Caught
The early morning sky was the color of steel wool, sharp, ominous gray hanging low over the city without a hint of softness, but Scout Keats’ trajectory was somewhere brighter. She hustled down Randolph, past the urban district, and into the commercial quarters of Folsom. Only after crossing that invisible divide from the hidden shadows of the impoverished sections of the city to the streets teaming with endless opportunities of prosperity, did she take her full first breath of the day. A sense of possibility invigorated her every time. Scout’s lungs filled with hope and her weariness ebbed with each step as the world she coveted awoke and slowly began to flow around her.
Today was a day to be proud. After two weeks of learning her way, mimicking those who had it already figured out, she had done it and would finally see some of the results of all her hard work. Her heart raced each time she imagined clocking out at the end of her shift and being handed her first big fat paycheck.
This was it. This time it would be different. Being a maid at Patras, although nerve-racking, was going to change Scout’s life. Like scenting the snow before it fell, she could sense change approaching, and every cell of her being told her that Patras Hotel was the key to her escape.
She couldn’t say how she knew, but she knew. Parker had come to simply roll his eyes each time she fell into fanciful ramblings, warning him that her evenings at the shelter were numbered, that one night she simply wouldn’t return and when that night came, he should celebrate, in memory of her, Scout Keats, the dragon baby who outran her destiny and made it in the real world.
She was aware of what Parker thought. She knew how they all saw her. While much of the transient population seemed to accept their hand in life with bitter surrender, Scout never would. Their cynicism ran deeper than any still waters could wash, but she refused to let herself drown in their doubts.
Born in a back alley, ripped from her mother’s womb by claws sharp enough to make her scream to a point of delirium, she came into this world running. She was chasing the dragon before she could even crawl. Ironically, her mother had been running from it as far back as her memory held.
The dragon killed her daddy before she ever knew him. No pictures to tell her if her silver blue eyes were his or how he wore his hair. All Scout had was a collage of mumblings, broken bits of her mother’s jigsaw mind to tell her the kind of man her daddy was. Didn’t matter anyway. He was dead before she was born.
Death favored the poor. People of wealth had an astounding ability to not see them. As insignificant as litter, they were merely unfortunate crumbles of trash lining the curbs they hoped would soon blow away, and each night they did, retreating back to the warmest corners of Folsom to barter their scavenged finds of the day, sleep with one eye open and strategize how to outmaneuver their pretend friends the next morning, because in reality, you had no friends when you were homeless. You only had yourself and your only objective was to stay alive.
Parker had been a concession she made at the age of fourteen. She supposed she could call him a friend. He did kick Slim’s ass when he kept leering at her that one year, and she sort of liked him then. Not that she needed a hand defending herself. It was nice of Parker to do that, but that wasn’t what made him her friend. Scout decided he could be her friend when she found out he could read and he offered to teach her.
But friends were liabilities. Survival was easiest when emotion stayed out of it. She was getting off the streets and she didn’t need to be liable for anyone when she already had her mother to worry about.
Pearl had long ago surrendered to a doomed existence that worried Scout sick, but she brought her into this world and no matter how much Scout hated the life her mother chose, she’d seen it enough to know she really didn’t choose it at all. She merely flirted with a dragon that swallowed her whole at first chance and traded her soul for the poor excuse of the life it let her slip away with.
The woman who raised her was gone, replaced by a flesh-covered skeleton who whispered gibberish in her momma’s voice, but she loved her all the same. Heroin was Pearl’s weakness and she was Scout’s, and damn Parker for intruding on her meager list of those she cared for, but Scout wouldn’t let him hold her back no matter how many words he taught her to read or how many leering creeps he beat the piss out of. Parker was a lifer and she was not.
He often made fun of Scout and her obsession with words. He didn’t understand why she had such a fixation with expanding her vocabulary. At this point in her life, it was humiliating not to know how to do such a common thing as read. It wasn’t something she shared about herself easily. Words, however, she could memorize.
Anytime she heard a word she didn’t know, she’d ask Parker what it meant and he’d tell her. She made it a point to think and speak those words as often as possible. It made her feel educated in a way she knew she was not. Some day it would benefit her, once she moved out of the gutter class and into a more prestigious one.
The black ribbon of road slowly crowded with yellow cabs. That sleeping scent of the city, a little bit bitter with a trace of dewy air, was slowly replaced with the smell of exhaust and early morning eateries opening their doors.
Two sizes too large, her worn black sneakers clopped over the pavement and were slowly humbled by the gentle roar of pedestrians in their finery. The cadence of leather-soled loafers and stilettos built like a distant wave, washing out the unsophisticated rhythm of her steps.
The choking clouds were pushed back as the buildings grew in size, each one an enormous trophy of some self-important man’s arrogance and a supplement for his inadequate anatomy.
The buildings pierced the canopy of haze, like beams beneath a heavy circus tent. The analogy made her smile. She was leaving what would be the gypsy caravans squatting in ramshackle functionality and heading for the better-dressed performers of the main event. Like a child smiling over a tuft of cotton candy, she grew excited at the nearing presence of the fancy-dressed ringleaders of the world with their bedazzled accessories and self-pronounced confidence. One day she’d be among the glamorous women who swung high above the rest and were respected for their courage and grace. Scout longed to be a part of the big show and leave her less-appealing brethren behind.
Pushing her fanciful musings aside, she hefted her cumbersome bag over her shoulder as she moved deeper into the congested commercial district. Men of industry, demigods, built these impressive structures, smudging out even the sun until nothing but a slice of sky showed a mile above. On lackluster mornings like this one when the clouds hung low and the rooftops raked through the dull cotton bluffs, she truly understood why they were named skyscrapers.
Her strides doubled when she turned onto Fenton and the great clock showed there were only ten minutes to six. Three blocks to go and she still needed time to clock in and check her cart. In another hour these hollow roads would be clogged with taxis, and the walkways would suffer as civilized a stampede as human nature could produce.
Scout rounded the corner of Gerard and there, like a dove among pigeons, sat Patras Hotel. Its white granite walls with opalescent luster gleamed even under the overcast wedge of sky. Thirty-foot pillars guarded the structure, sweeping the grand marble staircase in a soft glow of controlled lighting where shine boys already waited at their benches with boxes for their wealthy clientele. Velvet roping sectioned off the affluent guests from the covetous passersby. One didn’t set foot on that red carpet leading through those eighteen-foot gilded doors unless they were entitled to.
Scout quickly walked past the fringed runner and around the corner of the building. Practically taking up a block on its own, Patras Hotel was the beauty among the motley buildings that neighbored it, and in such a swank section of Folsom that proclaimed it to be the best of the best.
At the back of the building was a subtle awning, pristine enough not to detract from the hotel’s beauty, but lacking the pretentiousness of the front enough to be overlooked by those who weren’t in the know. She slid her badge through the discrete keycard lock beside the door and waited. When the green light signaled and the lock disengaged with a snick, she pulled the heavy door open and let herself in. The scent of freshly arranged flowers greeted her and mingled with the familiar whispered clatter in the distance of the waitstaff preparing the restaurant for the breakfast crowd.
Traveling in the opposite direction of the lobby, Scout again reached for her badge and slid it through the service elevator’s lock. The bell dinged softly and she stepped into the unembellished car. She keyed in for the basement and moments later entered a bustling underground world of service.
The air was heated with the clean scent of detergents and presses. She loved the fragrance of the laundering facilities. Such a luxury, to not only sleep on fresh sheets every day, but to have them pressed as well. Her feet hustled through the corridor and turned into the employee locker room.
Approaching the docking station, she breathed a sigh of relief as she slid her badge through the mechanism clocking her in for the day at 5:58. Perfect.
Turning to her locker, Scout quickly stowed her belongings without making eye contact with any of the other employees. Down here, in the bowels of the hotel, they were all janitorial staff. Good thing, too, because the lobby employees with their fancy blazers and ticked, tuxedo-style pants intimidated the crap out of her.
The maids all wore the same poly-blend shapeless dove gray dress with white Peter Pan collar and cuffed sleeves. They didn’t intimidate her one bit. She simply didn’t meet their gazes so as not to inadvertently suggest she was interested in making acquaintances. She wasn’t. She was there to do a job.
Once her dainty, completely ornamental white apron was tied at her waist, she pinned the small accordion cap in front of her bun. Hoisting the last of her items into the tight metal locker, she tucked the bulge back and forced the door closed, moving her fingers just in time for the latch to catch before her cumbersome belongings could be regurgitated onto the floor. Looking left, then right, she spun the built-in combination lock several times until convinced her possessions were secure. Everything she owned was in that locker.
By the time Scout made it to Tamara’s office, other maids were already on the move with their carts. Behind her, some employees were just arriving. Quickening her pace she turned into the office labeled Housekeeping General Manager and greeted her GM with a smile.
“Good morning, Tamara.”
“Good morning, Scout.” She smiled, her teeth clean and perfectly straight.
Scout had an odd obsession with hygiene and frequently noticed people’s teeth and fingernails as some sort of personal grading system.
“Here’s your list for the day. Bridget’s out so I put you on the penthouse suites if that’s okay,” Tamara said.
Like she’d admit if it wasn’t. “That’s fine. I’m happy to help.”
“Good and while I have you here, your paperwork was sent back from Human Resources. You forgot to fill in your social when you did it. They’re going to need that in order to process your paycheck this afternoon.”
Crap. Parker had done her paperwork. Tamara’s curvy frame twisted in her fancy leather chair as she reached into a paper tray. She slid the familiar paperwork across the desk and Scout forced her hand to remain steady as she picked it up.
There was nothing condescending about Tamara. She was in her midthirties and seemed to be one of those pleasantly chubby women who chronically dieted and would never truly recognize the beauty they held within. Scout appreciated her easy pleasantness and genuine candor.
Her eyes raked over the application. Parker’s penmanship was neat and bold. Scout admired the confident way his letters stroked in tidy order across the small blank spaces.
“What did you say was missing?”
“Your social security number. See, there, on the top right. Just fill that in and you’ll be good to go and I’ll have it sent back before payroll cuts the checks this afternoon.”
Tamara wore a floral-scented perfume and Scout couldn’t help breathing in the bouquet without a touch of envy. It mixed nicely with the fragrance of her hair and skin.
She found the blank spot she was referring to. Nine little blank lines needing to be filled.
“Why do they need this?”
“For tax purposes mostly.” Her fingernails were painted red. Scout self-consciously tucked her clipped nails into the shelter of her palm.
She didn’t have a social security number or if she did she’d never been told what it was. She could’ve been honest, but honesty in this situation would only delay and complicate things. The key to fitting in was being as low-maintenance as possible.
“Do you have a pen I could use?”
Tamara handed her a pen and Scout squatted low at the corner of the desk. Her fingers deliberately formed the numbers. Scout was very aware of how unpracticed they appeared next to Parker’s well-developed words. Quickly, she made up three groups of numbers she could remember in case she had to recall them for something in the future. One-three-six, because it was the number of her locker. Twenty-two for her age. And nineteen hundred because it was the address printed on the awning out back of Patras. If they checked it and realized she made it up, she’d act like it was an honest mistake and figure out what to do when and if that time came.
“Here you go.” She slid the paper back to Tamara.
“Great.” She grinned, slipped the paper back in the tray she pulled it from and handed Scout her assignments for the day.
“You’ll need to use your badge to access the penthouse floors. Level thirty’s all individual entry, so once you get off the elevator your normal house key will work, but from there you’ll have to use the private bank of elevators located just outside of the private ballroom on thirty-one. There’re four master penthouses on the thirty-second floor. Three of them are vacant this week so you’ll only need to attend Suite C. Each has its own elevator that will deposit you directly in the room. I usually have the girls take only what they need with them. The master suites have a supply closet your general house key will open, where you’ll find a sweeper and basic supplies to replenish the amenities. Here’s the keycard for Suite C. Make sure you deactivate them at the end of the day.”
It had taken the first week to lose the knot in her stomach over starting a new job. By the second week Scout found her rhythm and acquired a keen understanding for how long a room took to clean and freshen. She’d never done a penthouse before, let alone a master suite. Scout wasn’t even sure what a master suite was. Forcing a calming breath into her tightening lungs, she maintained an expression of capable confidence and took the list and keys from Tamara.
The idea that she had no clue about the pace she’d need to keep that day terrified her. Scout needed this job and she’d have to hustle her ass off in order to get everything done before the end of her shift. She usually sat on a bench down the street for her lunch break, being that she never packed a lunch, but today she’d work straight through her entire shift in order to make sure she finished in time.
Not until ten o’clock did she breathe relatively normally again. She completed her first circuit of common-area maintenance. The upper floors were much like the lower ones. There were more seating areas and therefore more furniture to dust, but for the most part they took the same amount of time. Although the suites were larger than the typical rooms, they were pricier too. That meant fewer guests. Tamara must have realized that when she made the schedule for the day.
By Scout’s third suite she had herself timed at twenty-two minutes per room, but there were only fifteen rooms she was responsible for on level thirty. That would leave her with two hours to complete the penthouse master suite C.
By one o’clock she was left waiting for one guest to get the hell out of his room so she could clean it and then she’d be finished with the thirtieth floor. Scout hovered for a few moments and decided it would be better to come back after she finished the master suites.
She rolled her cart to the service elevator and returned it to the lower level with the rest. Collecting a small basket from the shelf, she quickly packed it with shampoo, conditioner, soaps, and anything else she might need while up there.
Scout’s anxiety returned as she found the private elevators on the thirty-first floor. Unlike the other guest elevators, these were quite lovely. There were four of them, simply numbered with the letter dedicated to each individual master suite. Each one was made of glass and lined with delicate brass bars. As she stepped into the one labeled C, she felt like that bird in a gilded cage from one of the stories Parker had read to her.
The ride was only a few seconds to the thirty-second floor. The gilded cage opened with practiced ease and Scout stepped across the threshold to a frosted glass-paned set of French doors.
She knocked lightly.
“Housekeeping.”
When no one answered, Scout slid the private keycard through the lock and slowly turned the knob. The level of luxury the room announced at first sight was sweltering. She found it difficult to breathe among the thickly papered walls, richly upholstered furniture, and heavily padded carpet.
Silently, she walked down the long, private corridor.
“Hello? Housekeeping . . .”
No one was there, but she found comfort in her own familiar voice. Looking down at her shabby shoes, her self-esteem faltered for a moment. Such opulence. Such contrast.
Chandeliers dripped from beveled fixtures on the twelve-foot ceilings. Antique settees and decorative side tables created various sitting rooms. There was an enormous private bar, somehow dwarfed by the mammoth window facing the east.
Approaching the window slowly, the effect was dizzying. It felt as though she were an angel spying on mortals below. It was a powerful and jarring vantage point to hold. She was on top of the world. Well, on top of Folsom, but still . . . this was the highest she had ever been.
There was an identical window facing the north. A unique executive desk was the centerfold of that backdrop. She wasn’t quite sure what to do with the personal items she noticed scattered on the floor around the grand desk so she let them be.
Moving to a pair of double doors, Scout discovered a bedroom. It wasn’t as extraordinary as she’d expected. The bedding was of a finer quality than the typical guest rooms at the hotel, but a slight wave of disappointment washed over her because it was somewhat ordinary in comparison to the rest of the penthouse.
Then she discovered another set of doors.
Pressing them open, she gasped at the audacious splendor that was obviously the master bedroom. It was a palace. A king-size bed shaped like a sleigh was the central piece of the room. The decadent bed was draped in heavy silk blankets reminding her of something from a story called Arabian Nights that Parker had read to her.
Velvet pillows littered the floor and plush, heavy satin draped from a spherical sconce above the bed. The canopy gathered at the wall in several places, held by thick golden ropes with tassels the size of horsetails, and cascaded like a waterfall to the black marble floor.
Her hand coasted over the luxurious textures and her body hummed with excitement. Never before had she seen such a display of exquisiteness. Turning, she noticed a set of three French doors leading to an oval granite balcony complete with heavy metal furniture softened by more sensual fabrics.
Her feet glided over the plush carpet and her fingers closed around the heavy pewter knob. The color scheme was flawless. Warm earth tones blended with spicy cinnamons and sultry reds.
Scout’s fingers moved over the plush cushions reverently, almost sensually, fondling the sumptuousness. What must it be like to sit on such bursting softness? She couldn’t quite understand how such material survived the elements.
The air was much cooler at this altitude. Cautiously, she walked to the dense, stout columns making up the wide granite railing. The balcony was the size of a regular guest room.
As she stepped to the edge, her heart raced. Wisps of hair came loose from her bun and whipped across her face in the blustery, uncontained wind. From such heights there was neither rhyme nor reason to the breeze, nothing barricading or stifling its power.
Overwhelmed by the magnitude and quite aware of her insignificant part in this grandiose world, Scout quietly panted, her heart somewhere in her feet as she tried to fathom the height, scale, and intentional point of power she occupied in those brief seconds. It was a completely unfamiliar feeling, staring down at the tiny people bustling about their lives on the pavement below.
Scout tried to imagine the person entitled to stand in such a position of supremacy, but her mind came up short. She had no image of reference for such an omnipotent being. All guests of Patras were wealthy, but whoever stayed in this master suite was a king.
She saw the guest as a master of the world in her mind, yet he or she remained faceless, and without detail. Power was the only characteristic she was sure of.
A sudden stab of unease had her stepping back from the edge. Never had she felt so out of place. Wealth to this degree was beyond her comprehension and she was defenseless against it, outnumbered and small, meaningless. She suddenly wanted to be done with this place.
Scout quickly returned to the warmth of the room and pulled the heavy doors shut behind her. Like a trespasser on the run, she sought her supply basket and headed toward what she thought to be the supply closet.
Get done and get out.
There were three bathrooms in the master suite, each one more lavish than the last. She began with the largest one and quickly worked in a clockwise motion around the restrooms until the marble fixtures shone like jewels. Next she made the beds, fluffed the pillows, refreshed the soaps and towels, and dusted the furniture.
When Scout went in search of the vacuum, she accidentally found a clothing closet. The sheer volume of clothing baffled her. Suits. All men’s suits. A large silk robe the color of onyx hung on the inside of the closet door and as she leaned close she could smell a delicious trace of some sort of masculine fragrance in the material.
There were so many clothes. Over twenty pairs of expensive shoes, shined to a point that she could see a distorted reflection of herself in each toe. She added large feet to the powerful, faceless guest occupying this space.
It occurred to her that this was more than just a hotel room, more than just a temporary penthouse. This was the apartment of some very wealthy long-term guest. She wasn’t sure what gave away the resident’s permanent status at Patras, but once it crossed her mind that this guest was more than some wealthy mogul passing by, she became certain of it.
The suite didn’t smell like the other rooms in the hotel. It had a warm unique scent of its own. There was an astounding amount of lived-in subtleties she’d first overlooked, the amount of papers tucked here and there, the clothing, the wooden hamper in the master bath. She wasn’t sure what to do with that.
Curious about the mysterious resident, Scout wandered to the large desk in the sitting room. She debated organizing the papers that seemed to have floated thoughtlessly to the floor in no particular order, but her better judgment told her to let them be.
There was a calendar with notes jotted in every square. She tried to read the thickly scrolled handwriting, but it was in cursive and she was hopeless with those peculiar, curly letters.
Her fingers grazed the shiny pewter letter opener. It reminded her of a dagger. She lifted it, testing the heavy weight in her hand and smiled when she discovered a pearl set in the hilt and something engraved beneath the gem. She wasn’t sure what the one loopy letter was, but she thought the other was a P.
She turned the substantial tool, handling it this way and that and admiring the effect the subdued sunlight had on the pearl. As she turned to better see the scrolled detail of the handle, her apron brushed across a sheaf of papers and to her horror, the pages went fluttering to the floor. They coasted and furled in their descent, losing any sense of order and mixing with the papers already matting the floor.
“Shit!”
She quickly tossed the heavy dagger to the desk, wincing when it landed with an obnoxious clank on the soft wood surface, and dropped to her knees. She wasn’t sure what the papers were or if they went in any sort of order. Scout tried to pinpoint similarities in the typed words to tell the difference between the pages intended for the floor and the ones she’d accidentally knocked over, but they all looked the same to her.
She tried to sound out some of the words, hoping to see some clue that told her where they belonged, but the words were all very long and unfamiliar other than the occasional the or and she recognized. Her fingers trembled as she panicked, and then she heard the beep of the front door.
“I don’t care what he thinks he’s entitled to. His lease locks him in for one year and reoccurs indefinitely until either he or I give written notice of change. And even then he’s responsible for a minimum of six months’ notice,” a deep, booming voice shouted.
Scout froze on the floor, shaking, pages clutched in her moist palms as she trembled with dread. Staying low, kneeling slightly hidden by the clawed foot of the mahogany desk, she jumped as the voice bellowed, “I don’t fucking care what his reasons are! He can pack up or ride it out, but he’s responsible for the next six months and that’s after he gives me written notice. Until I have that, he’s pegged.”
The voice got closer and she held her breath. The bang of a cabinet made her flinch. There was a clank of something glass followed by the soft chink of what sounded like ice filling a tumbler.
Scout froze. Don’t even breathe.
“Well then he better have a good lawyer, Slade, because I’m not fucking around here. I gave up a two-point-six million-dollar tenant to get him in there on time. He dicks me now and I promise he’ll be the one getting fucked in the end.”
The sound of ice moving over liquid and trickling over glass, then, “I don’t fucking—”
The room was suddenly submerged in silence. Too quiet. Terror gripped Scout’s heart and she slowly looked up into the most intense set of black eyes she had ever seen.
“I’ll call you back,” he said and slipped his phone into the pocket of his suit.
He was stunning. Dark hair clipped close at the sides and slightly longer at the top with the tiniest beginnings of silver peppered by his temples. Deep olive skin, a straight nose, and two menacing, black slashed brows scowled down at her. His jaw was strong and shadowed with coarse black hair.
He was tall, much taller than her and likely taller than most men. Her heart raced as she took in his cuffed shirt adorned with sharp snaps at the wrists; long, expensively dressed legs, and her hunched, terrified reflection shining back at her from the toes of his dress shoes.
“Mind telling me what you think you’re doing?”
There was nothing friendly about the way he spoke to her. Scout frantically tried to say something, but her brain had short-circuited and all of her words seemed to have fallen from her head.
“Answer me.”
She jumped at the sharp lash of his voice and lost her balance. She’d been crouching so long her foot had fallen asleep and her knees had gone stiff. As Scout caught her balance, she inadvertently landed on her knuckles. Her fist closed over his paperwork and crinkled it slightly. She might’ve whimpered, but she couldn’t hear over the heartbeat suddenly roaring in her ears.
In two swift steps his legs ate up the distance between them and he was standing over her, still scowling.
“What’s your name, girl?”
“S-Scout.”
He frowned as if her name were unacceptable to him. “What kind of name is Scout?”
She opened her mouth to throw out some sharp retort, but luckily, her better judgment crept in and she merely gaped at him. He gave an exasperated sigh and set his glass on the corner of the desk. He moved so quickly she flinched as he grabbed her forearm and abruptly hoisted her to her feet.
Her legs wobbled beneath her, pins and needles attacking her foot. Gasping, she caught her weight on the desk. He was very close and the scent she had picked up on in his closet was now intensified and heated by the warmth coming off his body.
“What does that say?” he barked and jammed his finger to a note scribbled on a slip of paper sitting in the center of the desk.
Scout stared at it, hating the cryptic cursive letters. She thought the first letter was a D and then an O. After that she couldn’t tell. She may have detected a T, but there were too many letters she still didn’t recognize.
Finally he snapped, “Do not touch the desk!” He enunciated each word with a stab of his long, thick finger on the note. “If I took the time to leave you instructions not to touch my personal items on my desk, what makes you think I’d be okay with you rifling through my paperwork?”
Scout gasped as he ripped the pages out of her hand.
“Sir, I—”
“You’re not Bridget. Where’s Bridget?”
She needed to get this guy to not freak out. If he told Tamara, she might wind up getting suspended or worse, fired. This guy couldn’t submit a complaint with her managers or she might lose her job.
“I’m sorry, Bridget called out today. I’m new. I didn’t mean to touch your desk, but I accidentally knocked over a pile of papers.”
A piece of ice settled in his glass and she jumped as she waited for him to speak. She wasn’t usually this skittish around others. Long ago she had mastered keeping her emotions behind an iron expression of indifference, but she was completely out of her element in the presence of this man. She’d observed his wealth and power firsthand by simply admiring the world he existed in, and Scout had never been more aware of her insignificant position in this life.
His cold black eyes scrutinized her dress and gazed dispassionately at her too-large sneakers. He frowned.
Scout batted away a wisp of windblown hair that had fallen loose and accidentally knocked her paper bonnet askew. Righting it quickly she said, “If you’ll just let me collect my belongings I’ll be out of your way.”
He stepped aside, not providing much space for her to pass, and waved his hand for her to be gone. He was broad and daunting, hulking in his power suit over her slight form.
“By all means,” he purred. “Please remove your things.”
Scout scurried past him like a mouse running for its life. Her hands shook as she gathered the vacuum cleaner and wound the cord over its handle. Very aware of him watching her, when her shoe caught on the thick tread of the carpet she whimpered, but kept moving.
She couldn’t remember where she left her basket of supplies. Frantically she searched the surrounding area.
“Looking for something?” He glared at her, his arms crossed over his wide chest, stretching the sleeves of his crisp silk shirt. When her gaze reluctantly met his, she froze.
“M-my basket. I forget where I left it,” she stuttered, hating the way her voice wavered.
“Perhaps you left it with more of my personal items.” His clipped accusation had the effect he’d intended.
Shame and fear for her transgression choked her. Scout’s eyes suddenly spotted the basket of supplies beside his desk. Shit.
Knowing she couldn’t leave the items, she pulled back her shoulders and met his gaze with as much bravado as she could fake.
“Sir, I’m sorry I disturbed your things. I didn’t see your note, but I assure you it won’t happen again.” Her eyes glanced at the basket on the floor pointedly and he followed her gaze.
He looked back at her but said nothing, and Scout had the sense he was daring her to retrieve her things. Her lips twitched nervously at the challenge in his eyes.
She was outmatched. Quickly, she brushed past him and collected her items. He didn’t make room for her to pass and she again found herself cornered behind his desk. The gaping glass view made her feel as though she were on a plank suspended high above the city, being backed into her death by a formidable pirate.
“Whom do you report to?”
Scout’s heart sunk to her knees and she quickly blinked back the sharp sting of tears. Her voice cracked. “Tamara Jones, sir.”
His eyes moved over her face and she took his inspection as her penance, lowering her gaze to the floor. She needed this job. In that moment Scout let go of all her stubborn principles, realizing she would do anything to keep it.
The touch of his fingers below her chin caused her breath to quicken. His large hand tipped her face up so that her gaze met his. His glare narrowed as he inspected her.
She felt naked under his watchful eyes.
“What did you say your name was? Skip?”
“Scout, sir. Scout Keats.”
“And how long have you worked at Patras Hotel, Scout Keats? I don’t recall seeing you here before.”
“Two weeks.”
He nodded. “Are you new to the Folsom area?”
“No, sir. I’ve lived here my whole life.”
His fingers tightened on her chin and turned her face to the left. “You have very unusual eyes, Ms. Keats. How old are you?”
His question caught her off guard. She had always known her eyes were unique. Against her dark brown lashes, the blue irises appeared almost white. Witch eyes, Parker called them. Once she tried disguising them with a makeup pencil she had found, but their glasslike color within the dark ring only became more startling.
“I’m twenty-seven,” she lied. Adding five years to her actual age seemed necessary, like those five imaginary years could somehow protect her against this superior being.
Scout shifted her feet, the weight of her basket becoming awkward in her hands. The motion attracted his attention. He looked down at her burden and suddenly released her face and stepped back as if the collection of cleaning products worked as a reminder of her situation. Peasant in the presence of royalty. Recalling his balcony, she decided it was more a throne than anything else. She imagined him holding court there as all of Folsom gazed up at him.
“You may go.”
His sudden dismissal had her gaining control of her faculties, and in a split second she rushed toward the penthouse door. Quickly setting the basket there, she returned the sweeper to the supply closet. He followed her at a distance, watching her as if to make sure she didn’t steal anything. Scout didn’t make eye contact. She simply kept her gaze lowered to the ground and collected her items and left.
On the ride down to the next floor she regretfully accepted that this might be her last day at the hotel. Likely the man would submit a complaint about her to Tamara and they would care more about keeping the in-house billionaire pleased than keeping their homeless new housekeeper employed. This paycheck would have to last.