It’s in the past.

Forget it.” Wheeling around like a cornered animal, he bolted

through the door.

Gillian unpacked her small suitcase and put her things

in an antique bureau lined with delicate tissue scented with

lilacs. The fragrance reminded her of the large bushes that

bloomed alongside the castle driveway in spring.

After a phone call to her mother and another one to her

closest teacher friend in Charlottesville, she found herself at

loose ends. The flat-screen TV in the armoire held little interest,

and the book she’d brought with her had hit a dull spot.

And then it came to her…she could revisit the library.

Surely it would be empty at this time of night, and she remembered

the way there, so she could hopefully go unnoticed.

She changed into soft, faded jeans and a long-sleeve cashmere

blend sweater. Wearing thick, warm socks, she padded

shoeless down the halls and through the corridors until she

came to the room where she had spent so many happy times

as a child.

The distinctive aroma of old books and pipe smoke drifted

out as she hovered on the threshold. Smiling with delight, she

slipped inside and quietly closed the door. With Devlyn, earlier,

she’d been too on edge to enjoy her surroundings. Now

she absorbed it all. Nothing had changed. With a little imagination,

she could see herself at seven or eight, curled up in the

window seat reading Winnie-the-Pooh or The Secret Garden.

She had been an excellent student, but shy and with few

friends. Most of the kids in her grade lived in populated areas

some distance from Burton. Gillian had always felt the sting

of being different. As an only child, she didn’t even have siblings

for playmates.

Tiptoeing to avoid detection, she browsed the shelves.

Someone had left a dim light burning, so there was just

enough illumination to read titles. She stroked her hand over

the leather spines. Victor and Vincent Wolff had amassed

an incredible collection over the years. Art. Biography. Philosophy.

History. A broad array of fiction. And of course,

business. But it was the juvenile books that caught her eye.

Several of them she vividly remembered reading…The Velveteen

Rabbit. Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Little Women.

On those times when Gillian had dug in her heels and refused

to go to the castle after her encounter with Devlyn,

Doreen had sometimes found a sitter, a neighbor, a friend.

But she always brought home an armful of stories to be devoured

and later returned.

Little Gillian adored books. Grown-up Gillian was equally

enchanted. She found a worn copy of Charlotte’s Web and

took it with her to a burgundy, velvet-covered sofa flanking

the empty fireplace. She would have preferred the cushioned

window seat, but she wasn’t willing to turn on anything

brighter than the small lamp with the Tiffany shade that sat

on a piecrust table at her elbow.

She loved the lamp. The mauves and greens and blues

of the dragonflies almost seemed to glow. Settling into the

cushions with a sigh of happiness, she began turning pages.

Devlyn wanted to run. He did, in fact, plunge into the

forest and stumble as fast as his legs would take him down

one of the many trails that crisscrossed the mountaintop. He

thought about climbing in his car and driving fast as hell back

to the anonymity of Atlanta where he was the boss and no

one dared cross him. Where he could hide out in his sleek,

impersonally decorated condo and forget about things he’d

worked a lifetime not to remember.

But what would he do about Gillian? Send her down the

mountain with no explanation? In the dark?

D--n it.

A rogue branch snagged his shoulder, ripping his shirt.

The pain snapped him out of his downward spiral. He leaned

against a huge tree, bent forward at the waist and bowed his

head, hands on his knees, gasping for air.

All he could think about was seeing her…seeing Gillian.

He gave himself a few minutes to regain his equilibrium, to

put the monster back in the box. Nothing had happened. Nothing

had changed. His dad might suspect, but no one knew

for sure what demons lurked inside him. His defenses were

intact. There was no reason for alarm. Slowly, he made his

way back to the house.

Finding her room empty was a shock. The door to the hallway

stood ajar a couple of inches. “Gillian?” He called her

name several times, loud enough for her to hear if she was in

the bathroom. But no answer. Where was she?

It took him thirty minutes to find her, his impatience increasing

exponentially with every tick of the clock. He knew

the huge, sprawling house from cellar to attic. His first guess

was the warm, comfy kitchen…then the twenty-seat movie

theater…finally the exercise room.

As he stood in the front foyer, grinding his teeth in frustration,

suddenly it came to him. Little Gillian Carlyle spent

many hours in one particular room. The library. He couldn’t

believe he hadn’t thought of it before now.

When he got there, out of breath from his sudden sprint,

the door was firmly shut. Was he wrong? Hoping not to startle

her if she was inside, he gently turned the knob.

Shadows filled the room. The walls were lined with shelves

that reached the ceiling. Many a time he had sailed one way

and another on the moving staircase, despite remonstrations

from his father. But less pleasant memories intruded.

This was also the room where he and his siblings and cousins

had been given their lessons. Not allowed to attend regular

schools because of the fear of kidnapping, all six children

had been instructed in this room by a series of tutors…even

in the summer. Victor and Vincent Wolff had high expectations

for their offspring.

The worst times were the sunny, warm days. The pleasant

library had become a prison. For a boy with energy to burn

and an insatiable curiosity, having to finish lessons when

the world outside beckoned had been little less than torture.

He shook off the memories and eyed his reason for coming.

Gillian was asleep on the love seat, sitting up, her legs

propped on a low coffee table. She had been reading. A book

lay open in her hands, but her head had fallen to one side, her

mouth curved in a faint smile.

Carefully, he sat down beside her and eased her into a reclining

position, her head in his lap. She murmured something

in her sleep, but didn’t wake. A bruise on her cheekbone reminded

him that she was surely still stiff and sore from the

accident.

For a fleeting second he imagined what it would have been

like had he found her dead in that car. The possibility chilled

his blood. He would never have had a chance to apologize, but

even worse than that, he could never have known the adult

Gillian, with her prickly ways and her quiet charm.

Gently, he stroked her hair, fingers skimming now and

again over the bruise. It troubled him, marring her creamy

skin and reminding him that life was fleeting. God knew he

and his family had learned that lesson the hard way. Because

of the shared tragedy, over the years the Wolff clan had grown

ever closer, a bulwark for each other against those who would

seek to destroy them.

Gillian stirred and stretched. Then she froze when she realized

where she was…and with whom. “Devlyn?”

“Never try to hide from a Wolff,” he said, teasing her. “I’ll

always find you.”