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Her frown deepens, but she’s polite enough not to pose questions. “I’m doing the catering as required. It’s still early days, so I suppose we’ll iron out the schedule as we go. Mr. Hart wasn’t sure how often my services would be needed.”
“I thought Zane is the housekeeper.”
“He can’t fry an egg. If he tries to make toast, he’ll probably burn it.”
“Oh.” I fold my hands in front of me, not saying that I won’t fare much better.
Her gaze flickers to my wrist, finding purchase there. It takes a moment to realize what she’s staring at. Moving my hands to my back, I bury them in the folds of my skirt.
She recovers quickly. “Don’t let that stop you from whatever you were going to make.”
Self-consciously, I shut the fridge doors. “Do you have any recipe books?” On second thought, I should just go get my new phone to Google something.
She takes an apron from a hook and ties it around her waist. Her eyes trail over my ribcage. “How about I prepare you some bacon and eggs?”
I wrap my uninjured arm around my waist, trying to hide as much of my thinness as I can. “You don’t have to.”
“It’s my job.” She gives me another sweet smile. “Grab a seat at the table. I’ll have it ready in no time.”
I’m pathetically grateful to this woman who isn’t mean.
In no time, as promised, I have a full English breakfast with fresh bread rolls and coffee in front of me. I don’t know where to start. Ignoring the eggs, I go for the bacon first. Mm. Oh, my God. So good. It’s crispy and salty. I butter a roll and bite into the fresh bread. It melts on my tongue. I’ve had more boiled eggs than what I care for, but the fried ones are soft, the yellow runny enough to scoop up with the bread. I hum my approval with every bite while Jana whistles as she tidies the kitchen. The fact that she knows where everything goes tells me it’s not her first day on the job.
“Have you been working here for long?”
“Four years.”
“For who?”
“The previous owners. You can say I came with the furniture when your husband bought the house.”
“He bought it, furniture and all?”
If my lack of knowledge about how my husband acquired the house shocks her, she doesn’t show it. After her initial surprise about how little Damian has shared with me, she’s schooled her features. “He just walked in here and made the owners an offer to take over everything.”
That explains how he managed to set up a house with staff so quickly after coming out of jail only last week.
“It must’ve been a good offer for them to have just packed up and left like that.”
“They’re an elderly couple who’ve been contemplating retiring at their holiday home on the coast for some time.” She looks up from wiping down a counter. “I guess the offer came at the right time.”
How ever did Damian make so much money, and in prison, no less? The obvious answer is disconcerting.
Saving the best for last, I bring the mug to my lips and inhale the heavenly aroma. Reverently, I take a sip. It’s strong but smooth. My first coffee in two years.
“I’m going to do the shopping for lunch,” Jana says. “Any special requests?”
I shake my head, the simple decision suddenly overwhelming.
“With this hot weather,” she says, “I recommend a melon and Parma ham salad. Will that do?”
“Perfect, thank you.”
“The menu is my responsibility,” a hostile voice says from the door.
Jana and I turn in unison. Zane stands in the frame, his face tight.
“You’ll run it past me,” he tells Jana.
She gives him a startled look.
“I’ll be in the lounge when you’re ready,” he continues.
A strained silence remains as he leaves.
Jana is the first to come to her senses. “Right.” She unties the apron, and adds uncomfortably, “I’ll see you later.”
As I get up to take the dirty dishes to the sink, she says, “You can leave that. The cleaning staff is coming in today.” She adds, most probably for my ignorant benefit, “They come in twice a week.”
When she’s gone, I nick two of the rolls, slipping one in each skirt pocket. You never know. It’s good to be prepared for rainy days, and rainy days are plentiful in my world.
I quickly familiarize myself with the layout of the mansion. The study and bedrooms are upstairs, and the rest of the living quarters downstairs. There’s always a guard at the front door, and the back door is locked. The keys are not in the door. When I ask Russell about it, he tells me Zane keeps the keys. None of the interior doors in the house is locked, which will make my search for the evidence easier. Russell says Damian has an office in the city, but also works from home. I pray the evidence is somewhere in the house and not at his office.
