Work for Hire (16 page)

He
hadn’t
?

“Well, Miss Reznar? Please, don’t keep us waiting.”

“Err,” I squeaked, then coughed to clear my throat, desperately trying to think of a remotely plausible answer. “I’m filling in a few gaps in my notes. I want to make sure I have everything down, and I didn’t get a chance before, when you were talking, because you were speaking so fast. But, with the break, I saw an opportunity to fill in the gaps.” No way he would buy that load of manure.

“Really?” Professor Johnson’s lips thinned. White marks appeared around his mouth like cracks in broken glass. “Then please read to us some of those gap fillers.”

This should have been easy. I should repeat a sentence—any sentence—from his wordy recital of the past few minutes and he would back off. Not even Professor Johnson would stoop so low as to
personally
read from my notes, or non-notes, as the case may be. Yeah, I should just string a few plausible words together. But I recalled none. I didn’t even have my case briefs on screen to make something up.

I had no cover for my lapse, so I read what was actually on my computer and with each successive word came a hardening of Professor Johnson’s face.

“What, Miss Reznar,” he said when I finished, “does creativity have to do with commerce?”

I hung my head low.

“Nothing.”

Professor Johnson nodded, got off the table and walked back to the podium, not once looking in my direction again.

I ceased to exist as he resumed the lecture.

Strike two.

CHAPTER 10

“
W
HAT EXACTLY
, Miss Reznar, do you think you are doing?”

I stood in front of Mr. Lamont’s desk and stared at his annoyed face. His tortoiseshell glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He glowered at me like a put-upon headmaster who had to deal with yet another disruptive student, except nothing about Mr. Lamont’s office—not the surely priceless artwork or the one-of-a kind antiques—reminded me of school. Certainly not the sort of schools
I
went to.

So what exactly
was
I doing here, standing like a petulant child called to task for her misbehavior?

I shifted my weight from foot to foot and glanced down at the pink bowtie below Mr. Lamont’s chin and the matching socks on his feet.

I really wanted to snicker, but I didn’t, because I unfortunately knew the answer to my own question.

Xander’s essay. Or, more specifically, my reluctance to write it for him.

When Lisa called insisting I see Mr. Lamont
immediately,
I knew what I was going to be in for: a scolding.

“Well?” Mr. Lamont demanded and lounged back in his chair.

The leather of the massive executive chair engulfed his small frame. Napoleon must have looked the same on his throne.

I rubbed my palms against my leg, shifted from foot to foot again, and ogled the club chairs next to me. Boy, wouldn’t it be nice to just slide into one and give Mr. Lamont a piece of my mind: That it was rude of him to keep me standing while he sat, because for all his wealth and power he was no emperor, and as for Xander … Well,
I
was trying to actually teach him how to write and I didn’t exactly feel comfortable doing the work for him. And shouldn’t he—Mr. Lamont—be grateful—because writing was an essential life skill?

But the words hovered at the tip of my tongue, unsaid, and I remained standing.

“I’m tutoring your children?” I offered instead, sounding weak and pathetic.

Mr. Lamont snapped up straight in his seat and leaned over the desk.

“That’s right!” He banged his fist on the mahogany surface for emphasis. “You
should
be tutoring my children. That means helping them with their homework—none of this experimental teaching
crap
. I am
not
paying you to waste time, and Xander does
not
need another writing instructor. That’s what I pay his school tuition for. So please do
your
job, and leave others to do theirs. And now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He sat back in the chair, fixed his glasses firmly on his nose and picked up a stack of papers.

Clearly, as far as he was concerned, I was no longer in the room.

Too bad I couldn’t actually disappear just as fast as his attention had.

“D
UDE, WE HAVE ANOTHER
English essay due next week. And there’s a history paper due this Friday.”

Xander eyed me from underneath a mop of overgrown hair. He desperately needed a haircut. Actually—I scrunched my nose—he needed a shower more.

The boy smelled worse than a crowded New York City subway in August. I moved my stool away a few feet.

Xander chuckled, raised his arm and sniffed the armpit.

“I know. I stink. The gym teacher made us run three miles.”

That certainly explained why Xander was wearing a tee shirt and shorts, and why his uniform was spilling out of his schoolbag, wrinkled almost beyond repair.

I pointed to the clothes. “Shouldn’t you take those out? And would it have been too much to ask for some deodorant?”

Xander shrugged. “No time.” He pulled a tie out of the backpack and looped it around his neck. “You were coming and, like, there’s those two essays. Especially the history.”

Yes, the essays.

“But what happened to Gemma?” I didn’t want to deal with the essays, Mr. Lamont be damned. Gemma’s absence was far more interesting; I
always
met with her first. She got first dibs on my attention. The one time Xander tried to usurp the order, she threw a fit that ended only after a phone call from Monique in Paris and Xander’s sworn promise never to do it again.

“She went to a spa with
Maman
,” Xander twirled the tie around his finger. “But she said to make sure you don’t leave without seeing her ‘cause there’s stuff she has to discuss with you.”

“A spa on a school day?” And with Monique? I hadn’t realized Monique was back in New York. I almost groaned. It was never good when Monique was back in the city.

“Yeah,
Maman
is trying to make up for blowing her off the last time. Gemma’s so stupid she still falls for it. But, whatever.” Xander rolled his seat closer to mine and rested his sock-clad feet right in front of me.

“Dude!” I swatted his feet away. “They smell as bad as the rest of you. And when is Gemma planning to be back? I have my own schoolwork to complete after we’re done, you know.” And I did. I had hundreds of pages of law books to read for the following day.

“She said she’d be back by the time we’re done.”

Xander reached down for his schoolbag, pulled out a blazer, shirt, and slacks, and dumped them all over the floor. A stack of crumpled papers followed. Xander retrieved one sheet and tried to flatten it with his hand.

“Here,” he shoved the paper at me. “That’s the history assignment.”

“Great,” I took the sheet and grinned, all saccharine cheerfulness.
Oh no you don’t
, my brain screamed.
You’re not getting off that easily. Not even on Mr. Lamont’s orders.
“What have you written so far?”

Xander stared. I stared back.

“Me?” he questioned, narrowing his eyes. “I thought you spoke with Dad.”

“I sure did.” I grinned again.
The little schmuck
. Too bad for him Mr. Lamont wasn’t here. But I was, and he would play by my rules. “So, I repeat, what have you written so far?”

Xander opened his mouth, shut it and opened it again.

“Nothing … ”

“Well then,” I chirped and handed the sheet back to him. “I guess you better get started, since the assignment’s due Friday.”

Xander stared some more.

“All right.” He reluctantly retrieved the sheet. “But what do you want me to tell Dad when he asks what we did today?”

“Why, Xander,” I said as I moved my stool back in his direction, “tell him the truth—that we worked on your history paper—what else?”

W
HEN OUR HOUR WAS UP
—an hour of Xander constantly whining he didn’t know how to write a grammatical sentence and me nagging him to just write it the way he would say it—Xander had managed to complete a grand total of three sentences:
The American Revolutionary war began in 1775. It had many causes. Some of these causes were very complicated.

“Time’s up for today,” I declared as I got up from the stool and walked towards the door. I couldn’t take more of this.

Xander dropped his pen before I finished the sentence. Apparently, he too had reached his limit.

“I gotta go.” Xander hopped off his seat and headed for the door even faster than I did. “I need to get away from this school crap.”

“Wait!” I yelled after him. “What about Gemma?”

I had never been in the Lamont townhouse without one of the twins present. Where did Xander imagine I would pass the time until Gemma showed up? He wouldn’t appreciate me hanging around his room, his teenage sanctuary of privacy, without him, and I couldn’t just march into Gemma’s room, for the very same reason.

Xander paused at the top of the stair landing.

“She’ll be back soon.”

“Yeah, but where am I supposed to wait until then? In your room?”

Xander looked horrified at the prospect.

“No way … wait in the living room,” he shouted and disappeared.

“Great,” I mumbled and walked down the stairs to the empty living space. It was as stark as always. I eyed the white sofa and decided to chance it, cursing my lack of foresight in not bringing something to read with me, because there was absolutely nothing to
do
in the living room except stare at the four white walls—no television to watch or magazines to flip through. Of course, there was also the painting of Monique. The incredibly large painting seemed to grow larger with each passing minute. Her image hovered over the room like the ghost of a long-lost family relative.

Gemma, where are you?

I got off the sofa and paced the room—I couldn’t look at Monique for a second longer. I finally paused in front of a door that blended almost perfectly with one of the walls.

It had to be the door that led to Monique’s office. Julian had walked in and out of it that first day.

I had never been to the office, the hub of Monique’s—and Julian’s—photographic life in New York, and I was curious. I reached for the knob, only to discover the door opened to another staircase. I looked down the stairs.
What now?
I couldn’t very well march down the flight and into the office. What would I say if somebody saw me? And if the office were empty, what would I do then? Gawk like an idiot? Either possibility didn’t appeal, so I just stood staring. And I would have stood there for God knows how long, except for the undeniable sound of footsteps heading my way.

“Shit.” I gently closed the door behind me and lunged for the safety of the sofa, like a child about to be caught in the middle of a naughty act and desperately trying to prevent the possibility.

I plopped on the seat as the door opened again.

Julian sauntered in.

I gaped. Somehow I hadn’t entertained the possibility it might be him. But I should have. After all, Monique was back in New York—and where Monique went, Julian followed.

I gaped some more as he closed the door and walked in my direction. He had yet to notice me.

The jerk looked amazing. A white tee shirt clung to his runner’s frame and made a stark contrast with the olive of his skin. A five-o’clock shadow gave him that European flair.

Mr.
Gentleman’s Quarterly
, indeed. Why was life so unfair?

“Tekla,” Julian said, startled, when he finally saw me. “What are you doing here?”

I wished I could lounge back on the sofa and ever so gently cross my legs, like a true sophisticate—like Monique probably would. Then I could pout—no, no, smile like the Mona Lisa—and murmur,
Why, what could I possibly be doing here? I work here, remember?

But I didn’t. Instead, I stammered, “W-w-waiting. For Gemma.”

Julian grinned. His dimples came to life in their full seductive glory.

“Well, isn’t this a nice surprise.”

I gulped a little as he moved closer to me.

“I was planning to call you today, and here you are. Right out of my thoughts.”

Lucky me. He sat on the sofa.

“Actually,” Julian said as he propped his arm on the seat’s back, almost behind me, “I e-mailed you, but you never replied. I guess you didn’t get the message.”

I shifted to the sofa’s edge, away from Julian. The jerk was so conceited he didn’t even consider the possibility I might have not replied on purpose. The nerve!

I sure got your message, buddy
, I wanted to yell.
Loud and clear.

“But, anyway,” Julian said, “I’m back in the city for a few days and thought it would be nice if we could meet up somewhere, so I could make it up to you for last time.”

My mouth slacked.
Another date with Julian? What to say, what to say?
On the one hand, the answer should have been obvious: he blew me off—for Monique, no less—then didn’t even have the common courtesy to call and apologize.

But on the other, this was Julian. Gorgeous Julian. Sexy Julian. And I was so single.

“Er, I guess … ” I heard myself agreeing.

Fortunately, Gemma chose that very moment to reappear.

“Oh, my gosh, Tekla!” she chirped.

Julian and I jumped off the sofa like two teenagers caught necking.

“I’m
sooo
sorry,” she trilled, then stopped short at the sight of us, together. “Oh, hey, Julian. What are you guys doing here all alone?”

She eyed us slyly.

“Nothing,” I said and walked towards Gemma. Her hair was styled and she looked like someone had professionally done her makeup. “I was waiting for you, and Julian came up from the office. We were talking to pass the time. But since you’re here, we can go up now.”

Gemma hesitated, reluctant to turn away and leave.