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CHAPTER TWELVE

P retending to be normal could be exhausting.

Callan was running out of questions, and Molly the pretend housekeeper wasn’t exactly a riveting conversationalist.

He cataloged the house as they moved through it. They’d already toured the first floor—updated kitchen, dining room, living room, family room, and sunroom. He’d taken note of multiple phone chargers plugged into outlets and at least three sets of car keys hanging from a set of hooks near a side door. Glasses and dirty dishes in the kitchen sink confirmed that Molly was no housekeeper.

On the second floor, she showed him to a bedroom that faced the rear. It had a queen-sized bed so high off the floor that a little step stool had been left against one side. White linens, pale green paint on the walls. Heavy antiques everywhere.

“This is your room,” Molly said.

He stepped in and looked around. “Where’re our suitcases?”

“I’ll have Benson bring them up right away.”

Benson—whoever that was—was likely searching them first.

“This way.” She continued down the hallway, and he followed her, peeking into other rooms on the same end of the house—two more bedrooms with four-poster beds, fancy wallpaper, and multicolored Persian rugs. There were a couple of closed doors she didn’t explain. He guessed they were bedrooms being occupied by Ghazi and his people.

Between the doorways, the walls were covered in artwork with thick, heavy frames. He stopped to study one, spying a tiny camera on the top corner.

One camera meant many cameras, just as he’d suspected.

Though they’d only seen half that floor, she didn’t take him to the other end but up to the third story, where there were still more bedrooms and more closed doors.

All the spaces were perfectly decorated.

The bathrooms had updated fixtures and original claw-foot tubs.

They didn’t see anyone else during the tour. Where were all the people who belonged to those cell phone chargers and car keys?

Aside from the size of the place, the property had likely been chosen because of its proximity to Boston, the secured gate at the driveway, and the thick hedge that shielded the house from view.

He paused at the doorway to the largest third-floor bedroom he could see. Wood panels, bookshelves, fancy bed with a navy-blue comforter. He’d swear the wallpaper wasn’t actually paper but some kind of fabric.

Ostentatious to the point of ridiculous.

But he grinned. “This is the one I’d choose.”

“Except there’s only one bathroom on this floor,” she said. “I think this floor was originally built for the staff.”

“Makes sense. Is one of these rooms yours?”

“I don’t live here.”

“Oh, really? I just assumed. Which room would you choose, then, if you could have any of them?”

The question garnered her first real smile. “None. Can you imagine having to clean this place?”

“Isn’t that what you do, as the housekeeper?”

Her smile faded. “He has staff for that. I manage them.”

“Oh, I see. That’s the problem. You get a property like this, how much does it cost to keep up? I’m happy with my little two-bedroom apartment, though after Alyssa and I get married, we’ll probably buy a house. She comes from money.”

Molly led him back down the hallway toward the stairs. “Unlike you?”

“My family aspired to middle class.”

She gave him a long look, eyes narrowing. “You seem to do okay.”

“Good education and a lot of hard work.” He looked around the space. “I always wonder about people like Sanders. I guess it’s easy to assume they’re all greedy and demanding. He a good guy to work for?”

Instantly, her guard went back up. The smile faded, the interest disappeared. “He’s a fair boss. I would give you a tour of the gardens, but I think the sprinkler is running.”

“Maybe Alyssa and I can poke around outside later when she takes a break. You think she and Charles are done? I’d like to find her now.”

Molly gave a curt nod and started downstairs. When they reached the second-floor landing, she said, “Wait here,” and marched in the direction she hadn’t taken Callan before. She knocked on a door, then stepped inside.

He stood near the stairs dutifully, despite his desire to peek past closed doors into the rooms she hadn’t shown him. Maybe bedrooms for guards—yet, where were they? Or maybe something else. Offices? Some kind of security command center with banks of monitors watching the perimeter?

Callan was more interested in what he’d find in the basement. Was Ghazi running an operation out of this house? And if so, was he running it from the bottom floor? The floor with no windows, no way for anybody to peek inside or listen in?

Probably.

The door opened down the hall, and Molly walked toward him. “You’re welcome to join your friend now.”

“Great. I’m just going to run back to the kitchen and get my laptop bag so I can get some work done.”

“I’ll have Benson bring it to you.”

Callan didn’t hide his frustration. “I’d rather just?—”

“Follow me.” She swiveled and strode away, leaving him little choice but to follow.

They entered a long, narrow space. Straight ahead were windows and doors that opened to a balcony. One end held a fireplace and shelves.

On the other, Alyssa stood from behind a desk and a bank of screens. “There you are. This place must be huge, considering how long it took you to see it all.”

Ghazi was seated in a chair against the windows where he could watch what she was doing.

When Callan headed toward her, the man stood. “You need to stay over there.”

Callan glared at him. “I was just going to greet my fiancée.”

Playing the role of the jealous partner.

The man’s grin was a little smug.

Alyssa stepped past Ghazi. She’d pulled her blond hair into a low ponytail, which somehow made her look younger and more serious. She gave Callan a quick kiss on the cheek. “Nice place?”

“Want me to find out if it’s on the market? We could move right in.” He nodded toward Ghazi. “After he’s finished with it, of course.”

She laughed. “This place is right in line with our budget.”

So much stupid banter, as if all were well. But by the tightness around her mouth, she wasn’t feeling as lighthearted as she was pretending.

Callan backed away and turned toward the other end of the room. “I guess I’ll just sit over there?”

“That would be best,” Ghazi said.

Callan asked Molly, “Could you please retrieve our phones and my laptop? I have work to do.”

She looked at Ghazi for permission. At his nod, she disappeared out the door.

He wanted Alyssa to have a good reason to come to his end of the room every once in a while. He studied the fireplace. “This gas?” It was—he could tell by the little silver key and keyhole. “Mind if I fire it up?”

“Be my guest.” Ghazi flicked his hand Callan’s way as if to brush off a fly.

Arrogant jerk.

But Callan said, “Great!” with so much enthusiasm, he feared he’d oversold it. “You got a lighter?”

Ghazi pulled one from his pocket, and Callan turned the key to turn on the gas.

Ghazi leaned down beside him, flicked open an antique lighter, and lit the flame.

Oh, it was the lighter. Callan had heard about it and figured there was a story behind it. Everyone who’d ever had dealings with Ghazi had mentioned that lighter.

He pocketed it. “Anything else you need?”

“Nope. This is fine. Thanks.” He settled in a cushy chair and propped his feet on a blue velvet—and way too fancy for dirty shoes—footstool. “I could get used to this.”

Ghazi’s smile was tight, and Callan figured he was trying to decide if keeping Alyssa in line was worth putting up with Callan.

He laced his hands behind his head. “So what are you working on, Paris?” He tossed the words across the room.

Alyssa peeked around the screens and gave him a look—eyebrows lifted, amusement on her lips.

“Not even a hint? I’m bored to death over here.”

“I have every confidence you’ll survive your boredom, Mr. Thompson.”

“Caleb. Just Caleb.” He closed his mouth, and Alyssa returned to her task, fingers racing over the keyboard he could see beneath the screens that hid her face.

Ghazi settled in his chair again, as if she required supervision.

Callan needed his laptop and his cell phone. And until he got those things, he needed to make a nuisance of himself so Ghazi would hurry up and get them for him.

He stood and thumped—maybe making his footsteps louder than strictly necessary—to the French doors leading to a narrow balcony. He opened them and stepped outside. The gardens really were beautiful, an explosion of color and scents. Birds sang in the trees that towered over the house, a few twittering around the feeders hanging here and there. Squirrels raced across limbs, hopping from one to another. Bees buzzed among the cottony catkins on a pussy willow bush.

The yard was so deep, he couldn’t see a house behind it.

“Whoa, Paris. You gotta see this.”

“I’m a little busy,” she called.

He looked at her over his shoulder. “One minute won’t kill you.”

“Caleb. I’m trying to work.”

“I’ve got work to do too.” He allowed annoyance to color his tone.

“Perhaps you should’ve gone to your own office,” Ghazi said.

Callan glared at the man. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Caleb.” Alyssa’s tone was appropriately irritated. “Please, stop it.”

He shook his head. “You’re right. I’m just restless.” He crossed to the double doors that led to the hallway. “I’ll just go check on?—”

“Stay here, please.” Ghazi tapped on his phone screen. “I’ll ask them to deliver your things immediately.”

“All right, then. Thanks.”

He’d hoped the guy would go away, but no. He stayed right where he was, leaving Callan no opportunity to find out what Alyssa was working on.

Callan could wait. And meanwhile, he’d work on a way to get out of this situation. Because he seriously doubted that, once Alyssa finished this job, the man planned to let them walk away.