by Em Petrova
Weary, thirsty and hot, she dragged her feet to the kitchen and got a drink. The cook eyed her with mistrust, and she knew she wouldn’t have much luck pulling intel from the older woman whose hair net seemed to be part of her.
Leaning on the stainless steel prep table, Lauralee sipped her water on a short break and watched the cook preparing the next meal.
“You’re always so busy. You must have so much staff to feed,” she commented.
The cook looked up from chopping. “There are plenty, that’s for sure.”
“How many?”
“Twenty-two of us, including the groundskeepers. The ranch hands and foreman have their own cook and are separate from the house.”
Good to know.
Lauralee blew out a low whistle. “That’s more people than I expected. How many people work in each area?”
“One housekeeper, three maids and a kitchen maid makes five. There’s me and my daughter doing some of the cooking. Three groundskeepers.”
She mentally tallied ten. “Are there that many security guards on the property?”
The woman lifted her brows. “Aren’t you a chatty one?”
Only when digging up dirt.
She noted that the cook didn’t agree with the rest being security, which made her guess they were.
“Is this tray you’re filling for Mr. Black? Could I take it to him for you?”
“No, it’s for the—” She cut off as if someone had sliced off her tongue.
Lauralee stepped closer to her, lowering her voice. “I heard there’s a wife, but I thought she was overseas or something.”
The cook set her mouth in an awkward line, where her upper and lower lips met unevenly. “No, she lives here.”
“I didn’t realize. I haven’t seen her yet. Then again, why would I? My job is to clean but not be seen.”
“You’ll do well to remember that.” She set another dish of salad on the tray and looked around. “Where in heavens is my daughter?”
“I haven’t seen her. Do you need me to do something?” Lauralee’s heart beat fast. If she had to guess, this tray was bound for Isadora Black’s room, and with nobody else to carry it, she had her first real chance at learning something about the woman.
“No, my daughter must do it.”
“Maybe Anna would.” She started working out how to get information from the one maid willing to talk to her more freely.
The cook shook her head. “Nobody wants to take the tray to that part of the house because it’s a dangerous job.”
A wave of sick dread rolled through her. “Dangerous?” she echoed softly.
“If something happens and the woman leaves her room, your body might not be found. Before you offer to do such a job, think hard on that!”
Lauralee had little acting skill, but she managed to retain some grip on herself as she looked at the cook.
Body might not be found…
On a ranch of this size, there would be plenty of places to hide a body. And she supposed Black could write a check big enough to make anyone vanish without a trace.
While an icy finger zigzagged down her spine, she braced herself for the task she would take on.
“I’ll do it.”
The cook’s faint brows lifted slightly. “You’re too new,” she dismissed.
“That’s the perfect reason for me to go. You said yourself everyone else is afraid.” She shrugged as if putting her life at risk by delivering a mere tray happened to her on a daily basis.
“Well, I don’t know.” She compressed her lips in that uneven manner again.
Lauralee continued to stand there waiting. After a few more seconds, the cook pushed the tray at her.
“Go on. The corridor where Mr. Black’s personal suite is. Second door on the right.” She whipped out a ring of keys and peeled one off the circle. She placed it in Lauralee’s hand. “Make sure you lock up when you’ve delivered the tray.”
She took the tray with numb fingers and pretended nothing was the matter with this task or this place. “Thank you for trusting me.”
The cook gave a grunt in response and shooed her out of the kitchen.
She had the key to Mrs. Black’s room! The cook would expect her to return it, but if she trusted her to do the job once, she’d get possession of the key again. Then maybe she could get it to Boone, who could have it copied…
Her mind raced ahead. As she balanced the tray, she counted her footsteps to reach the room. A minute or so later, she stood in front of the closed door, uneasiness a poisonous stone in the pit of her stomach.
First, she looked down at the crack under the door. No fingers stuck out, curled upward in a silent plea for help.
Gulping down her fear, she carefully balanced the tray in one hand and fit the key in the lock.
When she swung the door inward, she expected to hear a haunted creaking noise or the howl of a ghostly being.
But the room was like any other except for the woman seated at the window.
“H-hi,” Lauralee breathed out, hurrying inside and closing the door behind her. She took in every detail about the exits. Besides the door at her back, there were two windows, and both had bars on them, like a true prison. They faced a wall with no view whatsoever.
Isadora was in her thirties, but she looked sixty at least. Hair lank and skin pale and with lines drawing her lips downward, she could pass for Black’s mother. While the man was healthy and hale from riding and outdoor exercise, Isadora was locked away even from direct sunshine.
This was some kind of horror movie. Something she’d read in a novel. And Lauralee’s stomach burned with bile.
She came closer, approaching a round table that held another tray to be carried away, though one glance revealed the woman hadn’t eaten more than a crumb or two. The entire meal looked untouched.
When she set the tray down, she flexed her ice-cold and still-numb fingers. “That’s heavier than it appears.” She turned what smile she could muster to Isadora. “I’m Lara, your new maid.”
“Why did you come to this evil place?” Isadora’s voice was reedy from disuse and held a waver that shot a warning through Lauralee.
“My husband just took a position here, and I came with him.” She held the woman’s stare pointedly. “My husband is working as a security guard.”
The woman’s eyes flickered with some light that she instantly extinguished. And no wonder—she had no reason to hold out hope that her message reached WEST Protection. She had no reason to trust Lauralee.
Shooting a glance over her shoulder at the door, she whispered, “Is there a camera in here?”
Instead of answering, Isadora slanted her gaze to a bookcase that faced her bed, the bathroom door and both windows.
“I see. I won’t ask you more questions. Just know that we’re here, and we’re going to get you out as fast as possible.” To keep up her disguise as maid, she bobbed in an awkward curtsy. Did maids even show respect like that in this decade? She wasn’t working for the queen, for God’s sake.
She backed toward the door, still looking at Isadora for any silent message the woman might attempt to convey. Then realizing she forgot the old tray, she rushed forward and picked it up.
“When will you be back?” Isadora asked almost without moving her lips. Was Black capable of lip reading too? Or employed someone who could? She wouldn’t put it past the man.
“I’ll try to get here as soon as possible. Please don’t do anything rash that will draw notice to yourself.” She let her gaze wander over Isadora’s pale face, taking note that she didn’t bear black eyes or bloodied lips. Her wounds were inside.
With no idea how long she should linger or if she should be speaking to the woman at all, she backed to the door again. “I’ll return. I promise.”
Quickly, she opened the door, stepped out into the completely unremarkable hallway and closed the door. She locked it using the key, even though it ripped a hole in her soul to do it.
Then, hea
rt thundering, she braced the tray against her middle and started to the kitchen. Of course it took the same number of footsteps to return, but she took them slower so he could think and lock every detail into her memory to convey to Boone later.
Oh God, Boone. If only we didn’t have to wait. That woman needs to be freed—now.
Her insides boiled with fury that overlaid a deep-seated fear for the power Black held over his wife. The woman was a caged animal, a prisoner with no rights, barely surviving, but somehow she still clung to the hope of a better life free of Black and this place.
More than ever, Lauralee knew she’d made the right decision in coming. Even if it meant a long, drawn-out divorce from Boone Wynton or quitting her job at WEST Protection, at least she would have a part in doing something worthwhile in this world. Freeing one person from a fate such as the one Isadora faced would be enough to carry her through the rest of her days.
When she set the tray on the stainless steel table, the cook held out her palm. It took Lauralee a second to realize she wanted the key, and she placed it in her hand.
“All is well?” the cook asked without looking at her.
“Yes.”
“You’re finished for the day. I’ll tell the housekeeper.”
Without responding, Lauralee hurried out of the kitchen. She rushed to the room she and Boone shared, battling hot tears in the back of her throat. By the time she burst into her room and slammed the door, they were seeping down her face.
Since she couldn’t strip out of the horrid maid’s uniform, she threw herself down on the bed to cry and wait for Boone to come and free her from her own personal hell—which wasn’t the dress anymore. It was carrying the weight of knowledge that Isadora Black’s situation was just as desperate as they believed.
No, she thought, remembering that haunted expression in the woman’s brown eyes. It’s worse.
* * * * *
“You did what?” Boone barely withheld the roar that threatened to shake the dust in their bedroom suite.
Lauralee folded her arms, the action only thrusting her breasts up in that uniform that kept driving him to distraction. Even if she claimed the blue made her look sickly, his eyes bugged out at the sex appeal.
He shook himself back to the matter of her putting herself at risk big time.
“You would have done the exact same thing, Boone Wynton!”
“Keep your voice down. We can’t have someone overhearing us.”
Lowering her voice to an angry whisper, she inched up to get in his face as she told him off. “You would have taken the tray too.”
“You’re right—but I can handle myself if shit goes south.”
“Aren’t you even going to ask me about her? Her living conditions, her state of mind? Or are you only concerned with me not following your rules?”
“Both. But tell me about the woman now.”
Lauralee threw him one of those looks a long-suffering wife gives her husband after the spark dies. It’d only taken a few days and they were already at that level in their relationship.
“She looks like pictures of women you see after their town’s been flattened by war, and all their family’s been killed. She has this haunted look in her eyes that still makes me shudder to think about.”
He settled with his back against the wall of their room. “Go on.”
“The room isn’t much larger than this one. There are two windows.”
“Which direction do they face?”
“Since I wasn’t born with the built-in compass gene, I don’t know.”
“Where was the sun at the time?”
She pursed her lips when she thought for a moment, accentuating the plump pout that had him remembering her lips wrapped around his cock.
He stifled a groan. Why couldn’t he act professional around this woman?
“I think the windows face south.”
He gave a nod. “What else?”
“One door. I was given a key to unlock it.”
“Hell in a—”
“Next time I get it, I’ll try to pass it to you to make a copy. Make a mold or something.”
He pinned her with his stare. “There won’t be a next time. You’re not going in there again.”
“I have to! I told her I’d return.”
“Did you tip her off about us?” He pulled away from the wall.
Lauralee chewed on her lip. “I told her my husband’s the new guard. She seemed to understand.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Almost nothing. She’s so terrorized and stuck in her own head.”
He inflated his chest with a breath that burned. He’d seen some ugliness in the world, and this was climbing the ranks to the top of his list so far. What Lauralee told him left him feeling in over his head, something he hadn’t known since he was a young’un on the ranch and first learning to ride.
He’d overcome this too. If he could get control of his damn emotions where Lauralee was concerned.
The more she explained about her encounter, the higher the fury rose inside him.
“Why are you glowering at me? I thought I came here to help, and that’s what I was doing!” Her incensed tone only plucked at his desire.
He rubbed a hand over his face.
She planted a hand on her hip, jutting it outward. “Well?”
He closed his eyes and slowly opened them. When their gazes locked, her lips popped open at whatever she saw on his face. Right now, he didn’t have a clue either—he only knew that having Lauralee in danger felt wrong to his bones.
With her standing within grabbing distance, a groan rumbled through his chest. She dug in to tell him off some more, but he pressed his palm over her mouth, cutting off any smart comments about to project from her.
Over the top of his fingers, her eyes shot silver bullets at him.
“If you go in there, and something happens, I can’t protect you. Do you hear me? I can’t live with myself if something happens to you, Lauralee.”
Her eyes flared wide. Under his hand, her breath puffed out faster.
“Hell,” he muttered.
Slowly, he peeled his fingers off her mouth. She didn’t speak, only gaped at him as if he’d lost it. He damn well might have.
“I want to call in all the guns and choppers I have on standby and blast this place apart, free the woman and get you both out of this godforsaken hellhole.”
“You probably don’t want to know what the cook told me, but I think you should.” Her soft words filled him with icy dread.
His muscles tensed in anticipation. “Tell me.”
“She said that…nobody wants to take the trays because it’s dangerous. That if something happens and Isadora escapes her room…”
He waited.
“Our bodies wouldn’t be found.”
His heart stopped. His bowels turned to water. “And you did it anyway? Knowing that you could be—” He broke off before the word burst from his mouth. Even speaking such a thing aloud had his stomach cramping.
“Jesus Christ. This is insane. I gotta get you out of here.” He sidestepped her, reaching for his phone to call Ross and abort the mission—something he’d never seen as an option, until now.
“No! Boone. Listen to me.” She jumped into his view again. “Nothing happened. It was easy—unlock the door, get in and out. I couldn’t begin to make a move to help Isadora unless I can disable the camera.”
He froze. “Camera?” So he was right—there was no way Black had his wife locked up without more than a deadbolt as deterrent.
Lauralee slipped her hand into his, and the soft silky feel of her fingers tamed the wildness inside him by a measure or two. She tugged his hand, and he followed her to the bed.
“If I can figure out more about the camera system, I might be able to hack it and disable that camera. Or cut in with footage of her sleeping or something, so no eyebrows are raised.”
“Good points. I bet Black has the footage directly sent to his
phone or some other device.”
“There are bars on her windows. And the room faces a wall of some sort.”
He worried at a ragged fingernail with his teeth. “That could be any number of windows in the house. Only the ones facing the front don’t have bars on them. As for the wall, there may be a courtyard wall or something.”
“Crap. Okay, well, now we know where she’s at. We can cut the bars off.”
“Or hook them up to my truck and rip them off.”
Her eyes glinted. “That’s the Boone Wynton I know.”
He stopped gnawing on his nail. “Lauralee, we gotta talk about us. This. Whatever this is.”
She nodded. “I know.”
When she flopped backward onto the mattress, he might have once chuckled at her dramatic antics, but seeing how he felt similar, he couldn’t even crack a smile.
He lay next to her, aware of how much space separated their bodies. Long seconds of silence passed.
“What do you think’s happening? The bewitched rings idea is looking more and more like reality.” She held her hand up in front of her face to stare at the glinting diamonds.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about it.”
“Yeah?” She turned her head to look at him. “Did you find any answers?”
How much should he tell her about his musings concerning the first time he’d set eyes on her and how it turned him on to argue with her?
“I never disliked you, Lauralee.”
“Me either,” she whispered.
He flipped to his side to study her. “You had a thing for me. Admit it.”
Outrage blasted through her eyes like a meteor arrowed in on Earth. “Absolutely not!”
“Ask yourself how you jumped from wanting to avoid me to throwing yourself into my arms.”
“I did not throw myself into your arms! You grabbed me.”
“I did.”
“And held me there until I…”
He cocked a brow, waiting for her to come to some decision on her actions mirroring her feelings. “Begged me to take you?”
“Gave in,” she finished.
He snorted. “Even now your nipples are begging me to touch them. I see how hard they are.”
She snapped her arms across her chest to hide them, but he wouldn’t be put off by the barrier. Reaching out, he settled his fingertip under her chin. “You want me.”
