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The doorbell rings. My soft footfalls on the imported marble floor echo in the high-ceilinged foyer. I know it's the newly hired nanny, and wonder if she'll be like Grace, who recently up and left for reasons unknown. One could chalk it up to the three spoiled, obnoxious brats bearing the same genetic line as their pompous parents. However, I know the truth... but I won't tell. In the last five years working as head of the Scotts' house (more like mansion or estate) staff, I have been on the receiving end of many an overheard conversation, and on separate occasions have even witnessed Peter and Charlene Scott, having sex with other people. Most recently, he screwed the children's piano teacher, and she cuckolded Peter with his business partner.
Charlene is an international import/export magnate's heiress, and Peter is slowly rising to take over the business from its ageing founders. Since they are inundated with more money than they know what to do with, Charlene takes it upon herself to chair several charitable organizations and donate somewhat obscene sums of money. For this family, appearances are not only deceptive, but entirely false. The fact that I know the extent of the drama, secrets and web of lies in this household makes my position all the more vital. Needless to say, I would have blackmail fodder enough to retire for the rest of my life. Though until that day comes, I will allow myself to be entertained by their individual and collective treacheries.
Now I open the door for the Scotts' new nanny: a young, firm brunette beauty with startling, glacier blue eyes. Her salaciously ample body is a perfectly hourglass shape, which she accents with a casual pair of jeans and a black top. Judging by the firmness of her naturally large breasts, straining against the buttons of her shirt, I would assume she is in her mid-twenties at the most. The man in me threatens to rouse but I dutifully quell the surge of testosterone and regain my professionalism.
"I'm Robyn Miles," she says, baring her perfect white teeth at me with a genuine grin, "the new nanny?"
"Fletcher Thomas," I say, making room for her in the doorway and grabbing her suitcase- surprisingly light for a woman's luggage. "I'm the head of the house staff here, so I'll be showing you around this place." I close the door behind us. She's wearing flat black ballerina shoes, and I am about two heads taller than her. She has a sweet, slightly naive air about her... but I don't let that fool me. I have an urge to strip away her façade and unleash the wildness I know is lurking within her, but I push aside my needs. For now, at least, I have a job to do.
I lead Robyn to the newly vacated bedroom beside mine on the ground floor and realize I will be residing in very close quarters with this woman. The rest of the live-in house staff are housed in a separate wing, but my job and hers require that we remain closer to the Scotts. I deposit her luggage on the side of her bed. Her room is small by the house's standards, but is ornate and spacious with a Queen-sized bed, an antique ruby and gold ottoman on one side and a matching plush window seat by the bay window. I can tell Robyn is impressed, then show her the extravagance of the bathroom we will share: a custom-made Jacuzzi with massaging jets, heated marble floor, sauna, triple sinks and counter space. Her eyes widen and she looks as excited as a child opening her birthday presents.
"You'll get used to it," I tell her with a friendly wink, surprised when she not only winks back, but reveals a maturity and assertiveness in her eyes she'd disguised before.
"How did you end up working here?" she asks, tilting her head to the side. It is a valid question, since I do not necessarily look like the butler type, as so stereotypically portrayed in the movies. I know I'm attractive and fit at forty and seem younger, while maintaining that coveted aura of distinction. I keep my body in fantastic shape by contorting it every which way in the Scotts' private gym.
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