Page 2 of The Krampus' Queen
He’s not what I expected. Everything about this house puts me in mind of a Clark Gable type—tall, thin, with a pencil mustache to boot. Mr. DeVere has the form of a man who paid a lot of money for someone else to get him into shape. Either he keeps his head shaved or nearly. It’s hard to tell under his dark hat. Worst of all, instead of the pencil mustache, he went with a goatee that does little to hide the awkward way he smiles.
There’s nothing wrong with his face—in the older-lady-with-a-certain-kind-of-money circles it might even be considered handsome. But when he talks it’s like he’s wearing a mask that doesn’t fit right. It gives me goosebumps in all the wrong ways.
“I’m in the…I don’t know what room this is,” I call out to him. “There’s a fireplace. And a portrait of a woman in a pink dress.”
“Ah, yes. I’ll be there shortly,” he shouts from somewhere in this castle.
By the time he finds me, I’ve got my coat and purse on my arm and the app all ready to finalize this job. Mr. DeVere nods to me from the door’s threshold. “I trust you had a pleasant evening,” he says. The man’s dressed like he came from the opera, or whatever really rich people do on Christmas Eve.
I work my fingers under my coat so he can’t see them and pinch myself hard. “Yes,” I gasp with a smile. “Damien is a…spirited young lad.”
Mr. DeVere chuckles. “Quite.”
Not about to let him skip out on me, I wave my phone in the air. “Could you please sign me out?” He can do it on his phone, but I learned a long time ago the nicer the house, the harder I have to fight to get them to cough up the money. I’m braced for a full-on war after tonight.
“Of course.” He smiles with his lips a touch too puckered. Mr. DeVere at least pulls out his phone. Then he pries off his leather gloves and drapes them across his arm.
Who wears leather gloves inside? Or while sitting in the back of a limo?
I instinctively take a step back when he looks up at me. His smile drops, but I feel more at ease without it. “I cannot thank you enough for stepping in on such short notice. This shareholder banquet has been in the works for ages, and it’d have been a disaster if I couldn’t attend.”
“Uh, yeah, no problem.” I don’t know what any of that means.
“Sadly, Damien’s au pair had to fly home unexpectedly. Her mother slipped down a flight of stairs.”
Why the hell is he telling me this?“Oh, that’s too bad,” I say, eyeing up the exit. My phone shakes, telling me the funds will be deposited in my account in one to three business days. I ease my way toward the door, but Mr. DeVere’s still standing in the way.
Just as I try to scoot around him, he looks up. Then up more. I try to scrunch down without looking like I am. Men always get defensive when they have to lift their eyes to mine. Men like Mr. DeVere doubly so.
His smile returns and my skin tries to flee without me.
“Incidentally, is there any chance that you would be available for the next few days?”
Excuse me?“I’m sorry.”
“I know, it’s Christmas, but you’d only have to watch sweet Damien for a few hours.”
And in that time he’d probably push me out of a window. No, thank you. “I’m not sure that would be possible.” I ease my way toward the exit, cool air beckoning me to run. The second I’m out of here, that kid’s going on the blacklist with every warning on the app.
“We’re heading to Aspen for Christmas. You’d be invited along, of course. A free ski trip doesn’t fall from the sky every day.”
A single laugh slips out of me before I lock my face in. A month in Aspen, no, a year in the Alps with daily massages and three Swedish hunks in a hot tub is not worth another second with that child. “I can’t miss Christmas,” I say. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to find someone else.”
What if he won’t take no for an answer? What if he drags me back in there? Or ties me up on his plane and forces me to be his demon seed’s punching bag for a week?
Mr. DeVere smiles. “Very well. I do understand the importance of family.”
Oh, thank god.Don’t be stupid. Of course he’s not going to kidnap me. Who does that on Christmas?Feeling lighter, I face the doorway that’s pitch black. Somewhere down the winding hallways is the exit, though I might need a few hours to find it.
“Ah, Miss Amaya.” The sound of a popping cork pulls me back. Mr. DeVere fills a glass up to the top with an amber liquid. “Would you care to join me for a drink?”
I’m sorry, I have to get home to my sad, desolate apartment so I can spend Christmas waiting to head into my other job. Lots of irate people with returns to deal with after all.
He pours another glass from a bottle that gleams like a fire diamond in the light. Gold lines the label and I realize with a gulp that it’s probably real. This is easily the most expensive glass of liquor I’ll ever have in my life, and I’m just going to walk away.
“Okay, but just the one. I have to drive home,” I say.
“Of course.” He smiles. For the first time, it feels genuine. I take the glass, shocked at the heft. “Don’t tell me these are made out of diamonds.” I start to laugh.
