Rose Poppins stood outside the Beverly Hills mansion of George Reed Masters, gripping the handle of her battered, boulder-sized suitcase on wheels. She felt like a lost child at the gates of an orphanage. Or Maria on the threshold of Captain von Trapp’s place. Would the people be nice? Would her living space be comfortable? She’d be earning an outrageous sum of money. So maybe the rest didn’t matter.
The laurel privacy hedge was as high and dense as the Berlin Wall. Just how did the tours of celebrity homes work? Almost all the residences on this street were tucked away from prying eyes. Even their gates had no slits to peer through.
Rose rattled the padlock on this gate and found that it was open. Was she supposed to let herself in? Katie the housekeeper wasn’t answering her cellphone. All right then. The heavy gate clanged and squeaked as she heaved it open and shut, announcing her presence to the entire block. A racket that could wake the dead would surely alert the housekeeper. She froze just inside, listening, in case the cops came first, and observed the weird hybrid building before her. Mission Style or Spanish Colonial? Red tiled roof, a corridor framed by rows of arches. Blue, yellow, and orange tiles. White terracotta walls.
Fighting an urge to turn tail and run, she doggedly followed a long slate walkway to a vaulted door and rang the bell on what appeared to be the main entrance. After several minutes had ticked by, she rang Katie’s cellphone again, to no avail.
Reluctantly, she began to prowl the premises. So far, no sirens in the distance. Had this place once been a fancy motel? Or a Greek orthodox church with multiple narthexes? Long narrow buildings extended in all directions from a giant dome, like an octopus. There might be eight arms—wings, she thought they were called. She couldn’t count them from here. It was Don Quixote’s fever dream of a hacienda.
As she made her way along one of several slate pathways, she heard the munchkins singing in her head, “Follow the yellow-brick road.” Orange, not yellow, she thought. She scanned the area for evidence of video cameras operated by some beefy security guy in the basement. They could be hidden in the oleander bushes and palm trees. She smiled and waved, just in case.
Off to a super start. The contract she’d signed promised only a month of employment as a probationary period. Merilee Rexford had recommended her. Fifty-something Merilee was an artist of abstract paintings and collages that had been all the rage twenty years ago. Now she ran a gallery in Soho financed by her recently deceased husband who’d been thirty years her senior. Merilee—always “on,” outspoken, and hilarious—had been a regular at Chez Martin when Rose was sous chef there. They’d met in the alley. Merilee had gone outside for a smoke, and Rose was listening to her messages. One of them was from Drew. Her boyfriend had chosen a work shift to break up with her, and Rose had dissolved into tears. The funniest person Rose had ever met, Merilee had dried Rose’s tears in record time. After that moment of bonding, she’d hired her as a private chef for occasional dinner parties and praised her to the skies to anyone who would listen. She might as well have been her agent.
They’d become friends, which was why she stood by her after the chef de cuisine—Martin himself—threw her under the bus. He’d asked her to stay late one night, then all but raped her. Lucky for her, he couldn’t stay hard, thanks to all the drinking. The man always had a flask of vodka on his person, a fact known only to his staff, and when he was soused, he couldn’t keep his hands to himself.
After Rose had fended him off with a well-placed kick to the shin, he’d conveniently passed out. She was shaking and bruised, her pants ripped, yet when she’d called Axel—the restaurant’s maître d’ she believed was a friend—he’d admonished her for letting herself be alone with their star chef.
On the taxi ride home—she normally took the subway—she debated directing the cabbie to the nearest police station. Only, what was the point? Bone weary, she was hit with the futility of it all. No one got punished for attempted rape. Even rape was almost impossible to prove. The men always claimed it was consensual.
Martin saved her the trouble of quitting. Axel, with no hint of apology, left a message that the chef “found her skills insufficient,” and she shouldn’t bother coming in the next day. After that incident, none of the finer establishments in town would give her a second glance. Being a female in this business was already a major mark against her.
Merilee told her, with a chuckle, that George Reed Masters’ exact words had been, “I don’t give a rat’s ass if she kicked her boss in the nuts or mooned Mayor Giuliani.” He needed a private chef, and he was willing to pay top dollar and house her in his casita. Even if the casita was the size of Mrs. Tiggy-winkle’s cottage, it would beat her cubbyhole in Washington Heights with the molting wallpaper and pervasive reek of rotting garbage from the alley dumpster. If George let her go after a month, there would be no point in returning to New York. She could kiss her career as a chef goodbye, whether in a home or a restaurant. Who, other than Merilee, would recommend her? She didn’t have a backup plan. Going to the Culinary Institute of New York had been her first practical move after earning a highly impractical degree in comparative literature.
Where the hell was everyone? Shouldn’t an estate this size be swarming with staff? She heard the whir of a motor, but it sounded distant, as if originating from several houses away. The path she followed led past a fountain presided over by three naked nymphs bathing each other, then a shady bower with a stone bench.
All the while, she called out, “Hello? Hello? Anyone there?” Finally, she yelled, “Olly olly oxen free!” She followed that up with an even more exuberant, “Alle, alle auch sind frei!”
Ah, the magic words. A half-naked bearded man appeared, holding a pool skimmer net. He reminded her of Neptune with his trident, thanks to his broad shoulders, toned legs, and impressive pectoral development. The pool guy was wearing cargo shorts, a floppy hat, flipflops, and dark glasses. Wow. Despite the scraggly beard, the sight of him just knocked her out. What was it about him? He was too thin but all muscle, and he had dancer’s legs. You’d expect a pool guy to be tanned, wouldn’t you? This one was pale, but his skin gleamed with health.
How old was he? Somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five, she guessed. If on the older side, was he a former backup dancer? Maybe he was an aspiring actor. As a man, you could be discovered at any age. Didn’t everyone in Hollywood aspire to be in the entertainment business, no matter what they did for a living? Why else would you live here? But that facial hair was the furthest thing from commercial. So maybe he’d given up. Like Harrison Ford, who didn’t really make it in films until he was 35, preferring to be a carpenter rather than a bit player.
“Hey,” he said, head cocked, as if trying to place her. “Alle, alle whatsit free?”
“Sorry,” she said, with a smile and a wave of greeting. “I thought I was alone in the world, like maybe the Rapture happened after the cab dropped me off.”
He grinned, revealing a blindingly white set of choppers. “The Rapture would have left me behind too, funny girl.”
She was surprised he got her reference about born-again Christians getting whisked up to heaven at the Second Coming. Maybe he’d read the book or seen the movie. She held out her arms as if to embrace the entire place. “This is all a little scary.”
Dark eyebrows rose above the tinted lenses. “Scary, huh? The place or the owner?”
“Both, maybe.”
“Nah.” He waved her off. “Nothing to fear. Follow me.”
The more the pool guy talked, the greater Rose’s sense that she was in the presence of someone special. Did George get that his pool guy belonged in the movies too?
Is he single? she thought. Wouldn’t it be cool if I could find love and a dream job in one fell swoop? Then she realized she was getting ahead of herself. Way ahead. No fresh start could be that easy.
Reeling a bit, she didn’t see it coming. The sprinkler head, that is. After she tripped, she scrambled to stay upright, but no, the slate pathway was rushing up to meet her. She reached out to break her fall … and found herself in the pool guy’s arms.
“I’ve got you,” he said calmly. “Those little suckers are everywhere. Best to watch your step here and stay on the path.”
Watch your step, she thought. No kidding.
A narrow escape. She shuddered. She could just picture herself hitting the ground, breaking her wrist or an eye socket or both. The job would be over before it started.
In the meantime, she took a long, luxurious whiff of the pool guy’s neck. He smelled like the subject of a Beach Boys song. Like sea air, surf, and sun.
“You’re all right,” he said. “No sudden movements. Take a moment to catch your breath.”
Like I could, she thought, with you holding me like this. You smell like an exotic beach vacation, and your skin is as smooth as the inside of a shell. She closed her eyes, and the image of the two of them rolling around in the sand, making out, appeared unbidden in her mind’s eye, complete with Smell-o-vision. Reluctantly, she shook off the reverie and stood to smooth down her sundress, which had ridden up her thighs. “That … that,” she stammered, “was really … embarrassing. You must think I’m a total klutz.”
“Not at all,” he said. “You’re nervous. Who wouldn’t be? First day on the job. You okay to keep going?”
She nodded and swallowed, hard. “I guess I am nervous. This is a huge change for me. New York and L.A. couldn’t be more different.”
“Thank God,” he said. “I couldn’t live there. I’d stand out like a fish on a bicycle.”
The image startled her, evoking as it did the Gloria Steinem quote about a woman needing a man like a fish needs a bicycle. Weird as it was to hear the comparison out of context, she gave him points for creativity.
“In that outfit, maybe,” she said. “But if you wore all black, you could pass for a beatnik.”
He chuckled. “Hey, it’s the year two thousand. A ‘beatnik’ would totally raise eyebrows. Even in the fifties, they were rare birds.”
Around the corner was a long swimming pool that twisted and coiled like a snake, or rather a sea serpent, since it was easily twice the size of any backyard pool she’d ever seen, bisected in the middle by a small island covered in foliage and multicolored flowers and crowned by a miniature Japanese pagoda. Two fountains spouted from the top. She paused to ogle. “Wow. That must require major maintenance.”
“Worth it.” He wiggled his fingers in her direction. “It’s a saltwater pool. You’re the new chef?”
“Rose Poppins. Um, provisional chef.”
“Confident, are we?” He huffed out a laugh. “I was told you’d arrive tomorrow.”
“Oh.” She gulped. Was it possible she’d gotten the date wrong? “I’ll just ….” Her voice had risen an octave. She started to back away. Damn, where would she stay till then? She was hardly in a position to argue.
“Hold your horses!” He gestured for her to calm down. “I obviously got it wrong.” Reaching for her hand, the pool guy said, “Geo,” and gave it a shake. Not a shake, exactly. Now that he held her hand, he didn’t seem to know what to do with it. Would he kiss it? He reclaimed his hand so abruptly, she almost lost her balance again.
“Whoa,” he said. “You have low blood sugar? Wanna sit down?”
“No, no, I’m fine. It’s a good thing you’re not George. I must be making one hell of a weird first impression.”
His lips trembled like he was fighting a smile. Then, distracted by what might be a floating insectile intruder in the pool, he went over to skim the water again. The next time he gazed her way, the smile was gone.
She pointed to an antique bell mounted on a post. “Dinner bell?”
“Servants’ bell.” He pulled the cord, and it clanged merrily. “Still works. Hasn’t been used in a while.” He paused. “So, Miss Rose, ever been a private chef?”
“Only for George’s Aunt Merilee,” she confessed. “My one professional job was as a sous chef at a fancy French restaurant in New York.” She hoped he didn’t ask for details. She really didn’t want to get into it. “This will certainly beat working in a restaurant kitchen.”
He set the skimmer aside. “I can imagine. My dad ran a hotel in a working-class resort town.”
“Which one?”
“I doubt you’ve heard of it. On the Pacific Coast.”
“I might have. I grew up in Seattle.”
“City girl, all the way,” he said.
“It wasn’t quite as big a city then. Aren’t you a city boy now?”
“Small-town boy. Living in a lonely world.”
“Huh?”
“Journey. The rock group. ‘Don’t stop believin’ ’?”
She nodded uncertainly. “Oh, right.”
“Where’s your stuff?” He drew a finger in the air around her.
“Back there.” She pointed. “I left it next to the ‘Three Graces’ fountain.”
He cocked his head again. “All three are named Grace?”
“You know, like the Antonio Canova sculpture. Well, not exactly like it. Daughters of Zeus.”
“Huh. You learn something new every day.” He paused. “Aren’t you afraid someone will grab it? I mean, I assume you locked the gate behind you?”
She scratched her head. “How was I supposed to do that? The padlock is on the other side.”
His dark brows flew together. “You can lock it from either side. Be right back.” He quickly rounded the corner, returning with her suitcase in tow. “We worry more about fans and paparazzi than thieves,” he explained.
“I’m sorry; I should have realized.” She indicated her suitcase. “There’s nothing worth stealing.”
“Thieves would steal first, look later.” He frowned. “Not even jewelry?”
She shrugged. “I’m not a collector. I don’t like owning things that matter too much. I could never live in a place like this, for instance. It’s a strange design, right?” She traced the wings that branched out from the center. “It’s like the Kraken turned to stone in the form of a Spanish hacienda. Although it is … eye-catching. Even if I were as filthy rich as this guy, I think I’d prefer a more conventional design.”
He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Why? Do you care so much what people think?”
She didn’t answer immediately, little warning bells going off in her brain, telling her to keep her opinions to herself. “It’s more that I prefer not to stand out. When you’re a woman in New York, the catcalls come at you fast and furious. I tried to blend in. It’s not as if dressing like a nerd gets you off the hook. I’ve heard random guys yell at women that they had fat asses or were butt ugly. I won’t miss that aspect of living in New York.”
The man stood with his arms folded, regarding the house as if through new eyes. “The Kraken, huh? You think it’s ugly? Just six arms, not eight, and this outdoor space with the pool and the patio”—he pointed to the tiled area by the French doors—“is way cool. I think it was designed this way for privacy. Each family member got their own arm … wing, whatever.” He chuckled. “I’ll admit, it’s odd. I’m a fan of quirky in a town where everyone—except maybe that Saudi sheik who painted the pubic hair on his statues—is into impressing each other with their impeccable good taste.” His grin turned sly. “So … you don’t like being the center of attention. That makes you different from just about everyone in L.A.—certainly everyone I know. And … I’m not sure how you manage to avoid that, pretty as you are.”
She was suddenly self-conscious about her faded black-lace cotton sundress and tennis shoes. She should have worn black trousers and a white button-down shirt, she supposed. She was sweating profusely under her jean jacket.
“Listen, I’m sorry to interrupt your work. Do you know where I can find the housekeeper, Katie?” If he was just the pool guy, he might not know the staff. Unless this was the only pool he cleaned, which seemed unlikely. Come to think of it, where was the truck where he kept his supplies? Wouldn’t it be parked out front? Perhaps it was in the alley. Was there an alley?
“Do you do the whole neighborhood?” she asked.
A startled burst of laughter. “What?!”
Realizing how bad that sounded, she felt a blush coming on. “Don’t be obtuse,” she teased. “You know what I mean. Do you clean all the pools in the area?”
He was still grinning. “Oh, that.”
He took the handle of her suitcase and led the way silently down the pathway. While admiring the pool, she’d overlooked the square stucco cottage that might have been a detached garage, except that no driveway led up to it. He unlocked the door. “Welcome to your casita, Miz Provisional Chef.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Do you?” His dark brows danced above his glasses.
“You’re the groundskeeper, not just the pool guy.”
He jiggled a set of keys. “I do have the keys to the castle. Go ahead and get settled in.” He glanced at his watch, which looked expensive, like a Rolex. Probably a knockoff like they sold down on Canal Street. “It’s one thirty. The rest of us already ate lunch, but there’s chicken salad in the fridge. Katie will be relieved to hand KP duty over to you. I was told you were fine with doing the cleanup yourself. It’s not like a restaurant here. No bus boys.”
The rest of us, she thought. The groundskeeper was a full-time, live-in servant? How disappointing. She’d better get busy talking herself out of her incipient crush.
“Of course,” she said. “I once washed dishes for three hundred people using only tubs.” She almost smacked herself. Stupid thing to say. That had been her one-and-only catering job. Backbreaking labor. She hadn’t become a chef to do that kind of drudge work. Although, being a sous chef did sometimes require cleaning up the kitchen.
“You are a pro,” he said with gentle mockery. “That sounds unsanitary. We have a state-of-the-art large-capacity dishwasher here. No expense spared.”
“I imagine so,” she said. “I—” Damn. She went blank. Geo. Wasn’t that short for George? The distinctive eyebrows. The Rolex. Those sunglasses …. Not cheap knockoffs. The ambiguous answers. The perfect teeth. The ripped chest. His father had run a hotel.
Oh, hell. She was in deep shit. Had she really called him ‘filthy rich’? Lightheaded, she plopped down on the stoop of the casita as if her feet had been kicked out from under her.
The man crouched down beside her. “You okay? You look a little … bilious.” The way he said that word sounded oddly British and foreign to him, as if from a script.
She wished the earth would swallow her up. “Oh God. I’m really, really sorry. You’re George Reed Masters.”
He heaved a theatrical sigh, as if for her benefit. “I expected you to catch on sooner. Too bad. This was fun. Come on, Miss Poppins, I’ll show you the kitchen. I host large dinner parties every few weeks while I’m in town. The last chef didn’t work out, so we’ve been making do with our own cooking and takeout. Anytime you need extra help with prep or cleanup, just ask.”
She found she couldn’t stand on her own, and when he hauled her to her feet, she was shaking like a cheap blender. His hand was warm and strong, and once again, she didn’t want to let go. She tried to relax her rigid limbs. Why was she reacting this way? A minute ago, they’d been chatting away like lifelong friends. She’d never felt anything like the zing of attraction the sight of him had delivered, not even with Peter. Love at first sight. A foreign concept … until now.
No, no, no. She could not fall for George Reed Masters. She needed this job. She was an excellent chef, and this might be her final chance to prove it to the world. She’d let her guard down. Time to put it back up again. Was that possible? Arghhhh …. Be an adult. Act professional. She tried to steel herself, gather her wits. Now that she knew “the pool guy” was a movie star, she might as well have been lobotomized. Why hadn’t she realized she’d be dealing with the famous dude directly? Because she’d believed his housekeeper would be a go-between.
“You clean your own pool?” she managed to choke out, her voice weirdly high-pitched and thready. It sounded like an accusation.
His reply questioned her right to ask. “At my dad’s hotel in Seaview, I did all the unskilled labor. Like cleaning the pool. At least until my movie roles started paying off. Even then, so long as they were still filming in Seaview, I was expected to pitch in. Once I started making serious money, of course, the tables were turned. But now …. What am I supposed to do when I have downtime, watch cartoons in my home theater and smoke a ton of weed? I like being outdoors. Weed makes me paranoid. I’m not the lounging-around type.”
She was still tongue-tied. “A h-home theater?” she stammered.
“They are a must-have in these parts,” he said, “as are home gyms.” Her flummoxed reaction didn’t appear to faze him. Must happen all the time. “You arrived by taxi?” He paused, perplexed. “You okay?”
She raised a trembling hand, as if in surrender. “I’m fine. Low blood sugar, maybe.” Stupid, he already suggested that. And you denied it. She cleared her throat. “Yes. Taxi. I got here by taxi.”
“Can you drive?”
Her nod was half-hearted.
“Are you a good driver?”
She seesawed her fingers in a so-so gesture, too unnerved to whitewash the situation. “I have my license. I didn’t … own a car at university or … in New York City. I’m out of practice.”
He grimaced at her revelation, folded his arms, and gazed into the pool, which was totally free of detritus or dead bugs. Of course she’d need to drive. Why hadn’t she considered that? This was a driving city, and you couldn’t transport enough groceries to feed a household or especially a large dinner party on a bus.
“There are lots of food stores nearby,” he continued. “The largest one is Ralph’s. I have a couple of extra cars for staff. Katie’s using the Toyota Camry right now and her husband Rob drives the pickup truck. She’ll give you priority. Your day off is Monday, and hers is Sunday. With your salary, you could afford to take taxis. In a pinch, use WebVan and have the groceries delivered.” He frowned. “Except then you can’t vouch for quality.”
“Don’t you have a driver?”
He paused for a long moment before saying, “You wanna be chauffeured around? Not my thing.”
“No, I’m sorry, I was just curious.” Her hands were steadier now, and breathing was easier.
“Stop apologizing, Miz Poppins.” He sounded more tired than annoyed.
“Rose, if you don’t mind,” she said with an unintended hint of irritation. Stop it, she told herself. Don’t make him think that you’re difficult.
“Rose …. An old-fashioned name, but it suits you somehow. Short for something else?”
“Rosalind,” she said, aiming for a warmer tone. “As in As You Like It. My dad’s a Shakespeare scholar.”
“You said you come from Seattle. Where does he teach? Seattle University? SPU? University of Washington?”
She nodded. “Yes to the last one. The U-Dub.”
“English prof?”
She nodded again, just once this time.
“I’ve never done Shakespeare,” he continued. “Don’t have the hoity-toity training. I suppose you’ve read all the plays?”
“Yes,” she replied. If she’d been more together, she could have added that her father rarely talked shop. But he had made sure they attended every Shakespeare play staged in Seattle.
Try as she might, she could not relax. His look expressed pure skepticism. He must think he’d hired a timid mouse and a rank amateur.
“Still hate my house?” he said with a half-smile.
Her smile was apologetic. “I’m sorry. Of course not.”
He smirked. “Of course not,” he repeated. “Even if you do, it’s okay. I didn’t design it, and I didn’t buy it for its architectural integrity.”
Her temples had begun to throb. Oh, this was not good. Provisional chef was right. She wouldn’t last the month.
