Page 9

EIGHT

NATALIE

“What happened to the other housekeeper?” I ask Julien when we are out of the kitchen.

“She had a seizure while intoxicated,” he says, without turning, as he leads me down the staff hallway. “On the job.”

“That’s not good.”

“No. Hence, one of the first rules in this house—absolutely no drinking. No alcohol is allowed in the house except for on special occasions and at parties. If you notice anything of the sort, you report it.”

“Understood. So the boss is the only one allowed to drink?”

Julien gives me a look over his shoulder. “No. The boss doesn’t drink. Because of personal history, this rule comes from him directly.”

I suspect that the personal history is the reason the boss is engaging in some sort of self-intervention. I make a mental note to bring minis of booze to work. Meeting the boss and getting him to talk is my main goal. There’s no better truth serum than alcohol.

The staff hallway opens into a spectacular two-story space. The clouds have dissolved, and the living room and hallway are bathed in the sunlight streaming inside through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Wow! This looks like a palace.

Julien swings his forefinger in the air. “Living room.” He flicks his wrist in the direction of the main door hallway. “Main entrance.”

The furniture is minimal—a white living room set, an abstract painting the size of a Persian carpet on the wall. A staircase with a stainless-steel railing leads upstairs. I lift my face to study the intricate frescoes on the ceiling and a silver honeycomb chandelier.

“Second rule,” Julien says, already walking in the direction of an archway leading into the east wing of the ground floor. “No phones.”

I almost skip, trying to catch up with him. “Pardon me?”

“No phones are allowed at work.” He doesn’t look at me, just keeps walking. “When you arrive for work, you lock your personal belongings in the locker in the staff room. That includes your phone.”

“Why?”

“Conference room.” He motions to an open door that we pass so quickly that I don’t get a chance to look in. “Mr. Rosenberg works with sensitive information,” Julien continues, without stopping, in the same monotonous voice that annoys me. “His business depends on extreme discretion. If you had proper training and qualifications, you wouldn’t be asking these questions.”

I don’t bother responding. I will definitely try to dig into the sensitive information . That’s what I’m here for.

“Library,” Julien blurts out, motioning to yet another door without stopping. “Lounge,” he says next.

This time, I slow down and peek into the half-open door. The lounge could pass as a club, with modern red leather banquettes and armchairs, glass coffee tables, a grand piano, and a freaking DJ stage.

“Are you coming?” Julien says louder, demanding my attention and watching me with poorly concealed annoyance.

I hurry toward him.

“This is Mr. Rosenberg’s office.” Julien points to a closed door as we continue walking. “Rosalie is in charge of cleaning it. You are not to go there unless she specifically tells you to.”

“No problem.”

I make a mental note to make Mr. Rosenberg’s office my priority. Right after Rosalie. I have to be in her good graces. Though Julien is the house manager, I’m sure he has better things to do than watch me at all times.

“Do I need to sign a non-disclosure agreement?” I joke, then realize that the permanent staff probably have to.

Julien doesn’t respond to that question, just looks down at me. “You clean the main rooms during the assigned time slots. You are not to go into any rooms that are not assigned to you, unless the other housekeeper says so.”

“That’s intense.”

“We work around Mr. Rosenberg’s schedule and to his convenience. Not the other way around.”

The Pentagon sounds less intense than this mansion. And there are more rules to come.

“You are not to touch personal belongings,” Julien continues as we walk. “That includes clothes, paperwork, anything that’s not food or drinks.”

“What about laundry?”

“Rosalie handles that. You are here for cleaning and cleaning only. As well as handling the cleaning for the other staff members.”

I raise a brow. “Pardon me?”

“The kitchen and lounge area at the back of the house—we take our breaks there. You will be responsible for cleaning that area, dishes, trash, and so on.”

So, I’m the cleaning lady for the staff—that’s a downgrade.

“You will do everything Rosalie tells you to do. The main focus is the coming party this weekend. Don’t forget, you’re a temp.”

We’ll see. It takes all my willpower not to bite back with a snarky comment.

There’s a gym and a theater at the far end of the mansion, but we turn around and walk back through the living room and hallway toward the staff area. To my disappointment, there’s no sign of Geoffrey Rosenberg or Nick.

“Are there any rooms I should avoid when Mr. Rosenberg is at home?” I ask Julien.

“Rosalie will curate your schedule.”

“I mean, right now? Are we disturbing Mr. Rosenberg?”

“He is out.”

Damn it. I need to be more alert about when the boss is home or not.

I spot Rosalie at the far end of the living room, dusting the paintings. She smiles at me, and I give her a tiny wave back.

She likes me. I’ll make sure she loves me and trusts me with cleaning the rooms that Mr. Serious here told me are off limits.

We are about to walk into the staff hallway when I look back at her. Rosalie’s not dusting anymore. She stands still and watches us, her smile gone.

Odd. Maybe not so friendly after all. Maybe she’s not dusting but following us.

The staff stairs take us to the second floor.

“So we don’t use the main staircase?” I muse.

“No,” Julien says curtly.

He is a man of few words. Getting him to talk is like pulling teeth.

“Is anyone besides the owner allowed to walk the house as they please?” I ask.

“Nick is,” he replies curtly.

Sounds like Nick has access to pretty much anything. If I were to guess, Nick is Rosenberg’s pet, and I just so happen to be on great terms with him.

“Master bedroom.” Julien points at the closed door and keeps walking.

“Aren’t you going to show it to me?” I ask, but he ignores me.

“Guest bedroom.” He motions toward yet another door. “Guest bedroom and a bathroom. Another one.” He doesn’t bother showing them to me.

I’m almost trotting after him. His stride is wide, and the house tour is too rushed, as if I’m wasting his time, and he wants to get it over with, which is probably the case.

I take in the paintings on the walls, the sculptures, and art pieces here and there. There are no pictures of family or friends. No mess. No personal items.

There are seven bedrooms in the house but all in all over twenty rooms—I lost track. Why would one person need such a big house for himself?

My eyes drift upward, to the hallway ceiling and the light fixtures.

That’s when I see it—a camera—and my stomach twists in unease.