Page 23 of The Christmas Nanny

I hurried forward and walked beside her. “Yes, but the bigger gyms ran me out of business. It’s hard to compete with that kind of money.”

We stopped at an open door, and Mrs. Quartermain entered, me following. “That tends to happen a lot. It’s part of the business world. Customers care more about what you’ve done for them lately. Did you fill the vending machine with their favorite water? How about favorite healthy snacks? What kind of soap is in the shower stalls? It’s a lot to manage.” She pointed at a chair in front of her large, expensive desk. “Have a seat, and we’ll get started.”

“Thank you.” The office was immaculate and feminine. “Nice office.” There were several pictures of her and U.S. Presidents, athletes, and actors. She had numerous awards on the shelves behind her. She didn’t rely on her husband's success. She made her own.

She slid a file across the desk, ignoring my compliment. I supposed the rich knew what they had; my observations didn’t matter. “Open it, and then we’ll talk.”

I opened the file, and a picture of me was paperclipped to a stack of papers. I thumbed through the pages and stopped. “How did you get these?”

“I’m rich, Jacob. I want to know everything about people who come into my life. Some have admirable reasons, others not so much.” She pointed at me. “What are your reasons?”

I was still reeling from seeing the pictures of my artwork in the file. Yeah, the rich could do whatever they wanted. “I need a job. That’s why I’m here.” I nodded at the file. “How’d you get these? The top picture is of the painting still in my basement.”

She ignored the question I was trying to ask—who had she paid to break into my house?

“What makes you think you could be a nanny to an eighteen-year-old girl?”

I leaned forward, shocked. I was expecting rugrats. “Why does an eighteen-year-old need a nanny?”

“How long have you been painting porn?” She pulled the folder away and flipped through the images. Although her eyes were difficult to read, her facial expressions were not. She liked what she saw but seemed embarrassed looking at them in front of me.

“It’s not porn.” How dare I paint people in compromising situations? Maybe I should have painted people laundering money or rich CEOs stealing money from non-profits. Better yet, I should have painted Wall Street ripping people off. Or maybe some war, showing people blown to hell.

She scrunched up her face and closed the folder. The eyes that had attracted me earlier told me to get up and leave. There was something sinister about the woman and the whole damn situation.

“You paint yourself doing sex acts with various women. Why would I want my eighteen-year-old daughter around a man who does such trashy things with his time?” She crossed the room and made a drink at a small bar in the corner. “Would you like something?”

“Probably not a good time,” I said. Yeah, the vice of drinking during the day was not as bad as my paintings. Right. To each their own, and her own was staying lit.

“You didn’t answer my question.” She finished the drink and poured another.

Though I was no longer interested in the job, things were heading in such a bizarre direction that I decided to play along to see how ridiculous it all became.

“I’m an artist,” I said. “Everyone views art differently. What you call porn, others call art. As far as me being around your daughter, she’s perfectly safe.”

“And I’m supposed to just take your word for it?” She returned to her desk, catching my eyes on her ass. She said nothing about it.

“Christine is probably a better fit for this job than I am.” I stood and started toward the door. She waited until I held the knob and then called me back. The woman loved games.

“The interview isn’t over,” she said. “Please have a seat.”

I returned to the chair but did not sit. I didn’t have to have the job and didn’t like being played. It didn’t matter how much money they had.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I am with kids? You’ve asked me nothing pertaining to the job.” She had that I’m rich, I know everything look on her face. I didn’t want to work for a person like that.

“Have a seat, Jacob. Don’t get so bent out of shape.”

“You can’t be serious,” I said. “Do you treat all your staff like this?” To hell with the job. I thought of bending her out of shape in my basement. Not such a bad idea.

“First off, you’re not one of my staff. Secondly, I treat and pay my staff very well.” She pointed at the chair as if I were a child. Now, have a seat, and let me explain.

I didn’t give a damn how hot a woman was. I wasn’t working for a bitch. It’s why I ran my own business. I remained standing.

“This is not public knowledge yet, so what I’m about to say stays in this room. You understand?”

I nodded. “Of course.”

“Charles and I are divorcing. We’ve yet to tell Samantha, our daughter.” She leaned forward, eyes wide, freezing me in place. “You’ll be more than a nanny. You’ll be my eyes and ears.”

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