Daddy's Secret Deal Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by J.S. Fox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrievel systems without wirrten permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Chapter One

  ​Gen looked out through the back seat window as the driver took a gradual turn around a roundabout. She took a deep breath, exhaling on a sigh, drinking in the sight of green fields and hills, distant little gatherings of old-looking homes. It was hard not to compare the view to what she’d left behind, twenty-four hours before; more than three thousand miles away from Manhattan somehow didn’t seem like far enough for such a different landscape.

  ​“Madame?” Gen shook herself and directed her attention to the driver who’d picked her up at the train station, giving him a polite smile.

  ​“Oui?” She knew he was going to speak to her in his stilted, accented English, but figured that the sooner she got herself used to speaking French, the better.

  ​“We are close soon,” the driver--Louis--told her. “Monsieur Laurent tells me to ask if there is anything you will need before you arrive.” Gen pressed her lips together to suppress the giggle that rose up in her at the strange pronunciation; it wasn’t Louis’ fault, she reminded herself. There were just certain sounds that the French language didn’t have--and the 'th' was one of them. He’d pronounced “arrive” the way he would have the French word, closer to “ah-reeve.” You probably sound just as strange speaking French, she reminded herself. Maybe even more.

  ​“No, Louis, I am fine,” Gen replied. “It’s lovely here.” Louis smiled back at her. He was, she thought, maybe forty or forty-five, wearing a suit and well-groomed as she had come to notice that French men tended to be.

  ​“Normandy ‘as some beautiful...comment dit?” Louis paused and frowned. “You know the word ‘paysage’?”

  ​“Countryside,” Gen told him.

  ​“Oui, that,” Louis said, nodding quickly as he filed that information away. “It is very...renown for its beauty.” Gen could see why. As they’d driven from the train station, she’d seen fields with cows contentedly milling around or napping in the afternoon sun and green everywhere, punctuated by sharp, rocky outcroppings, and the little clusters of homes and neighborhoods. Compared to the steel and glass of Manhattan, the bit of France that Gen had seen was practically the sticks.

  ​She glanced out the window again and took another breath. The plane had touched down at Charles de Gaulle airport five hours before, and since then she had been in a state of near-constant movement in some way or another: first navigating the airport to get to customs and claim her baggage, then rushing through the transit system, taking the RER E train and then the Metro, to get to Gare Saint-Lazare before hurrying to the voie where the train from Paris to Rouen waited. She’d gotten off the train and met the driver who would take her the final leg of the journey to her new employer’s home, and Louis had insisted on taking her baggage and speaking to her in his flawed English in the most welcoming, polite way.

  ​It wasn’t her first time in France, but Gen felt as though her previous short trips hadn’t given her nearly as clear an idea of how beautiful everything was. Normandy--from what she had seen so far--was full of old buildings cozied up to thoroughly modern shops and restaurants, the edges between them so blurred that, somehow, they didn’t look absurd next to each other. The roads were well-maintained, but as she’d passed through a few of the villages on the train, Gen had seen cobbled streets for pedestrians. At some point, you’re going to have to drive on them, but you should probably put that off for as long as possible, Gen thought idly.

  ​She realized that they were, in fact, getting very close to her final destination: they’d reached the edge of the town, past the farms and fields but before the town proper. It was a small village, Gen thought; a comfortable place for a wealthy man to live, about twenty minutes from Rouen and two hours from Paris. She spotted signs proclaiming the butcher shop, a bakery, a greengrocer, and a few cafes and tobacco shops, and then Louis turned at a light, and Gen saw for the first time, at a distance, what she thought was likely to be her new home. The house was set behind strong, wrought-iron gates and rose up three stories, the tallest building for at least a few blocks. As the driver approached, Gen could see a small courtyard garden, with groomed hedges and some low beds with bright bunches of flowers; she recognized pansies but not the other blooms.

  ​She waited impatiently for Louis to pull in and park the car, looking over the home she would be moving into. It was--she thought--light years away from where she’d come. It had taken her less than a month to get her paperwork cleared, while at the same time managing to pare everything she owned down to the luggage she’d brought with her to France and the contents of one 5x10 storage unit in the Bronx. As Gen opened the door to the backseat, she thought about what her friends back home would say about the sudden, drastic change she’d made.

  ​Gen hadn’t told anyone, and she’d thought that everyone had, more or less, carefully avoided asking. She smiled wryly to herself as Louis opened the trunk and pulled out her luggage. Just imagine what Addison would say, or Lacy. Or, hell--what would Meghan say? Gen resisted the urge to snicker at her friends’ likely reaction to finding out that she had gone from a Board of Trustees position at a major Wall Street firm to being “the help.”

  ​“Madame? You are ready to go in?” Gen gave herself a shake and smiled at Louis.

  ​“Yes, I am,” Gen told the man, gathering up the shreds of her focus. It was just a formal meeting with her new boss and charge; there wasn’t anything to worry about. After all, her employer had already sprung for her visa and attested that she would be living in his home. He was more on the hook than she was.

  ​Her first impression of the home, as she went in, was that wealthy French people went for a very different style than wealthy Manhattanites. Where every well-to-do apartment, townhouse, or brownstone she had ever been in--including her own--had been a marvel of “modern,” no-clutter minimalism, the home she would be working -and living- in looked as though it had been mostly unchanged for a least a hundred years. Probably longer, in fact, but there was not a single thing about it looked shabby. As Louis wheeled her suitcase down the front hallway, she noticed that while the floors were not quite completely level, they were, to her informed eyes, expensive hardwood, protected by antique rugs that were impeccably clean.

  ​Gen didn’t dawdle, knowing that her new employer was waiting. You already did the phone and Skype interviews. He’s already hired you. You’ve been less nervous facing down entire boards than you are right now. But somehow the stakes seemed so much higher than anything in any firm she’d worked for or with ever had. It was ridiculous, and she knew it, but Gen felt as if she’d been treading water for weeks, and the life preserver someone had miraculously thrown her might somehow miss her completely, despite her desperate flailing reach for it.

  ​“Monsieur Laurent will see you in here,” Louis informed her, and Gen nodded, following the direction he’d indicated. She saw him bringing her luggage in another direction, but decided to worry about her possessions later. She opened the door that the driver had indicated and stepped through it.

  ​Gen’s first look at her new boss sent a jolt through her; even though they had done a video chat as part of the interview process, it hadn’t given her a full idea of what he would look like in person. Olivier Laurent was somewhere between 5’8” and 5’10” by Gen’s estimate, with dark blond hair, pulled back into a short, haphazard ponytail. He had large, dark brown eyes that might have looked almost puppyish in a smiling face, and full lips which
were--at the moment--held in a neutral position, not smiling or frowning. As she came into the room and closed the door behind her, the expression on his face shifted, changing into a kind of polite interest, complete with a charming smile.

  ​“Miss Coltrane,” Laurent said, inclining his head slightly towards her. “It is good to meet you finally.” He spoke with the same kind of accent that Louis had, the Is and Es a little too sharp and short, the R sound in her name rolled slightly.

  ​“Yes, it’s good to finally arrive,” Gen agreed. “And please--call me Genevieve, or Gen.”

  ​“Genevieve--ah, Genvieve, of course," Olivier Laurent said, pronouncing her name the French way -“jawn-vee-ehve”- after puzzling over her American pronunciation for a moment. “Please, will you sit?” Gen nodded and moved to the chair that Olivier indicated.

  ​She took a few moments as she did to complete her picture of the man: he was dressed impeccably, as Gen was coming to expect from French men, in fitted jeans, a dress shirt, a vest, and leather house shoes. Gen almost--almost--felt underdressed in comparison, though she’d stolen a moment between clearing customs and getting onto the RER to change out of the clothes she’d worn on the plane and into something clean and presentable.

  ​“So, I guess that we should go over ground rules?” Gen said, clearing her throat slightly as she sat down, taking a deep breath as surreptitiously as possible. It was technically the first job of the type that she had ever taken formally; while she’d done some babysitting and tutoring in high school and college for extra money, she’d never been a full-time caregiver for a child. There was a suspicion in the back of her mind that if Olivier ever realized how little experience she had in the field, she would be on a one-way flight back to New York, with nothing to show for herself.

  ​“Ah oui! Yes, we should,” Olivier agreed. “I believe I said to you before that there are some...particular, is that the word?” Gen nodded. “There are some particular rules which I must ask for you to obey without questions.”

  ​“I’m certainly prepared to obey any rules that are reasonable,” Gen told the man, smiling politely. But her heart had started to beat a bit faster at the implication. What kind of rules could bring about that sort of disclaimer?

  ​“First I must tell you that you are not permitted into my office, which is the room next to this one,” Olivier said. “I am very--’ow do you say--private about my work.” Gen nodded again.

  ​“I think that seems reasonable,” she said, keeping her polite, interested expression on her face.

  ​“Also, there are times in the day when I will need you to keep my daughter, Mathilde, away from home,” Olivier explained. “I will mark them on the calendar for you.”

  ​“I suppose this is related to your business?” Gen resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest, knowing it would come across badly.

  ​“Yes, I must sometimes have Mathilde away so that I can...conduct my business, here at home,” Olivier agreed. Gen knew that she would eventually get used to hearing the h sounds omitted from words, but it still sounded strange to her ear, especially when Olivier sometimes managed to include them.

  ​“I can understand that. Even the most well-behaved child would be a distraction when you’re trying to conduct business,” Gen agreed.

  ​From there, Olivier outlined a list of the much more conventional rules regarding Mathilde’s bedtime and acceptable snacks she could have when under Gen’s care; the sort of things that Gen had expected to hear from her new employer, and all of them--from what she could tell--utterly reasonable. Even thinking back on the forbidden office and the few other rooms in the house she was not supposed to go into at any time, and the rules regarding keeping Mathilde away from home during certain times that Olivier would be working, Gen told herself that it wasn’t that unusual.

  ​“I believe you will want to see your room now, yes?” Olivier rose to his feet and Gen half-scrambled to rise as well, ready to be done with the harried rush of getting through the formalities after a full day’s travel and settle into her new life.

  ​“Yes, thank you,” she said. “I’m looking forward to settling in.”

  Chapter Two

  ​Olivier tried not to look too closely at his daughter’s new au pair as she rose to her feet in response to his question about whether she wanted to see her room. He had certainly noticed that she was attractive in their brief conversations before the initial meeting--but in person, of course, things were magnified, more obvious. She was slightly shorter in person than he had pictured her, with dark hair smoothed back into a sleek bun, and an oval-shaped face with big, hazel-colored eyes. Dressed simply but elegantly in a black dress, blazer, tights, and boots, with a few touches of silver accessories, he noticed that her body was curvy, her breasts full and her hips just rounded enough to be enticing. If he weren’t careful, he knew, his gaze would come to them again and again. The hemline of her dress fell to maybe 5 centimeters above her knee, the perfect professional length, and Olivier noted that her boots were good quality.

  ​“Ah! I am forgetting,” Olivier exclaimed. “I must ask that you do not normally wear your outside shoes in the house--beyond the front, you understand?”

  ​“Oh! Yes, certainly, I can understand that,” Gen said, flashing a quick, comprehending smile that sent a little frisson of something that Olivier couldn’t quite define or name through him. He led Genevieve through the door to the study and watched as she took the initiative to remove her shoes in the corridor leading from the front door to the inside of the house proper, depositing them with the others on the shelf provided for that purpose. Olivier sternly made himself look away as soon as he noticed the way her movements made her full, lush ass more obvious.

  ​“I will show you the house, and where you can and cannot go,” Olivier said once Genevieve was at his side once more.

  ​“I would appreciate that,” Genevieve said, nodding slightly.

  ​He had chosen the woman out of dozens of profiles on the nanny and au pair matching site for a few important reasons; and as Olivier led Genevieve towards the kitchen, he reflected on the decision he’d made. Genevieve had been a standout candidate just on the basis of her degrees and work history--a woman who had never been an au pair before was not everyone’s idea of a good candidate, but for Olivier, a woman who had experience in the world of finance and business was a good match. She was obviously intelligent, and she’d managed to hold her own in the language test the site supplied; while she wasn’t so fluent as to be mistaken for a native, she’d be able to manage most of what he needed her to do on behalf of his daughter while he was busy with other affairs.

  ​“My daughter is excited to meet you,” Olivier remarked as they stepped into the kitchen together.

  ​“I’m excited to meet her, too!” Genevieve said with a warmer smile then she’d used so far in their interaction.

  ​“Mathilde is with friends right now, but she should return home soon,” Olivier explained. “As someone living here, I will say that you can…comme est-ce qu’on dit…put in your preferences for the groceries delivery.” He took out his phone and opened up the app for the grocery store he preferred. “I will be giving you a phone to use, with the application on it. I only ask that you do not abuse the privilege, of course.” He smiled slightly.

  ​“Oh--my needs are not very exotic,” Genevieve promised him. Olivier chuckled.

  ​“They can be a little exotic, and should be--I hope that in France we understand a desire for good things to eat and drink.” Genevieve half-chuckled in response to his comment and Olivier set his phone aside once more to show the new au pair what he kept on hand in the pantry and fridge, what would be available to her as a matter of course.

  ​There was an element, Olivier knew, of showing off to the new employee as he guided her through his home; he had not always been wealthy, and he still hadn’t quite shaken the desire to impress others with his success. “Here we have your room, just at the end
of this hall,” he told her, gesturing ahead as he led the woman. He knew that au pair quarters tended to be spartan —like that of most live-in staff— but at the risk of seeming too generous, he had made his new employee’s living suite almost as luxurious as his own, merely because he could.

  ​“This...is kind of…” He saw Genevieve’s eyes widen slightly before she contained her reaction to the splendor of the two-person bed, one of the more expensive models that IKEA offered, along with a sitting area within her room complete with an L-shaped sofa and a moderately-sized Smart TV. She had her own bathroom with both a shower and bath, the latter of which was more than deep enough for a grown woman to relax in. Before Olivier had even chosen an au pair for his daughter’s needs, he’d wanted to see to it that whoever he hired would be suitably impressed, not to mention enthusiastic, about their living quarters.

  ​“I was told by others that it is too much, but I do not care,” Olivier said with a shrug, enjoying the effect he’d had on the woman. As she looked around her new living space, he felt a little trickle of heat starting up in his veins, the familiar tingle that came with the beginning steps of seducing a woman. Mais tu dois la laisser tranquille, he reminded himself firmly. It would not do to have any kind of feeling outside of professional gratitude and interest towards the woman helping to care for his child. Indeed, she was a beautiful woman and the kind that — in other days— he might have approached in a bar, offering to show her some of the finest wines available, coaxing her into confidence and then, a little later, moving in for the first kiss. She would, Olivier thought, be precisely the kind of woman who would play coy, almost cold, right up until that moment: and then, as soon as their lips met, she would melt into him, losing the almost-hauteur of maintaining distance. It would be only too easy from there —if he wanted— to get her to burn all over, to make her breaths come quick and sharp, get her pulse fluttering at her throat, coaxing half-mewling moans from her lips as his hands went to work on her, teasing and caressing. Non! C’est interdit. Laisse-le tomber, he commanded himself firmly. There was no sense in letting his mind drift along those thoughts.