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His dark hair hangs over one eye, down to his shoulders. He tilts his face up from his paperwork, green eyes penetrating mine. “Cinderella. We finally found you.”
My throat feels tight and I swallow hard, forcing my words to come. “Yes. Sorry for the delay.”
“You can start by walking into the room. I don’t bite.” He taps the sharp hook against the wood table. “But I do scratch.”
I hold in a nervous giggle, hoping it was a joke. “How can I help you?”
“That’s a phrase I like to hear.” He eases back against his chair, slinking an arm around the back of it. The silver hook hangs down, shiny and bright against the crimson velvet. “With this job—we pay more than you could dream of getting elsewhere. Let me be blunt. We pay so well because our money is buying your discretion. What you see or hear within these walls is never to leave here. Understood?”
“Yes.” The hook catches my eye. The silver around the cuff is tarnished. A simple fix. “Sir.”
“Great. So we are helping you and now, I need you to help me.” He beckons me with the hook hand. “Come closer.”
I eye the sideboard to his left. The one that holds the family’s collection of silver flatware. I glance back at his hook.
Impatience storms into his tone. “Am I that scary that all you can do is stare at my hook and act as if it’s taken your tongue? Say something.”
“No. Sir. It’s just… it’s just that I noticed your hook.” I can’t believe I’m doing this as I nod to the appendage. “It’s made of real silver.”
He furrows his brow at me. “And?”
“Well, sir, it’s a bit tarnished. And I just think it’s a shame not to care for the metal properly. There’s a simple paste in that cabinet right behind you. I found it this morning when I was polishing the wood. It’d only take me a minute. I hope I’m not overstepping, but I could shine it right up.”
“Oh.” For a beat of a second the hardness leaves his eyes, the edge disappearing from his tone. “Fine then. If you feel you must.”
I dash around his chair, finding the silver polish and a white rag, the cotton clean and soft in my fingers. I move to the chair beside him, prepping my cloth.
He eyes me.
I hold out my hand. “May I?”
“Just. Be careful. It’s sharp.” The concern in his voice surprises me. He lays the cool metal in my open palm.
I hold it gently, working the polish over the silver. Each time I wipe it away, the pewter haze disappears, leaving behind gleaming metal.
Satisfied with my work, I lay the rag on the table. “See? Good as new.”
He withdraws his hook from my hand. There’s a soft gruffness to his voice as he thanks me. “Thank you.”
I can feel his eyes on me as I move to the sideboard, putting the polish back. The cloth I’ll add to the mountain of age-yellowed linens I’m preparing to bleach and wash.
I hover by the chair. “And what was it you wanted me to do for you?”
“Sit.”
I sit.
“There’s a club that the Bachmans own. Fire. Have you heard of it?”
My virgin heart pitter-patters, heat rising in my face as I think of the things I’ve heard about the secretive sex club hidden behind huge iron gates at the top of a mountain. “Um… a little. Why?”
“I need you to go there tonight. To deliver a package for me. Can you do that?”
“I thought only members were allowed to step foot behind that stone wall. How will I get in?”
“I have a guest pass for you.” From the breast pocket of his shirt he pulls out a black skeleton key tied to a gold ribbon. He slides it across the table to me.
I stare down at it. Seems harmless. It’s just a key. But I feel its sensual energy, the danger behind accepting the request.
