Page 28

TWENTY-SEVEN

NATALIE

I see why white neckerchiefs are a must for the staff.

It’s six in the evening, and the terrace is crowded with guests. A lot of them wear black—black suits, black shirts, black dresses, black t-shirts, black baseball hats, and black jeans. Black is the new black again. Most people are dressed informally, and most of them are younger than me or around my age. Many look like college students.

“Entrepreneurs,” Rosalie explains. “The tech crowd. Silicon Valley and all.”

Not sure she understands what she’s talking about, but I get it.

I sneak outside through the staff entrance to take a peek at the front of the mansion. I spot groups of guys wearing worn-out jeans and shirts that have seen better days, unshaved, young. There are more luxury cars and limos parked at the front than I’ve seen at a car expo. Unlike any luxury car expo, this parking lot is infested with bodyguards. Today, The Splendors is secured better than the Louvre.

Within half an hour, things get hectic. The catering staff run in and out between the staff quarters and the terrace. Sagar is helping. Even Walter, the unfriendly gardener, is here, carrying more boxed beverages out of the walk-in cooler in the storage room. Mind you, there’s no food served, only fruit and desserts. These guests didn’t come here to eat.

Eventually, Rosalie gives me a tray with soft bubbly drinks in champagne glasses.

“Craft cocktails. No alcohol. Go-go-go,” she hurries me, and I hustle into the hallway.

I’m about to turn toward the open double doors that lead onto the back terrace when I catch a glimpse of a familiar figure in the hallway across the living room—Geoffrey Rosenberg, slipping into the library.

What would he be doing there when he has guests to entertain?

I turn on my heel and follow. I approach the door and, without knocking, gently pull at the handle. If there’s a time to be unapologetically nosy, it’s now.

The library is dimly lit, the only glow coming from the antique desk lamp. Rosenberg stands near the mahogany bookshelf, his back to me. I watch, my breath shallow.

He tugs at a row of faux books, reaches behind them, and pulls out a to-go McDonald’s cup. He sips through the straw right there, greedily, not moving, not sitting down. There’s only one thing men can be that thirsty for—booze. I should know—my dad is a prime example.

My stomach twists. It feels wrong, watching him, like it always is when you discover people’s shameful secrets. Rosenberg’s shoulders loosen just slightly—I know a fix when I see one. For a moment, I almost feel bad for him, then remember why I’m here.

A creak beneath my foot gives me away. Startled, Rosenberg spins around and glares at me.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize, keeping my voice soft. I step into the library with a tray in my hand and close the door behind me. “I thought one of the guests was sneaking in here, and we had instructions to make sure no one does. For your privacy, sir.”

His jaw tics, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. He cracks his neck, then tilts his head toward the door. “It’s all right. You can go.”

Not a chance.

Steeling my spine, I approach, conjuring an obedient smile, my eyes on the cup. “I can take that…”

Rosenberg pulls it toward him. “That’s okay.”

“It looks almost empty, sir. I can refill it for you,” I say, reaching for the cup.

The speed with which Rosenberg yanks it away from me is hilarious. In fact, he’s so quick that he bangs his elbow against the shelf, and the plastic lid with a straw pops off his cup, dropping to the floor.

The smell hits me instantly—rich and sharp. Whiskey. Not even diluted.

I sniff the air, making sure Rosenberg notices.

He inhales sharply, his eyes on my nostrils as anger flashes across his eyes.

“I’ll clean this up, sir,” I murmur nervously. “I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.”

His mouth tightens. “It’s fine,” he grits out.

“No worries, sir. I’ll take care of this,” I say as I kneel beside him, set the tray down, pick up the lid and straw, and dab at the floor with a napkin.

My kneeling is intentional. I don’t want him to be angry, I want him in charge. More than that—I need his trust.

I look up and catch his gaze as he assesses the lower part of my body. To be precise, my butt. He catches me looking at him, and his gaze locks with mine.

I know this gaze, the intensity, the silent question, “Is this what I think it is?” The seconds of doubt—even powerful men have those, calculating, figuring out pros and cons, whether to go for an opportunity or not to bother.

That’s Rosenberg right now. I turn my gaze to the floor, cleaning at his feet, while he’s probably trying to figure out how much he can get and what he can get away with.

“It’s okay,” I murmur with a reassuring smile as I get up and gently take the cup from him. “Anything you want, sir?”

He narrows his eyes on me, and I wait, my heart pounding so loudly that I’m afraid he can hear it.

“Would you like a refill?” I offer.

No booze for the boss—that’s the rule in the house. Well, screw rules. This guy needs to loosen up and let that monster inside him out of the cage.

“I’m here to help, sir,” I repeat.

Predators like obedience and weakness. I can see that in him, and I know what I’m doing. He thinks he knows what I’m offering. His gaze slowly slides down my body, then crawls up, making me shiver in disgust.

I cock a brow in question, with the most obliging expression I can muster, waiting for him to make a decision. Or maybe he’s calculating if this is a good time to make a move.

“Hmm.” His hum is low and dangerous, the meaning behind it even more so. Slowly, he steps away from me.

“I’m good.” He walks past me and toward the door. “Keep this between us.”

“Yes, sir.”

He is about to walk out the door when I stop him. “Sir?” He turns, his sharp annoyed gaze on me. “If you ever need anything, let me know.”

“Are you with the catering company?”

Apparently, he doesn’t remember me after all.

“No, sir. I’m a temp for the previous housekeeper.”

Recognition crosses his face. “That’s right. Natalia.”

It’s Natalie. But I don’t correct him. Asshole will forget about it tomorrow.

“I know I’m supposed to do what the other staff tell me to do,” I say in my most timid voice, “but this is your house, and your comfort is my priority. So if you ever need anything, any requests”—emphasis on any— “I’m here for you.”

He gives me another slow once-over. Not sure if that’s a hint of what he needs from pretty women, but he’s not getting it. That doesn’t mean that I don’t want him to think that he can.

He nods and walks out.

I raise my chin in satisfaction. I just became an accomplice in one of his little secrets. It’s not much, but it gets me closer to him. Little by little, I’ll find out all his secrets. I just hope I can keep myself in check, because right now, my knees are weak, and as I pick the tray up off the floor, my hands are trembling.