Playboy Prince, Single Dad (Love Is Priceless Book 4) Page 6

  I want to believe her. “I’ll try.”

  “Very good,” Anne says gently. “Then I will take you to meet the little miss. She is very eager to get to know her new tutor.”

  “You’re taking me to the daughter?” This is new for me. “Shouldn’t I meet the father first? Parents usually want to meet with me before allowing me to meet their children. It’s standard.”

  “You come very highly recommended,” Anne says. “The master is confident that you are the right tutor for his daughter. Is he wrong?”

  “I—I don’t believe so, no.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Anne gestures to a wide marble staircase that leads to the second floor, and I follow her up.

  It feels like being inside a castle. Every time we turn a corner, I expect to see a medieval princess come drifting down the hall, arrayed in silk and satin. I’m constantly surprised by signs that I’m in a modern home, things like framed photographs on the walls or a glimpse of a computer through an open door. They seem as if they don’t belong here.

  We reach the end of a long hall, and Anne knocks on a half-open door. In response, I hear a pattering of little feet, and then the door is pulled open. A gorgeous, blond little girl in a blue pastel dress stands on the other side, looking up at me with interest.

  Anne speaks to her briefly in a language I recognize as German. The girl responds. Children speaking languages I don’t know always amazes me, even though I know it’s no more a sign of genius than me speaking English at their age was. It just seems so impossible, and as if it would require such brilliance.

  The girl strides forward confidently and wraps her arms around my waist in the kind of unselfconscious hug that only children are capable of. I return it carefully.

  “Very good,” Anne says, in English now. “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.” And she bows herself out of the room without another word.

  Perfect. Now I’m alone with this small child, and we don’t even speak the same language. So much for an introduction!

  But then the girl smiles up at me, her face all aglow, and says, “Library.”

  I look around and notice that the room we’re standing in is lined with books. “Library,” I agree. I point to her. “Yours?”

  She points to herself and shakes her head. “Daddy.”

  “Daddy’s library,” I say, musing. I walk to the shelf and pull out a book at random. It’s a history of Poland, of all things. Daddy must be a voracious reader.

  The little girl takes me by the hand and leads me around the room from bookshelf to bookshelf, pointing out one book after another. There’s not much we can say to each other, but I pick up on the vibe of what she’s trying to communicate all the same. The books she shows me are the ones with faded covers and dog-eared pages, and I know these must be her father’s favorites.

  I know something else, too, I realize as she stops to point up at a painting on the wall. This is a little girl who absolutely adores her father. The books she’s showing me are all in English, and her grasp on the language is nowhere near strong enough to be able to read them. She loves these books because her father loves them, and because they remind her of a father who loves her. It’s deeply touching.

  I move to the desk in the center of the room and set down my shoulder bag. The little girl comes over with interest and watches as I pull out a small stack of children’s books and a couple of journals. She touches the cover of each with a kind of excited curiosity.

  “Are you excited to learn some English?” I ask her.

  “Learn,” she repeats solemnly, nodding. “English. Yes.”

  I sit down at the desk and point to the chair across from me, but my new student is clearly too excited to sit still. She takes off again, running to the tallest bookshelf. Here she has to climb on a stepladder to fetch down the book she wants. She handles it gingerly. I can see why right away. It’s old, but in much better condition than most of the others she’s shown me. She places it on the desk before me.

  I flip the cover open. It’s a first edition Faulkner. I’m almost afraid to touch it; it must be worth more than my parents’ house.

  “Wow,” I say.

  The girl nods, her expression deeply serious. “Wow.”

  “This is your dad’s favorite, I’ll bet.”

  She nods again.

  “But I’ll bet,” I say, speaking slowly, testing her comprehension with this more complex idea, “that I know something your dad loves even more than this book.”

  I can see her thinking about what I’ve said. I see the moment when she understands—not as quickly as a fluent speaker would have, but more quickly than I expected.

  She laughs. “No!”

  “Yes!” I insist.

  She shakes her head, still laughing, blond curls bouncing merrily.

  In response I tap her on the nose. “You! He loves you most of all!”

  The girl’s laughter bubbles over into a full-blown guffaw at that. She nods vigorously.

  The library door opens and Anne comes back in. She takes in the scene—me sitting at the table and smiling and my new little client laughing fit to burst.

  “I see we’re getting along!” she says.

  “Yes,” I agree. “I think we’re going to be good friends.”

  “Wonderful,” she says, clapping her hands together once. “Mr. von Meyer is ready to see you now.”

  She translates her words into German for the girl, and I realize I’m going to have to put a stop to that. During tutoring hours, at least, I like my students to communicate in English as much as possible. Relying on a translator makes it harder for them to pick up the language in the long run.

  But now isn’t the time to protest. The little girl is bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, clearly over the moon at the prospect of introducing me to her father, the owner of all the priceless treasures in this magnificent library. I get to my feet and straighten my clothes anxiously, intent on making a good impression.

  You’re the best tutor on Dolores’ books, I remind myself. She’s counting on you to represent the agency. Whoever this man is, he’s clearly used to having the best of everything, and he’s not likely to settle for less than perfection.

  It’s definitely intimidating.

  At least I’ve already won the daughter over. I’m sure that will be a point in my favor. She runs to my side now and takes my hand, pulling me toward the door, just as excited to show me off to her father as she was to show her father’s prized books to me.

  I allow myself to be taken along. I want this man to see that his daughter likes me. I want his first impression of the tutor he sent all the way to America for to be that she’s made his daughter happy. I know from experience that when a kid is unhappy, it becomes much easier for a parent to find fault with a tutor, and that’s not how I want to start things here.

  The door to the library opens. I step forward, extending my hand to greet my new boss—

  And stop in my tracks.

  I recognize him immediately, even though it’s been months. I’d know that sandy hair and those green eyes anywhere.

  Tomas.

  Chapter 7

  Emma

  Mr. von Meyer is Tomas?

  The client who brought me halfway around the world to tutor his daughter is the man I met in the park, the man who made me feel like no man ever has before, the man who bought me coffee and called me an artist.

  The man who ghosted me.

  I feel shaky and shocked, as if the floor had suddenly dropped out from under me, allowing me to fall several feet before catching me again. I want nothing more than to feel my way back to the desk chair and sit down to recover, but I know I can’t do that. This man is my new boss. I have to hold it together.

  My God. Tomas is my boss.

  I came here, at least in part, to forget about what happened with Tomas. To forget about all the anxiety it stirred up for me about my future. I came here to do something proactive and positi
ve that would distract me from stressing about whether or not I would ever fall in love. And now here he is, right in front of me.

  Of course, the little girl clinging to my hand shows no emotion at the sight of him other than excitement. She squeals, drops my hand, and runs into her father’s arms.

  “Lara!”

  He stoops to pick her up and swings her around once before setting her back on the ground. She wraps her arms around his waist. I think back to the picture I saw of the little ballerina. How could I not have realized this was the same child? Of course, her distinctive curls were pulled back into a tight bun, and she was younger in those pictures—kids grow so fast at this age. But looking at her now, with the knowledge of who her father is, it seems impossible that I could have missed it.

  Lara says something in German, and her father responds. Somewhere in the back of my head, I’m thinking, no wonder this girl doesn’t know much English. Everyone always talks to her in German! But I can’t focus on that. It’s all I can do to focus on standing up.

  Anne turns to me. “She thanked her father for bringing her such a wonderful tutor.”

  “Oh. Good,” I say stupidly. It’s exactly what I wanted—to make a good impression on the daughter—so why don’t I feel more relieved?

  Oh, who am I kidding? I know exactly why.

  Anne gives me a funny look. “You’re very pale,” she notes. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “No, nothing’s wrong—”

  “Everything’s fine, Anne,” Tomas says.

  I feel my knees wobble. I forgot about the sound of his voice, buttery and smooth. It’s powerful. With a voice like that, he could sell ice at the North Pole. What chance have I got of resisting him?

  “Lara’s happy,” he continues, “so what could be wrong? I’m sure our new tutor will be a great success.”

  And then—had I thought I couldn’t be more shocked—he winks at me.

  What does that mean? I feel dizzy.

  “Would you please take Lara out for a walk in the garden?” Tomas asks Anne. “It’s such a beautiful day. She should get some fresh air.”

  “No!” Lara protests, wrapping her arms more tightly around her father.

  He speaks to her in German. Then he glances at me. “The butterflies are out, I told her.”

  I nod helplessly. This is my window—the perfect opportunity to tell him that he needs to speak to his daughter in English to support her learning. But I can’t even open my mouth. I’m failing already.

  Lara waves at me as her housekeeper leads her through the door. I lift a hand in response, still feeling shell-shocked. The door closes behind them, and Tomas and I are alone together.

  I feel like my stomach is on a roller coaster and the rest of me is still on the ground.

  “Why don’t we sit?” Tomas asks genially, as if nothing strange at all is happening here.

  He gestures to the desk, still covered with my tutoring supplies. Numbly, I make my way back over to the chair and settle into it. It brings me no relief, except that I no longer have to worry about falling over. I fumble in my bag and pull out a bottle of water.

  “Oh, I’ve been awfully rude,” Tomas says. “I should have offered you some refreshment. Are you thirsty?”

  “I—” I look at my water bottle.

  “No, no, you must have something fresh. Water? Or would you rather have tea or coffee? Or a soft drink?”

  “Water’s fine,” I manage.

  Tomas presses a few buttons on a smartphone and slips it into the pocket of his jacket. “It’ll be here momentarily.”

  I nod.

  A moment later the library door swings open and a butler comes in with a tray holding two glasses of ice water and a silver bowl of lemon wedges. He places this on the table between us and leaves. Tomas picks up a lemon wedge with a tiny pair of tongs and drops it into his glass.

  I take a deep breath. I need to get over my feelings of rejection. I don’t think I would have taken this job if I’d known it was him, but now I’m here, and I need to make the best of it. If nothing else, I owe it to Dolores, who believes in me and is counting on me.

  Tomas looks up. “I had no idea it would be you,” he says.

  Something loosens inside me. I had assumed he had the upper hand on me, that he had brought me here on purpose. He knew I was a tutor, after all. But it’s possible he’s feeling just as wrong-footed as I am by the whole thing.

  “I had no idea it would be you either,” I say, a nervous laugh escaping me.

  “A pretty impressive coincidence,” he says. “Hard to believe.”

  “Why did you send to America for a tutor?” I ask. I had assumed, on seeing him, that he was looking for me specifically. I did tell him what I did for a living. But if he didn’t intend that I be the one to tutor his daughter, why bother hiring an American at all?

  “We often travel to New York on business,” Tomas says. “I wanted her to learn American English. I could have chosen a British tutor, I suppose, but I thought the best way to learn to communicate in New York would be from a New Yorker.” He laughs a little. “I completely forgot you worked as a tutor there.”

  Of course he forgot. Just like he forgot to return my texts.

  I realize with a sudden start that I’m angry at him. All this time I’ve been feeling rejected and wondering what I did wrong, but that’s not right. He’s the one who did something wrong. He’s the one who gave me his number and then ghosted me when I tried to get in touch with him. He’s the jerk. Not me.

  And now I work for him.

  I have to let it go.

  “Lemon?” Tomas asks me, clearly unaware of the cavalcade of emotions breaking over me.

  I nod.

  He picks up a lemon wedge with the tongs and drops it in my water glass, swirling it around a few times before handing it to me.

  I reach out for it, and our fingers touch.

  It’s just a moment, but it’s electrifying. Everything I’ve been trying to forget comes rushing back to me. The way I felt when I met him for the first time. The charge that seemed to exist between us as we sat across from each other at the coffee shop. The moment when I seriously considered asking him up to my apartment, against my better judgment, just because I was so painfully attracted to him. I’ve spent months trying to put it all behind me, to forget how it felt, and in an instant all my work is undone.

  He drops his hand. I don’t know if he felt something too, or if I just let my emotions show too clearly on my face and scared him off. It’s impossible to tell.

  “I think it’s important that we keep our relationship professional,” he says. “For Lara’s sake. I don’t want to make things complicated for her.”

  “I agree,” I say, even though I’m not completely sure I do.

  He’s right that it’s best for his daughter if we keep our distance, of course. She needs to be able to trust that her tutor is focused on her and her alone. But I can’t deny the spark of attraction I feel toward Tomas. And I’m going to be seeing him every day, working in his house. I’m in a foreign country. He’s the only person I know here. How am I supposed to get any distance? How am I supposed to focus on anything but the attraction I feel?

  And the way he’s looking at me! The bright green of his eyes would have been captivating even in a photograph, but in reality it’s like I’m looking directly through to the heart of him. He searches my gaze as if he’s trying to understand something, as if there’s a mystery here he wants to solve. It makes me feel unique and fascinating, as if he’s never seen anything like me before. Part of me wants to tell him everything he wants to know, to spill my secrets to him, and another part of me wants to play things close to the vest and tease out our—

  Our what? We’re not going to have a relationship. I work for him. Get it through your head, Emma.

  He seems to have the same thought at the same moment, because he breaks off his eye contact with me and looks down.

  “So,” he s
ays, “I trust your accommodations are to your liking?”

  I nod. “Very nice. Thank you. For the room and for paying for the flight.”

  “Of course,” he says. “I know you came a long way to take this job. It was the least I could do.” He reaches out, as if to cover my hand with his, then seems to think better of it and pulls back. “Anne will be in touch with you regarding the tutoring schedule,” he says. “I’d like you to be able to meet with Lara every weekday afternoon. Will that do?”

  “That’s fine.” For the price he’s paying, he could ask me for twice as much time and I’d still be earning more than I ever have. And I’ll have the weekends completely free to explore Luxembourg and take in the beauty of my new surroundings. My only hesitation is that this means I’ll probably have to see Tomas every day—but I need to set aside my personal hang-ups if I’m going to do this job.

  “I’ll take your phone number, if that’s all right,” Tomas says.

  “You have my phone number,” I blurt.

  He looks up at me in mild surprise.

  My face grows hot. He hasn’t acknowledged the awkward history between us, and I don’t want to be the one to bring it up. But are we really going to sit here and act like he doesn’t know what my phone number is?

  I rip a piece of paper out of one of the notebooks on the table, scribble my cell phone number on it, and push it toward him. Tomas nods, folds it up, and sticks it in his pocket beside his phone.

  “Very good. Anne will contact you when we’ve decided on a schedule.”

  “Okay,” I mumble, humiliated.

  He gets to his feet. “I’ll have Karl bring the car around for you,” he says. “It was nice to see you again. I know Lara is very happy to have met you.”

  “She’s lovely,” I manage.

  He nods, a smile playing about his lips, and extends his hand to shake. Part of me wants to slap it away, and another part of me wants to embrace him. I manage the handshake without incident.